The Delta journey started like all do; the airport equivalent of the Chicago stockyards. After negotiating the lines awaiting flight confirmation, and luggage handling, one trudges through the boarding pass inspection chutes, the full-frontal search, provided by the x-ray scanner, and then, ah yes, the video review of all your carry-ons. Having been thus far stamped and certified, the traveller secretly prays that he won't be shunted out of the herd by Transport Security, and dispatched to one of those stainless steel inspection tables where even dirty underwear passes in review. Of course, if you have "bionic knees", laden with metal parts, as the Bride has, there are additional complications.
It could have been much, much worse. We both passed muster with hardly any prolonging. That turned out to be the easy part of the process. Next came the thumb-twiddling exercise in the boarding area; C-5 of Portland Airport, as I recall. It was to be a 1:00 pm departure, which was extended to 1:20, then adjusted to Limbo Standard Time. Owing to a plane crash on the tarmac of our destination, San Francisco International airport, our flight was indefinitely delayed. Personnel didn't know quite what to say...except that they wouldn't be saying much. Not with certainty, that is, until the braintrust of corporate headquarters, crew, and flight control could weigh in. As we all know, big wheels turn slowly. Two hours/worth of slowly.
During a lull such as this, your fearless spectator finds it interesting to observe how people engage themselves. Some remained absorbed in their laptops, Kindles, and other screen-oriented stuff. Others, in obviously dizzying heights of corporate heirarchy, engage in "vital" conversations with colleagues and underlings at headquarters. Still others use the time to participate in a fast-food feeding frenzy. Amazing to note how many love those Cinnabons. Surprisingly, a precious few still read hard-bound books.
While sitting victim of this time-stretch, people become very insular. Gazes are averted, smiles ignored. It is a rare passenger who is willing to engage in any kind of conversation that extends beyond "small talk". Naturally, we are on the lookout for such an individual. Enter "Greg."
A long-time resident of the City That Knows How, Greg occupied the seat next to us in our C-5 holding pen. (Sorry, the urge to continue the livestock imagery was just overpowering) He is a businessman, world traveller, and over the course of the next few hours, proved himself to be a gracious, classy ambassador of my town; San Francisco, that is.
During the time the desk attendants were issuing guarded declarations about progress toward un-postponing our flight, "We're still waiting to hear from corporate about an alternate destination"..... cotton-candy stuff that defies digestion, Greg kept us briefed with his trusty I-phone.
Between late-breaking, non-developments from HQ, we shared some personal history. He lives south of Market Street in the Mission district, and regularly flies hither and yon for business reasons. He knows Frankfurt well, and has seen St Petersburg; cities to which we can relate. His dress was subdued, but tasteful; befitting a gentleman. By contrast, our garb for the trip was better than grunge, but a distant hollar from fashionable.
Once delivered to our plane, we lost sight of our waiting-room neighbor. Greg was seated in first class, and we, being the last to receive a pair of adjoining seats, were assigned to "the back of the bus." Our teeth were gritted, but only for a short while. The flight lasted less than an hour and a half.
Now comes the dilema for which Greg came to the rescue. In San Francisco Airport, the logistics of the game enable one to board a BART train and resorting, if need be, to plastic payment for fare. However, this was Oakland. As San Francisco native Gertrude Stein once put it, ever so succinctly, "There is no there, over there." The bottom line was cash on the barrel-head for transit from the airport to a BART station; $3 per rider, exact change only. Under normal circumstances, this isn't a beastly sum....even if it is just a reasonably short walk from the airport to BART in SAN FRANCISCO. What was off-putting was the stipulation that payment had to be the exact fare.
While sitting victim of this time-stretch, people become very insular. Gazes are averted, smiles ignored. It is a rare passenger who is willing to engage in any kind of conversation that extends beyond "small talk". Naturally, we are on the lookout for such an individual. Enter "Greg."
During the time the desk attendants were issuing guarded declarations about progress toward un-postponing our flight, "We're still waiting to hear from corporate about an alternate destination"..... cotton-candy stuff that defies digestion, Greg kept us briefed with his trusty I-phone.
Between late-breaking, non-developments from HQ, we shared some personal history. He lives south of Market Street in the Mission district, and regularly flies hither and yon for business reasons. He knows Frankfurt well, and has seen St Petersburg; cities to which we can relate. His dress was subdued, but tasteful; befitting a gentleman. By contrast, our garb for the trip was better than grunge, but a distant hollar from fashionable.
Now comes the dilema for which Greg came to the rescue. In San Francisco Airport, the logistics of the game enable one to board a BART train and resorting, if need be, to plastic payment for fare. However, this was Oakland. As San Francisco native Gertrude Stein once put it, ever so succinctly, "There is no there, over there." The bottom line was cash on the barrel-head for transit from the airport to a BART station; $3 per rider, exact change only. Under normal circumstances, this isn't a beastly sum....even if it is just a reasonably short walk from the airport to BART in SAN FRANCISCO. What was off-putting was the stipulation that payment had to be the exact fare.
To complete the perfect transit storm, neither the Bride nor your scribe had anything in our wallets smaller than a ten-dollar bill. Up steps Greg, just short of the steps to the bus. He confides that he will cover our bus fare, whereupon I promise to repay his kindness, once we arrive at the BART station. His reply will remain forever embedded in my consciousness: "Don't do that, just pay it forward".
In all my years, I've never heard that phrase before, and I asked our benefactor to explain. He replied, "Somewhere down the road, you're going to meet someone in need. Just do the same for him that I have done for you; that's all."
That charge led me to think of the number of times angels have come into our lives for the very briefest of times, do their good deed, then vanish as quickly as they appear.....never to be seen again. It's all very reminiscent of listenting to the radio version of the "Lone Ranger" before the advent of tv. At the conclusion of each episode the eternal question was posed, "Who was that masked man?" No one ever had an answer, as the doer of good deeds rode off on his white horse, "Silver", into the sunset.
Greg and the Lone Ranger seem like good role models to emulate.
