T
RAVEL and weather go hand in hand. Ask about somebody’s holiday and the answer will most likely be that the weather was great — or horrible.
Packing to suit the weather can be tricky. Then the airport baggage handlers intervene and the scenario gets more complicated.
I left Johannesburg in December to attend a UN conference in Montreal. I knew it was going to be cold and, as an afterthought, I threw in my raincoat. It had seen better days but it kept out most of the wet and cold.
I took nothing warm on the plane and on my arrival in Montreal, I found myself standing forlornly watching the empty carousel go round and round. My suitcase was still back home.
It was a Sunday afternoon, ours was the last plane in, and by the time I had filled in the baggage-claim forms, all the taxis had left.
The airport bus was the last out and, to her eternal blessing, the driver stopped to pick up the sorry figure standing on the pavement in short sleeves in -14°C. On learning my sad story, she said she knew one shop that might still be open and would try to get me there in time.
I arrived slipping and sliding along the iced-over sidewalk as the shopkeeper was locking up. He gave me one look and waved me in. “I think I am about to do my best business of the day,” he smiled.
After almost a week, my baggage arrived late on the afternoon before my departure the next morning. I retrieved my raincoat but did not unpack the rest as I had to get to the convention centre’s communication section at 2am for a conference with my office in Johannesburg.
Walking the 1km from the hotel in those small hours, I crossed a deserted street going up a hill that was lined with Christmas trees. Their lights reflected in a haze of colour off the snow that was sifting down. So magical a scene it was, I thought that when I screwed my eyes shut I could see angels dancing and sending up little whirls of snow where their toes touched the floor.
On landing at Frankfurt much later for a long stopover before my Johannesburg flight, I caught the train into town. It was many hours since I had last shaved and the face staring back at me from a bathroom mirror was not a pretty sight. Stepping outside Frankfurt station, I sank my head between the lapels of my old raincoat and pulled the beanie I had bought back in Montreal over my ears.
In a seedy area I passed through, nobody seemed to care. But in a trendy part further on, passersby seemed to step ever so slightly aside. At a Saturday morning farmers’ market, I so loved the warm Apfelwein that I had two quick mugs. I caught myself tapping my foot so emphatically to the beat of an oompah band I realised I’d better get back to the station. On the way, I sat down on a bench next to the Main River to watch the swans glide by and gather my wits.
A girl sat down next to me and asked if I was okay. Mindful of the red-light aspect to the nearby seedy area I had passed through earlier, I had my suspicions. But before I could speak she said she wanted me to know that God cared for everybody. She handed me a leaflet that said “Stadsmission”, which I seemed to recall was a city missionary organisation that cared for down-and-outs.
All I wanted was to get back to the airport and on the flight home. — © Leon Marshall
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