The Kindness of Strangers

The cacophonous maze that is SFO (San Francisco International Airport) allows for vulnerability on a large scale. We, the flyers, are shuffled around from level to level, escalator to baggage claim, all in the hopes of sitting in a carpeted cylinder that hurdles through the air at ungodly speeds. It's no wonder I feel more connected to the people around me in an airport than I do anywhere else. Because in an airport, you are bound to find people going where you're going, all just as confused as you are. It's like being surrounded by people in their 20s.

There are numerous facadés: the clear "I know where I'm going" strut of faux-confidence, the subtle "I'm a tourist, enamored by the beauty of this building, but don't want to seem like one" eye darts, or the "I should have gotten here 40 minutes ago" mad dash. But with the various comings and goings that have people shuffling around the gateways is a kind of surreal comfort. I realize it more and more everytime: I love airports. They bring out the best and worst in people.

Flying in from San Diego yesterday, my checking in resulted in annoying wardrobe changes (suspenders are rarely a good idea when walking through a metal detector) and unneeded defending of my identity ("yes, security, that is me in my license photo. Yes, I am aware I look different. No, I haven't considered shaving. No, that's not a bomb, it's a bowling ball candle"). But aside from the post-9/11 formalities (the same ones that come with being a middle eastern with a desire to fly), the airport really is wonderful.

Upon landing, I had planned to take the first Marin Airporter back home, a travel of ultra-convenience considering there is an airporter terminal right outside Hamilton. However I somehow managed to miss the bus, even though I was a good ten-minutes early, resulting in me having to wait an additional hour for the next one. That is until Jesus took the wheel and granted me the gift of two strangers who happened to be driving to Petaluma, passing Hamilton on the way. They offered me a ride, and at first I kindly thanked them but told them it wouldn't be necessary. Eventually, they convinced me that it really wouldn't be a burden considering they were driving right through anyway. I obliged and thanked them profusely. Just to be on the safe side, however, I began to secretly draft an email to my stepdad where I typed up their car's license plate number, their names, descriptions of what they looked like, where they were from, any fact that could help find me once I was kidnapped and raped for days on end. But it proved unneeded.

David and Jennifer were coming back from what they affectionately dubbed their "second honeymoon" in the Victoria Islands, Vancouver. They have two sons, ages 17 and 20, and have been married for at least 25 years, if not more (David says 25, while Jennifer firmly believes it's been 27). Having gone to school in Mill Valley, they knew Marin County well, informing me of what my hometown was like before the dot-com boom hit San Francisco, making Marin County one of the most desirable locations in the country. "Mill Valley was just as rich as it is now," they assured me, "but people weren't in as big of a hurry. The town was a little more honest then."

David is a self-proclaimed comic geek, having become one in the later stages of his life. At 50, he is a wonderfully, cheery man, big in both heart and size. From what I gathered, he's a cub scout leader (perhaps for the very troop he was a member of as a child), whose Star Wars obsession has only recently begun to die down (mention that George Lucas lives in his hometown and he'll only begrudgingly mention that he still has yet to see him). But looking at David, you'd never guess him to be a follower of such things. He calls himself a farewhether sports fan, with no real interest in any of those national teams - something he and I were able to connect on. Throughout the duration of our far-too-short car ride, we spoke of comic books and their ability to aptly convey a social critique that is not possible in any other medium, his thoughts on the Star Wars prequels, his memories of the opening weekend of Episode I, and how he and I may have actually been in the same theatre for the premiere of Episode III.

Jennifer told me of their trip, recounting her desperation for a bear sighting that all residents of the Island claimed was inevitable (for the record, she didn't end up seeing one and is convinced that it's all a big lie). She told me of their hikes, their whale watching, their delicious meals and random cravings for Mexican, which she attributes to the "if I can't have it, I want it more" mentality. Their son is attempting to write a screenplay, something they're supportive of, even if they're unsure of its end result. She and David playfully bickered, but there was undeniable love between them, and it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. After a trip to San Diego and a week in Wyoming, I found myself more in awe of their relationship than any of the 'natural beauties' I've had the pleasure of seeing this summer.

They dropped me off and I begged them to let me either pay for gas or their airport parking, but they refused, simply asking me if I wanted them to stay until I was picked up. I told them it wasn't necessary and, after a thousand more thank yous, we parted ways.

There is a kindness that emanates from people in the strangest of times; potentially the same people who control, comment and condemn others whom they know nothing about. I wish, perhaps more than I can ever explain, that I could understand why that kindness shines through when it does, but the point is simply that it does. And I was lucky enough to experience it first hand. There are times when I loose my faith in the people I'm surrounded by. And, as a result, it takes those soul shaking interactions to remind me that my skin and clothes don't matter too much.

It's an honesty that comes with the strangers who help those that can give them nothing but thank yous and good wishes. And it says something when I experience these interactions in the strangest of places and the oddest of times. Had I not asked Jennifer to watch my bag as I went to break a $5 for the airporter, she would never have known where I was heading, never would have noticed the bus leave one level above where I was, and never would have bothered to offer me that ride. And whether she realizes it or not, her and her husband changed me.

My stubborn refusal to heed the warning of never talking to strangers resulted in an, albeit, temporary, interaction that has managed to leave a long lasting impression on me, reminding me that the most important thing we can do as people is to fill the void between us with random acts of kindness, small in theory but gargantuan in effect. In a time where disillusionment is plentiful and rewards are a rarity, I am lucky to have experienced this first hand.

I am luckier, however, that I wasn't kidnapped and asked to put on the lotion. Seriously, worst end to a summer ever.