Strangers

Oddly enough, Peter and I flew back to Minnesota this weekend. Not because of homesickness. Not because we're already experiencing Seasonal Affective Disorder (it's still sunny and 70). No, we had a Very Important Reunion Planning Meeting to attend at our alma mater.

I note this is because a peculiar and wonderful experience happened en route to the airport:

Peter and I boarded the #28, which runs out of Ballard and straight downtown. There, we would catch a transfer to the Sea-Tac airport. Still a bit uneasy as first-time riders, we clutched our suitcases tight on the bumpy ride. The bus driver came over the intercom, "Is anyone on this bus transferring to the underground tunnel at 3rd and Union?" We exchanged nervous glances and shot our hands up in the air, "We are!" Assuming he was announcing a detour or a warning, we wanted to be sure we caught on quickly.

As it turned out, we had volunteered to assist a young man in finding his transfer bus in the underground tunnel. The man walked down the narrow aisle, looking desperately from side to side in search of his appointed travel companions. Providing assistance was not something we were prepared to do, but our seat neighbors signaled to him and pointed to us. He sat down and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over.

"Where are you headed?" we asked. He looked at us blankly. "Little English," he said meekly as he pinched a tiny sliver of air between his thumb and pointer. We feigned an attempt at interpreting the bus numbers and transfer locations, but the notes on the paper were as foreign to us as English was to him.

Noting just how desperate we were, the man across the aisle made an offer to show us all the way to the underground tunnel and our connecting lines. Peter and I breathed a sigh of relief and gave the Turkish man the signal that transcends all geographical boundaries and language barriers: two thumbs up.

At our stop, the man across the aisle stood up, extending to six and a half or seven feet tall, and led us all off the bus. In a single file, we followed behind him: first Peter, then me, then the Turkish man. As if following a pillar of cloud, our Moses parted the Red Sea of 3rd Ave and led us safely toward the underground Promised Land.

Total strangers, momentarily bound, we descended the escalator in silence. We wove our way through the crowds of hustling locals carrying groceries, jabbering on cell phones. Moses stopped under a bus sign and pointed to the Turkish man. Then he tapped his own chest and signaled to the approaching bus. Screeching to a halt and throwing open its doors, the bus boldly welcomed the two men.

Swift currents of bus riders flowed in and out of the open doors while we four stood still in their wake. In recognition of the oddly profound journey we'd just shared, we exchanged handshakes and earnest thank yous. The two strangers boarded the bus and held our gaze through the window. Giving a cough of exhaust, the bus accelerated, then vanished.