In the past five years, I have done a lot of traveling. More than most people. My travel, however, has been mostly for business meetings or for conferences; it has been about five years since I last took a real vacation.
Five years.
That’s five years of traveling with suits and shirts in my suitcase, not shorts. Five years of walking cities on my own during my sporadic free time between meetings. Five years of being happy that I’ve been able to explore the world, but still feeling a little constrained in my exploration.
Today, I leave for Barcelona on a much-needed vacation. A vacation where I travel with very special friends and spend time with people I love in places I want to explore. With no obligations, no schedules, no ties and suit jackets in my luggage.
While I’m gone, I’m going to be away from my computer and instead will focus on interacting with the people that are there with me. I won’t be checking email, or updating Twitter, Squandrous, or even I Tell Stories.
I would say that I’m going to be disconnected, but the opposite is in fact true. I’m going to be more connected than ever to the people and places around me. I’m looking forward to that.
I’m sure I’ll have many stories to share upon my return.
(Photo of Casa Batlló by Erik.)
I live in a neighborhood where it’s not unusual to see lots of people out and about at 7am on a Sunday morning. So when I first walked by Richard and his notepad, I paid him no notice.
Richard was sitting on a park bench this Sunday morning, staring up at the sky for a few seconds and then scribbling some notes on his notepad after that. He kept repeating this activity for the five minutes I was in the park, and judging from the torn-out pages sitting next to him, he had been doing this for quite some time.
My curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I asked if I could see his notes.
Each page was covered with dozens of short nouns, some mundane (ball), some extravagant (candelabra), many repeated (dog). Dozens and dozens of words on at least five or six pages.
Richard explained: this morning, he decided to come outside and stare at the clouds, and write down whatever shape he could see in every single cloud in the sky. For the past hour, he had been diligently scouring the sky for every cottony wisp, seeing everyday objects in each one.
His reason:
“Sometimes you just need to let your mind go and see things you hadn’t seen before.”
I concurred.
Around us, joggers hurtled by, exercising their bodies. Richard and I sat in the park exercising our imaginations.
(Photo by Jim/code poet.)
I had managed to fit every single one of my personal belongings — including my pillows and duvet — into two suitcases. The cab driver that picked me up at Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington DC eight years ago was impressed with my packing skills:
“Starting your freshman year and managed to get everything into two bags? Wow. Most people come with their parents in crowded vans or trucks.”
I was alone and a little overwhelmed. The cab driver could see the excitement and apprehension on my face. He offered to give me a quick tour of the city before dropping me off at my dorm.
I eagerly accepted.
The cab driver showed me the sights of DC and bought me lunch. He helped me take my two bags up the four flights of stairs to my Georgetown dorm room. He didn’t charge me for the cab ride, but instead left me saying:
“Consider me as your official Washington DC welcome party. Enjoy your time here.”
With that, he was gone.
Last week, I met that cab driver again.
After eight years, I didn’t actually recognize him as I passed him on the street. Instead, he stopped me:
“Looks like my welcome was so good that you decided to stick around.”
We went out for coffee and cupcakes. I shared my stories about leaving Georgetown and finally finding my way back to DC for work. He shared his stories about getting married and about his very recent, messy divorce.
I thanked him for being a wonderful welcome party all those years ago. He told me that no thanks were necessary; that it was thanks enough that I, one day, would help someone else feel welcome at a time when they felt very much alone.
I promised him that I would try. He smiled:
“By taking me out for coffee today, you just did.”
(Photo of taxi by Stephan Geyer.)
A few weeks ago, I said I had run out of stories to tell.
That wasn’t totally true: my lack of inspiration was only temporary and short-lived. Later this week, I’ll be back to my regular posting schedule of stories of people that I meet and things that I see that inspire me to look at the world in different ways.
During my short hiatus, I was lucky to have five very talented storytellers share their own thoughts here on this site. Before I get back to telling my own stories, I strongly recommend you go back and read their submissions — and bookmark their own personal sites so you can continue to enjoy their tales.
Thanks to everyone that shared their stories — including the few that I didn’t have the chance to post yet, next time, for sure — and to all of you for continuing to come back and read them.
