Airport Conversations.
I like to meet people.
Interesting people. And when you fly across the Atlantic, you can meet
plenty of them. Easy to ask a question
or two and instantly know if the conversation is going to flame on or just
flicker and go out with a wisp of curling gray smoke. Most of the time they flame on, bright and
brilliant. You meet people you never
would have met and new worlds open up. Happens to me all the time. Today was no
different.
I step into the bus to take us to the aircraft that will fly
us to Paris. Two other guys and I are
pressed together like best buddies at a keg party. A tall white guy, an Englishman in a t-shirt
and leather jacket, and a black guy my size, but with biceps he can flex to
crack walnuts. The black guy is from
Atlanta, but not really from Atlanta. Born in Florida. We talk football, which
he played in high school. We talk about
linemen who are so big they won’t make it through the next ice age.
The Englishman smiles.
He likes football, he says.
That’s pretty much it for his part of the conversation. Usually, with an English person, I go through
the routine of what part of Britain are you from, etc. But, neither the black guy nor I are ready to
give up the pigskin just yet.
I lose them when we get stuffed on the flight, but an hour
later when disembarking, I see the black guy again. His name is Rickey and ex-Army. I ask if I can buy him a beer. Foolish question.
Near our gate, there’s a nice, bright, modern bar. We order Fischer beers. The thin, well-dressed,
very French looking bartender, brings us the icy bottles and hands us the drink
menu, which is stylishly displayed on an iPad.
I consider an Armagnac to go with our beers, but sticker shock and an
upcoming house payment make me settle for the bière.
Just in case you want to try it, Fischer beer is French, from the Alsace region. Light, fruity. A good beer for good conversation.
As with so many people I meet, Rickey has an interesting story to tell. Ten years in the Army, then medically
discharged after his arm met a bullet in Afghanistan. “I’m lucky,” he says, “You wouldn’t believe
what I saw over there. I’d still be in
uniform if it weren’t for this.” He’s wearing a dark t-shirt and shows me a
scar that rides up from just above his right bicep and over his shoulder.
Rickey is in computer software solutions these days and it
takes him all over the world, which he admits is tough on his families. Yep, that’s plural. His ex is German. His current wife is Russian. He has children from both marriages. His eyes light up when he tells me about his
kids and shows me photos. His says it
tore him up to have to leave again so soon, but his kids, even though they
don’t like it, have gained confidence that he’ll be home again soon. Talented kids. Artistic. Musical. Multi-lingual. The things
we must give up in the pursuit of cold, impersonal cash.
“So how many languages do you speak, Rickey?”
He laughs. “My wives
both speak English so well they might as well have been born in America.”
“So, what did you do in the Army?”
“C.I.D. You know what
that is?”
“Yep.
Investigators. People I never
wanted to meet while I was in the Air Force.”
He laughs again.
“Yeah, I know what you mean, but I tried to be more human. Give you an
example. In Germany there are lots of
places placed Off Limits. Some of them
are night-spots. When I knew we’d be cruising the bars, looking for violators,
I’d tell my buddies not to go to those places.
Sometimes they listened and sometimes not. When they didn’t listen, I had to bring them
in. Not my fault. I warned them. I have to do my job.”
We finished our beers and loaded on the long flight to
Atlanta.
But, that wasn't the only interesting conversation I had....no indeed...
But, that wasn't the only interesting conversation I had....no indeed...
On the flight over the big pond, my seat-mate spoke with a
southern accent. “Texas?” I asked.
He smiles. “Nope, South Carolina.”
Tony’s job also takes him around the world. “I’m gone about two weeks a month,” he says.
“I was just in Brazil. Before you ask, I
don’t speak Portuguese, only a little Spanish.
I go to so many places. Almost
all the former Soviets republics. If it
ends in Stan, I’ve been there.
Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan.”
“What takes you to all those places?”
“Forklifts and other heavy lifting equipment.” He changes the subject. “You ever been to India?”
“Never.”
“Interesting place.
“A friend of mine told me the Indians are thieves.”
He cracks a smile.
“Most of the world is basically corrupt.
Bribes are common everywhere.
Some of the countries are ruined by it.
Corruption is a cancer.”
Tony also offered advice about the U.S. and specifically
drinking and driving. “My son was
weaving through a road heavily pocked with pot holes. The cops pulled him over. Thought he was drunk. Asked him to blow in a tube. He said no.”
“If he hadn’t been drinking, why’d he say no?”
“He gave the officer three reasons. First, he said, ‘I have no idea if your
equipment is properly calibrated. And secondly, a lot more things than alcohol
can set a Breathalyzer off. Thirdly, if I fail the Breathalyzer, even if it’s
bogus, it’s still a matter of record and can be used in court.’”
“So what happened?”
“They gave him a sobriety test….you know, walking a straight
line. That sort of thing.”
“And he passed?”
“Sure! He was clean
and sober.”
Letting that information sink in, I had the flight attendant
bring me another glass of Armagnac.
Unlike the bar in the Charles de Gaulle Airport, this one was free.
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