Grateful: Bratwurst, Beer, Baseball and more…Part II

“Would you repeat that, please?” I asked.

“We’re booked for the night,” he replied, “and so are our other ‘properties’ in the Long Beach and surrounding areas. The nearest hotels reporting vacancies are at LAX.”

Jerome, that was the name embossed on the left lapel of his uniform, seemed to know policy, but also sensed my desperation.

At 11:00 pm, 2:00 am Vermont time, I was beat, and reluctant to drive anywhere, including to my friends’ home in Claremont, an hour away. I’d taken a cab from the Hertz rental car office at the airport to the Long Beach Courtyard Marriott, the Hertz attendant’s recommendation, and now faced unacceptable options: dozing on a chair in a sequestered corner of the hotel lobby, a cab ride to Los Angeles, or a risky, bleary-eyed drive to Claremont.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” he said. I started to leave the registration desk when the night manager approached the two of us. “Can I assist?” he asked. The kindly clerk explained the circumstances to Enrique, his supervisor, who then reached across the desk to shake my hand while introducing himself. “Let me see if I can help. Give me a moment.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

He checked the clock on the wall behind him then told me that he had an unclaimed reservation, an expensive room, but one I could have. Relieved, I expressed my gratitude, and handed him my JetBlue Master Card. I waited while he typed in my information then after a few minutes asked him how much.

“With taxes and fees, four hundred and nine dollars.” Even now as I write this piece, with appreciation for the value of money, I enjoyed every second of a restful sleep that night, and haven’t looked back or questioned the cost, nor my decision.

The following morning, a still, quiet Sunday drive ahead of me, with the San Gabriel Mountains looming in the distance, I felt grateful “to be at the wheel,” and in control of my own travel plans—an illusion, but a welcome one. The hours of onscreen scrolling for flights, ad nauseam telephone prompt responses coupled with expletive-ridden screams for a “real” person, and tedious hours of waiting in Terminal 5 were behind me. Friends and work in the LA area were beckoning, and a week of baseball in Kansas City and Chicago would follow.

Though it hadn’t occurred to me while “grounded” at JFK, on the drive I began to reflect on the civility, kindness, and polite behavior that I’d experienced during those long hours in the terminal. This seemed in stark contrast to the “if it bleeds, it leads” fear- and anxiety-producing trend that occurs in the media. Over the course of the next two weeks the presidential race would be a frequent subject of conversation including its ubiquitous incivility in the form of: rancorous comments, personal attacks and invective, denigrating and demeaning commentary with angry exchanges taking the place of worthwhile discussion and debate. However, my experience in Terminal 5 had been restorative because civility is more pervasive than our “small screens” suggest. The disappointed, frustrated, and anxious passengers, concerned about making connections, and otherwise getting on with their lives while facing a “first world crisis” of airline glitches, were anything but irascible and irate. I experienced a small piece of the innate goodness of humankind, respect for the “other,” and civility.

A woman with two children asked if I’d keep her place in line while she took her daughter to the restroom—others did likewise. I complimented a young man on his colorful and expressive T-shirt which segued into a conversation about our ethnically diverse country, problems notwithstanding, and his faith in democracy “to get it right.” A fellow traveler stated he was going to get a cup of coffee, and would I like one too. I overheard conversations in which people shared unsolicited, endearing, personal stories about loved ones–conversations among people who’d, most likely, never seen each other before, and once in Long Beach, would not cross paths again.

Butterflies! I thought as I sped north on the 605 Freeway.

People feel disenfranchised, cut-off, and angry that their voices aren’t being heard. Too many of us feel “grounded” by circumstances over which we have little or no control—economic stagnation, racial unrest, and fear of external threats living among us.

The news, and the realities it reflects is often grim and disheartening. As my trip continued with good friends, challenging work, and baseball I was frequently reminded of the juxtaposing feelings of cancelled plans, and the inherent goodness of people. The Harry S. Truman Presidential Library and Museum attests to how modest beginnings can lead, through dark and foreboding times and struggle, to greatness. The Negro Leagues Baseball Museum gives witness to an unjust and sad period in our nation’s history, but the joy and commitment, hard work and pleasure those men brought to the game of baseball is evident throughout the museum. The American Jazz Museum, also in Kansas City, celebrates the iconic figures who brought this uniquely American music to the world. Their voices and instruments would not be stifled by ignorance and discrimination, hard times and struggle.

After 180 years of futility, and though it’s only a game, there is hope in “Wrigleyville” that this may be the year the Chicago Cubs bring a World Series celebration back to the North Side of Chicago—a tall order but realistic expectation. Whether the end result is disappointment—“next year we’ll make it”—or celebration, I left Chicago impressed by people’s hope—belief in the possible.

Flight plans change, disappointment and frustration, anger and injustice, incivility and cruelty, are part of our human condition. But so too are hope for change, faith that we can make it happen, and gratitude that both are possible.

Thank you, God, and the Universe, for butterflies!

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