I’m a stomach sleeper, if that’s not TMI.This began many years ago when I realized that upon awaking from nightmares I was always on my back.I started doing what I knew was dangerous to infants, safe since I haven’t been part of that demographic for decades.Terrazzo isn’t one of my favorite sleeping surfaces, however, and on my back on the floor of Newark’s Liberty Airport I realized I couldn’t roll over, for many reasons.My glasses, for one thing, were in the internal pocket of my Harris Tweed.For another, on one’s stomach one’s wallet is exposed in a way that’s maybe too inviting.Before suggesting I could’ve placed my wallet and glasses elsewhere, let me write in my own defense that rationality isn’t my strong suit after midnight.
The night before
I found a spot next to a set of escalators where the constant thrumming alternately kept me awake and soothed me to nod.I heard many languages spoken as I drifted in and out of consciousness for the few hours I had to wait for dawn.And nobody disturbed me.This is rather remarkable—a person asleep is a vulnerable being.Doing it out in public with no private walls was a new experience for me.I don’t sleep on planes, buses, or trains.Or, until two days ago, airports.It brought to mind the biblical world.A town was considered a righteous place if a stranger could sleep unmolested in a public place.The traveller—please take note, United—was in need of special consideration.My situation revealed something unexpected about Newark Airport.
The morning after
It was full of angry, frustrated people.I opened my eyes at five a.m. to find a very long line snaking down the corridor behind me—a queue that had been there when I first drifted off.These were people trying to reschedule flights since United couldn’t bump that day’s passengers because they’d decided not to fly out the night before.Despite the weariness and intensity of emotions, there was very little bad behavior.We were biblical strangers, mostly in the same circumstances.No creature comforts, no privacy.An east Asian woman said the next morning that in her country the airline would’ve brought food, and blankets at least.In the United States fiscal concerns reign supreme, however; do you know how much it would cost to care for all these stranded people?When I opened my eyes the situation was about the same as when I closed them.I couldn’t help noticing I awoke on my back.
I was not, as yesterday’s post indicated, looking forward to the renewed commute into New York City. We’ve been having a cold snap here in the Northeast, and although it’s nothing by Midwest standards, standing in it waiting for a bus isn’t the most comfortable of situations. It was cold enough that I didn’t dare take my gloves off to check the time, but my body clock told me the bus was late. The cold was creeping through all my layers and the thermometer said it was in the single digits, and breezy. I’d been a human popsicle for about a quarter of an hour when a pair of headlights pulled in the parking space nearest me. The driver got out—one of the regular commuters on my line—came over and said, “The bus is running late, won’t you sit in my car?” I was truly touched.
It’s easy to think people just don’t care. Those of us on the early morning commute know each other by sight, but not by name. We all awake far too early and put up with expensive, but unreliable bus service. We don’t talk on the bus, each of us using the time as we see fit. It feels like being alone. This offer of kindness was a welcome start to 2018. Many women would be rightfully leery of letting a man they don’t know sit in their car in the dark. Human kindness, however, is a quality that overlooks differences in times of need. She asked what line of work I was in. When I said “publishing” she replied “Ah, so that’s why you read all the time!” I was surprised she even knew that about me. Commuters touch only at the edges, like marbles in a jar.
In the Middle Eastern desert regions there’s a law of hospitality. If you find anyone lost in the wilderness, you help them. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend, enemy, or stranger. Knowing that anyone might find themselves in such a hostile environment needing help, the tradition is to give assistance. You give water to the person in need. In these days of foreigner-bashing, I feel compelled to note that this woman is not a native-born American. Standing in the exposed cold of my shelterless bus stop I was at the mercy of the weather and human kindness. In a nation bent on expelling “the other” I could’ve had an even more uncomfortable long wait for an expensive government service for which I handsomely pay and which often doesn’t deliver. There are parables everywhere for those with eyes to see.