Dangerous liaisons

[I have been working on this entry for several days in snatched time between the many writing projects which are now nearly blissfully behind me. Really the thing that’s most important here is obviously the election—voting going on as I type—but here’s a diversion from earlier in the week.]

My partner Mark says that one of the most risky behaviours one can engage in while traveling is to speak to the person in the seat next to you on an airplane. If ever I mentioned any in-air conversation, Mark would tsk-tsk at me and remind me that a conversation gone bad was bad, without escape, for hours. He’d advise me to plug in ear phones, avoid eye contact, and, if worse came to worse, feign sleep in order to escape from the dreaded conversation of the seat mate.

So it was with Mark’s warning fully in mind that I took my aisle seat on the five hour flight from Dulles to LA last week. My seatmate kept to himself, reading a guide book, and I kept to myself, editing a journal article. But, because I am not Mark Ledden, I couldn’t help noticing that the book opened next to me was a NZ guidebook, an unusual reading choice on a flight to LA unless there’s a longer flight directly following. And so I engaged in that most worrisome of airplane behaviours: I talked first.

Duane (as his named turned out to be), answered. He was meeting his wife in LA and together they were flying (not on an Air NZ plane like me) to New Zealand for 10 days. No, he had made no plans so far and had only a reservation in Auckland for his first night in the country (he is my kind of tourist!). Yes, he was delighted to be sitting next to an American who lived in NZ.

We talked maps and travel plans. He had never been to NZ, but had lived overseas when his son (now 20) was small, in the Caribbean doing work for the Peace Corps. He was on the right side in the upcoming election and had already voted in the swing state of Virginia. He was lovely, with interesting things to say, a gentle presence, the ability to be alternately talking and quiet over the course of our hours strapped next to one another. Duane and I had heaps in common. We seemed drawn to roughly the same tourism activities (not surprising—someone going to NZ is not usually the bright lights and big city kind of person). We even did the same basic work; he was the head of leadership development for a US agency. We talked about a wide range of subjects—and, perhaps more importantly for this introvert pressed by writing deadlines—were often silent together—over the course of our 5 hours of forced-communion.

And so it was, as we prepared for final descent and tucked up our tray tables, I did something far more dangerous than beginning a conversation; I invited him to come and stay with us during his travels. I gave him my name and phone number, and off we went, our separate ways in LA.

As I left the United terminal to cross over to the AirNZ terminal, I was surprised to see Duane waiting for me with his wife, Janet. We chatted about some of the wonderful things she might look forward to, I reiterated my invitation to them both. My gut reaction about Janet was that she was open and lovely, warm and gracious. I plunged out into the warm autumn evening in southern California figuring that I’d never see them again but pleased that I had shared this tiny moment with them.

Five days later, I opened my door in a magnificent spring evening in Paekakariki and welcomed Duane and Janet in for, as it turned out, more moments together. They came bearing thoughtful presents—a bottle of wine, a bag of chocolate chip cookies, a purple flowering plant to grace the garden of our purple house. The kids, when they got home from trick-or-treating, were offered armfuls of art supplies and the gentle guidance of Janet, an artist and art teacher. Over dinner we talked about leadership and travelling, about bringing your children to new places to live, about US politics. They were model guests, playful and interested in the children, warm and grateful (even about a dinner that lost some zing as Naomi and Aidan got carried away by their trick or treating). They talked about the trip so far, and we poured over maps for the trip to come. We walked on the beach at sunset and watched the sliver of a moon sink towards the sea. They were overcome with the beauty of the place. It was hard to believe that these people, total strangers to us, fit so easily into our house.

Duane and Janet had intended to go on to the South Island the next day, but I warned them about an approaching gale. They revised their plans to spend a rainy Saturday in Wellington and a Saturday night cozy in front of our fire before heading off to the ferry in the morning on a sparkling Sunday. And so a second night in our living room, drinking excellent NZ wine, we were feeling grateful for hot fires and double-glazed windows, and for strangers come together to be friends. In the morning it was with real regret that we said goodbye to them, watched friends who were just yesterday strangers go off into a big world where we’ll probably never see them again.

The lessons of this story are subtle and not generalisable. The truth is that I rarely even share a sentence with the person sitting next to me on a plane, because planes are for working and not for chatting. It also could have gone very badly. They could have been difficult under longer circumstances, or Janet could have been justifiably wary over the invitation her husband received from a woman to spend the night at her house (ditto with Michael, by the way). But in that moment and with those people and with me at the exhausting end of a long and often-difficult trip, it was the perfect thing to do. I love being in the world in this way and meeting others who live in that same world. I love that just as I was feeling so far away from the familiar conversations and sounds and relationships of the US, I imported US reminders into my very own NZ living room as a bridge between my lives. I love that this afternoon, there will be other Americans I know—on the South Island—huddled in front of TVs in some bar or hotel lounge rooting for a man who will (I hope) win the presidency in the same week he so sadly lost his grandmother.

Sunday Michael and I went out to breakfast with some friends in town and came home and sat on the cool sand with Melissa to watch the kids in their first week of surf club. We walked home along the beach where I finished Michael’s birthday cake while Melissa and Rob cooked dinner. Here were longer-standing relationships, deep and better aged. Here were four Americans making their way in a new country, celebrating Michael’s 42 year on the planet. Our house, our lives, our hearts, contain space for old and new friends, for quick connections and lifelong ones. The world is vast, and it is also connected. Relationships are the most difficult thing we have, and they are also as natural as breathing. Love is a natural resource without any constraining factors.

Happy birthday Michael.

Happy one-year-in-New-Zealand anniversary, Rob.

Go Obama—let this be the start of a better world order.