The other day I was writing to a friend explaining why I
love airports. As I wrote it reminded me
of the crazy man I met when I landed at the airport in Malaga, Spain. He taught me about lateral thinking and used
the airport as an example of well thought out design. I was curious to see how he was doing when I
clicked into his Facebook page from my friend list only to discover he had
passed away 7 months after our conversation.
“They are after me, “ I listened to his paranoid rantings, “if I die
suddenly it is because of them, they will make it look natural, but it won’t
be.” I never asked who “they” were, but
after a quick search, I found his obituary:
“…Known to his friends as
'DUGGIE' Dearly beloved and already sorely missed Brother of Jonathan, Rosemary
and Pamella. Died suddenly, but completely at peace with the world…”
An early morning wake up, a hug goodbye from a grizzly
haired man in slippers and a plush robe, one taxi stopping first in the wrong
location due to my early morning fuzziness asking to be dropped off at the bus
station rather than the correct train station, one shy young taxi driver
accepting my tip as he sheepishly tells me I look like Lucy Liu, a bus ride to
another train station due to a diverted train, one train ride, yet another
taxi, and finally a flight from Bournemouth, England to Malaga, Spain. My
life has been reduced down to a procession of planes, trains, and automobiles to
destinations with only a hotel room booked for the night and nothing in the way
of a plan.
I crossed out the idea of flying to Dublin for St. Patrick’s
Day, rain kept me from choosing Malta, and my friend advocated for Malaga over
Alicante as I grew eager to leave England.
The birthplace of Picasso and right in the middle of the Costa del Sol,
I figured why not.
“Do you know how to get into the city?”
“I have instructions, but I’m not sure where the train is,”
I admitted.
“It’s upstairs, the airport is on the ground floor and the
train depot on the first floor,” the stranger slurred his words. In front of me was a quintessentially British
man in his late fifties with red face, bemused expression, and air of a man
used to giving orders. He smelled of
cigar smoke, cologne, and stale liquor lingering from the night before. “Come, I’ll help you find the train.”
I followed him back into the airport and away from the taxi
stands where I had looked in vain for any signs that could direct me to the
train I was looking for. Never once did
my safety come into question as this man continued on with his ramblings.
“I haven’t slept in almost a week, but I can tell you think
I’m drunk,” he read my mind, “I just left Marbella where I spent time with the
most lovely of old friends. Cheryl, she
is a dear, and the tiniest woman, you could fit her into a suitcase. If I had a suitcase I’d take her with me.” He laughed at his own joke with a deep
affected laugh. “I’m going to Tuscany
now to meet friends. I used up all my
money and this damn Spanish government won’t let me take out more money from my
account.”
We walked upstairs and I was glad to see the train station
as promised. “Are you in a hurry?” The man asked me. I knew I wasn’t, and without any idea of what
I was going to do in Malaga, I told him the truth. I figured my conversation with this man was
bound to be a more interesting use of my time than heading straight into the
city center to wander the city streets. Though
he was intoxicated either through lack of sleep, alcohol, or both, his sureness
in conversation showed a clever intelligent man and confidence that more than
bordered on arrogance. When I am confronted
with this personality type it brings out the smart-ass in me and I do enjoy it so.
“Take a coin out of the tip jar, I dare you to.” When I told him no, he grabbed change himself
while we waited for our coffees. “There
is no law against taking change from the tip jars, it’s only social convention,”
he chided me, “plus the Spanish are much too polite to say anything. You can’t always follow the rules as they are
laid out, acting against the grain from time to time can be good for you.”
We sipped our café con leche and sat watching
the action of the busy train station. “You
know, I am a genius, my whole family has been certified.” I considered if he meant a different kind of
certified. “I’ve been involved with some
dangerous dealings because of my mind, it’s why I don’t sleep, why I can’t
sleep. The way my mind is now it’s
finally slowed down enough to tolerate normal people.”
We finished our coffee and sat for a moment longer. “Do you smoke?” I shook my head no. “I do, come on.” He got up to step outside and motioned for me
to follow. “If you ever smoke, make sure
you roll your own cigarettes, there’s nothing more beautiful than smoking
tobacco you’ve rolled yourself. Do you
know how to roll a cigarette? No? Well, you’re going to have to learn because
my hands are too shaky to do it myself.”
I followed his directions and learned a new skill that I
thought I’d never need to use again, though would, as he continued on with his ramblings. “I know
I will die before the year is over, they’ve been after me. If I die suddenly it is because of them, they
will make it look natural, but it won’t be.
Here, let me add to the list of books I gave you.” Earlier he introduced me to the work of
Edward de Bono and his work with lateral thinking. “Are you familiar with the bible? They are trying to persecute me because I
have a message that is dangerous to them, but it is a message the world needs
to hear.” He continued on and alluded to
comparisons between him and Jesus. I
smiled politely and decided it was time for me to move on and head into Malaga
to my hotel.
Done with my hand rolled cigarette, the man and I headed
back into the train station.
“Take a look at this train station and the airport attached
to it. How do you know which way to go,
how do you know the direction to walk in,” he asked rhetorically as he pointed
to the signs above and the painted yellow arrows on the ground. “A lot of thought has been put into the
design of these signs to make them readable regardless of what language the
user is familiar with. The choice in
symbols, the size of the sign, the color of these arrows, they have all been
tested and designed to make it clear for any visitor to be able to find their
way. Isn’t it fabulous!”
I’ve always loved
airports, they act as an island of familiarity before entering into a foreign
land. Their similarity to each other
regardless of country has been a sense of comfort to me as I traveled, but I
never considered the tiny details that create this cocoon of comfort.
I wouldn’t see this man again except to add him on Facebook
and to search him out years later only to find out that he did indeed die
suddenly before that year was over.
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