Slow Train to Johannesburg

I drew the short straw of travel tonight and was relegated to the middle seat – a fortune worse than death considering my absurd claustrophobic mania.  Factoring in the probability of my propensity to attract unseemly travelers, I was forced to confront the reality of my compulsory, impending doom as I stepped onto the plane.  That seems negative, doesn't it?  It is, but it’s not really, all at the same time.  This pessimistic expectation, though rooted in certain historic fact is admittedly, an especially counterproductive prospect. 

First to the row; I sat down, stowed my bag and metaphorically rolled the dice.  The day had been gold up to then so I fully expected the other shoe to fall in the form of a fat, sweaty, vocal, heavy-breathing, misogynistic, racist, Republican asshole.  Bring it, said I to self and psychologically prepared to do battle with said asshole and/or to convene the tenets of my untimely demise at the hand of his misguided verbal assault.  I could not have been more surprised (and relieved) to see who I was actually going to spend the next hour and a half or so with.

So preoccupied with what I had internally created to be an epic battle of political and/or social dischord was I, that I only faintly recognized that she was carrying a guitar.  I only vaguely recall her courteous request of endorsement for admittance to her seat on my right side.  Reassured that I would not be forced into a cultural/emotional/theological Thunderdome, I relaxed and retreated flipside to my ridiculous Patterson paperback pretention.  Through the ensuing requisite conversation, I was delightfully enlightened with the decidedly obtuse details of her Christian missionary endeavor – traveling extended to South Africa solo for the first time.  I was just about to silently, psychologically address the obvious chasm between her path and mine when my astonishing left-side companion appeared, beleaguered with too many flowery bags and bad knees.

She was an American. Loquacious, Reform Jewish, unsure-expatriated, (17) years-in-Japan-weary, board certified lawyer – a paid lecturer, an academic, a scholar of the highest order, debating the potential pitfalls and positives of spending her golden years in Boca Raton. What once had held the promise of a fight-to-the-death, made for TV movie or at least a peaceful flight of self-programmed iPod, Jack Daniels’ induced bliss, quickly devolved into a celebration of…or at least a conversation about…I’m not sure exactly.  It was entertaining though: I was dutifully regaled with dichotomistic tales of idyllic garden landscapes and suppressive governmental authority presented across the tattered backdrop of her remembered American dream.  We talked about art and politics and foreign policy and Germany and Atlanta and colors and light and architecture and everything before and after and in between – as satisfying a dialogue as I have had with a perfect stranger in recent memory. 

Occasionally, my new-found missionary friend would interject random, witty anecdotes, punch lines.  As distressed as she proclaimed to be about the going she was on, she had an unspoken peace about her that I found refreshing.  There was a light about her countenance that I rarely see.  She had a lot to say but was too young to know what it was and yet was still confident, even if apprehensively.  I remember feeling that way a million years ago.  The difference is that she is apparently able to focus what was for me a random, undisciplined angst into a focal, refined purpose.  That’s incredible.  That is something to envy.  That makes me believe in the collective possibility of the human condition – even if we are as screwed up as I perceive us to be.  I would have liked to have been someone like who she is now (20) years ago, right? 

I wish I would have talked to her more than I did.  I think this kid could have taught me a thing or two.  I would have liked to have taken that (17) hour slow train to Johannesburg with her, but alas I am busy and important and have many volumes of leather-bound books or whatever bullshit I’m selling myself today.  That’s a joke.  She had more soul in her pinky finger than I’ve ever even pretended to have. 

I guess, that’s the lesson, eh?  Do what you want because you believe in it – not because you should, or “they” think you should.  I’ve always said some pseudo-intellectual variation of the same but it was all show most times.  She gets it – and doesn’t even know that she does.  I’m not often inspired my human beings.  I think as a general rule, we suck…but maybe not all of us.  I am a better person for our paths having crossed.

 At the end of the flight, all I could do to repay was point her to the train.