a little something about life

In transit, we pass by millions of people for one very small, very inadvertent moment in time. Getting off a bus, finding your seat on a plane, driving to Vegas on the freeway. There is a glance or a shoulder bump or a wisp of perfume. We are in the presence of our fellow man. This is life. During the holidays, it’s especially chancy and the numbers grow incrementally with the distance traveled. (I’d like to note that just now when I typed ‘especially,’ I actually spelled it ‘ex-specially.’ I gotta go axe my mom to put less rum in the egg nog.)

Two years ago this Christmas, I was a traveler. I took my first trip to New York City. I was going to Manhattan to visit my friend Monique who had moved there the previous year and was still deliciously enamored with the city. My imagination painted a skyline sketched by the movies I’d watched. The streets would be paved with diamonds and the women would be glamorous and thin. I was going to see a show on Broadway. I was going to walk through Central Park. I felt like a country bumpkin on her first trip to a big city.

I believe I flew United on the type of aircraft which had two seats along the windows and a row of 5 seats in the middle. I nestled into my seat, practically adhered to the tiny window with excitement. I was a wide-eyed suncatcher. This was going to be the trip of my life. I hoped that no one would sit next to me so that I could spend the flight shaking with giggly anticipation alone. Unfortunately, my cosmopolitan pink bubble burst as a bearded gentleman sat down in the empty aisle seat and put his attaché case under the seat in front of me. I tried not to pay attention to him but in such close quarters, I couldn’t help looking at everything he pulled out from his bag. He opened a colorful crossword puzzle and proceeded to fill in the blank letters. I noticed that the words were in some Nordic language. I couldn’t tell which one. Was it Swedish? No matter, I’M GOING TO DRINK A MOJITO WHEN I GET THERE!

After takeoff, we were served a ridiculous excuse for a breakfast. I remember looking down at the “eggs” and “pancakes” while trying not to spew my “emesis” into the “barf baggie.” The smell alone made me want to cry and smoke a cigarette or do something dramatic of that ilk. Somehow, Mr. Crossword and I struck up a conversation, commiserating about the questionable maple syrup. He hadn’t slept in twenty hours. He was on his way back from Hawaii on business to New York to see a friend before heading home to Copenhagen (Aha! It was Danish!) He worked for a software company in Northern California. I told him I was going to New York for the first time. I was from L.A. and that I was going to New York for the first time. First time! Whee! He was a very inquisitive man and very jolly. I have no shame in saying that he actually reminded me of a small Santa. I did not, however, sit on his lap.

After breakfast, the conversation un-spooled easily like a yard of satin ribbon. I asked him who he was going home to in Copenhagen and I found out he had a family. His wife was an elementary school teacher. I asked him if they had children and he did. Two boys. They were fifteen and twelve at the time. Did he have any photos? No. He didn’t. It was a shame, I said. A father should always have a picture of his wife and children, shouldn’t he? He agreed. He said he would find some and carry them on his next trip. I figured he was just placating me.

Now I have to say, at this particular point in my life, I was really interested in how couples make marriages work. Oddly enough, I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time but the idea of collecting an amalgam of bits and pieces from a variegated cross-section of strangers appealed to me. A friend inspired me to jot my findings down. So, I pestered many a hitched hiker for information on how to maintain and grow in a relationship. It’s surprising what people will tell you if you ask especially if you are a girl with a dimple. Mr. Copenhagen was a particularly forthcoming subject.

How did you meet? She's my second wife, he said. He had been married to his first wife for five years when things began to go sour. He even mentioned that they had stopped having sex which I found to be an item unnecessarily shared but, you are the most revealing when you are naked, I suppose. I felt very grown-up when he mentioned it. I didn't even need to stifle an embarassed laugh. They had decided to take a trip to Africa together. Perhaps they were trying to rekindle their jungle lovin’. They joined a tour group in Copenhagen and set off for the darkest continent.

On this tour, among the Danish safari members, there was a woman whom my subject found intriguing. He said they would chat about this and that and the other thing, much to the displeasure of his wife. He couldn't help becoming interested in this new woman. After the tour was over, his wife went back to Copenhagen alone. He had found his true love.

Through the incident of their divorce, his ex-wife took everything he had. He thanked God that they didn’t have any children and gladly gave up all his worldly possessions to be freed from their union. He married his African treasure and they have stayed together fifteen years. Every morning, he makes breakfast for his sons and packs their lunches. Then before he leaves for work, he brings his wife breakfast in bed. It’s as simple as that. It is putting someone else ahead of yourself for a few moments each day that keeps them together. “She’s the queen,” he said of her. I believed him. I believed that it was possible to meet your mate on a lark. I believed that there are couples out there who will never part and who make the world a wondrous place worth living in together. I believed that despite the borders and oceans that keep us apart and the anthropology that makes us different, human beings are innately the same with the same desire and ability to love.

I can’t remember all the topics we covered during the five hour flight, but believe it or not, we spoke the entire time. We talked about Copenhagen and Los Angeles, racism and boys. He was inspiring and cheerful. When we began our descent into New York, he wished me a good time on my first trip to the Big Apple. It was hard to say goodbye, to accept that this could be the first and last time we would see each other. We were two passersby who crossed a country together and our moment in time was coming to an end. We had become such good friends by then that we couldn’t part without exchanging email addresses. I told him that if he and his family ever came to LA, I wanted to meet them. He invited me to visit Copenhagen and stay at their house.

As I pulled out my pen and notebook to write down his name, I realized we had not exchanged such pleasantries.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said.

“L-E-I-F,” he replied.

“Is it pronounced ‘leaf’?” I asked.

“No, ‘life.’”

It's not about the destination but about the journey. I don't remember anything about Manhattan as vividly as I remember this conversation. After I returned from my amazing adventure in Manhattan, armed with goodies from Canal St. and subway maps for everyone and anyone, I found an email from my friend in Copenhagen. It was sent a few days after we met and it read:

"Hi Katie...

Thanks again for a very impressive and positive 5 hours flight last week!

I hope you enjoy your days in New York.
I had 2 perfect days myself, I think I saw whatever would be possible in 2 hectic days.
Now I'm back in Copenhagen fighting with my 11 hours jet-lag, but I expect it to be over in few days.

I have found some pictures to include in my handluggage for the future. I'm learning!

Have a good time, hope to meet you again some day in the future!


Leif"