I’ve temporarily run out of stories to tell, so I’ve put out a call for you to share your stories here. If you have a story to share, please let me know! Today’s story — uncut and unedted — is from Mehnaz Thawer. Mehnaz’s story is wonderful look back at the small things that mean so much to us, and how they continue to impact our lives throughout the years.
When I was young, we lived in East Africa. One day we moved into a new house. While we were getting set up, I discovered some things that had been left behind by the children of the previous owner in what was now my room. Amongst them, I found a pair of ceramic masks, beautifully painted in bright but delicate hues, adorned in glitter and smiles. I loved those masks and let them hang above my bed while we lived there.
When we were moving to Canada, my mother packed away the masks in her suitcase to be given to my uncle’s family. At the time, it seemed like the worst thing in the world that I should have to part with them, but I quietly withstood the weight of her decision, trying to rationalize that they were only inanimate masks. The masks were given to their new owners, but I never did completely forget them. I also found out much later that they were Venetian Carnival masks. But to me, they meant so much more than where they had come from.
Some years ago, as I went through my uncle’s garage of his new home, I saw my dear masks. One was hanging on the wall. The other, was sadly cracked in half and lay beside its partner. Not quite tossed away, but rather neglected. At that point, it felt like a piece of my childhood may have been chiseled away from me.
Shortly after having discovered the fate of the original masks, one of my very best friends went to holiday to Italy. Upon her return, she gave me a gift that she claimed was “nothing”. To my delight, she had returned and brought back miniature version of the Venetian Mask from my childhood. My eyes welled up and she couldn’t figure out why exactly. Her gift meant the world to me.
I learned that sometimes things have a way of renewing themselves and appearing in different forms, especially when they mean something to you. It’s always a pleasant surprise to see something returned to you. It may not be in its original form, but it’s potent enough to hold all your old memories and some new ones.
My new Venetian carnival mask now hangs above my bed, just where as a child, its predecessor had graced my world with its presence.
Thanks to Mehnaz for today’s story. Have a story to tell? I’ve run out, so please share your own!
I’ve temporarily run out of stories to tell, so I’ve put out a call for you to share your stories here. If you have a story to share, please let me know! Today’s story — uncut and unedted — is from Natasha Tourabi. It’s a perfect reminder that there is kindness in this world, hidden away where we least expect it.
This story is a few years old but one that is always on my mind, perhaps because part of it remains a mystery…
After finishing school, I took a year off and spent half of it working back home in Grenoble, in France and saved up all my money to spend the other half volunteering in India.
I did all sorts of boring jobs so to keep going until the departure date I decided to keep a bit of money to treat myself to something nice now and again. My special treat consisted of afternoons spent drinking teas of unusual flavours and savouring delicate chocolate cakes while writing in a fancy tea and cake shop.
One afternoon, one of the waitresses came to see me to say that the man who had just left had paid for my bill. I looked at her slightly confused. She reiterated and realising that I looked even more surprised, she asked me: “Don’t you know him?”
No, I did not know the man who had just left after paying for my bill. I vaguely knew who she was talking about because there were only three of us sat in that tea shop at that time. While I had not paid particular attention to this man, I was aware of his presence but no more than the other person sat at another table.
The waitress returned to her counter and let me deal with my confusion. All sorts of questions sprang through my mind as I was trying to make sense of the situation… Did I know him? Did he know me? Why did he pay? What did he want? When I came to that question my confusion turned into worry… I was worried about what he wanted. Surely a man who pays for a stranger’s bill, especially a female, wants something from her… I was convinced he would be waiting for me outside.
I wanted to stay longer to that he would get bored of waiting outside and eventually leave. But I had to leave too. I nervously and slowly headed towards the exit, imagining what he would say, imagining how I would respond. When I stepped out, the man was nowhere to be seen. I carefully looked all around me, expecting him to pop up from any corner within seconds… But he never did.
The man simply wanted to pay for my bill. He did not know me, but he knew enough about the happiness that comes with unexpected kindness. He did not have any expectations from me apart from I suppose hoping that his gesture would make me smile. He did not give me a chance to thank him but he gave me a chance to remember that we are free to be kind to each other… and that the most generous gifts are full of surprises and free from expectations. But I wish I could thank him…
Thanks to Natasha for today’s story. Have a story to tell? I’ve run out, so please share your own!
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