Month: September 2022

A Serendipitous Day Continues

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 3 Comments
My flight leaving without me

The total ringing up to $4.20 at a store in the Madison airport was a checkpoint. One of life’s delights. The ‘I’m on the right track’ message they give to be illustrated by what happens at the next airport…

I’m hanging at the food court passing my three hour layover by snacking and writing.  I love when it flows so strongly, my fingers simply taking dictation from the creative ether.  I’m also staying aware of the time and the mounting desire for a window seat.  Finishing up, my gut says: Go now.  Rounding the corner to the gate, the agent is grabbing the intercom to announce the need for volunteers to give up their seats and fly in the morning.  For $400 and a free hotel room.  Already there, I’m first in line.  When no one else volunteers, they bump it up to $600 and an elderly couple steps forward.

I should’ve waited.  

“Good thing you didn’t wait!” the agent says after everyone around me has boarded.  “We only need one seat and you were first.  People wait, but that’s silly.  You all get the highest amount no matter when you volunteer.”

I smile as the little you-fucked-it-up voice inside my head sits back down.  The guidance I felt moving me in Madison has flown along with me.  Turns out, they only need one seat.

Feeling a bit flabby from a day spent mostly sitting down, I decide to resist falling into the crisply made king sized bed, and head to the fitness center.  I’m grinning from how beautiful the hotel and room are.  Damn, Delta!  Inside is a nice looking, nicely built guy lifting weights.  Hopping onto the treadmill, my Midwest niceness—still going strong having spent two weeks there—strikes up some small talk.  He’s got a nice vibe, so I keep talking and check for a wedding ring.

Our conversation broadens to where we’re visiting from and me mentioning Key West brings the follow-up question of What made you move there?  I answer like I always do, because I wanted to be a writer and Key West seemed the best place to make it happen.

“Have I heard of you?” His eyes soften and his smile offers encouragement and hope.

“Not yet, but you will.”  This day has brought out a level of confidence I don’t normally speak with.

His eyes light up and his smile says he’s enjoying this. 

“Jennifer Juniper.  My dad named me after. . . “

“The Donovan song.” 

“Yeah, it came out the year I was born.”

He looks to the ceiling and thinks, “1968?”

I often have to explain the singer and no one’s ever offered the year.  Who is this guy?

“I’m a bit of a music fanatic.”  Words I love to hear, delivered with a glint off the band circling his left ring finger.  

The irony.

The night rolls in, darkness pressing up against the windows surrounding us. We talk music, which gets me sharing some fun facts about my father and the music scene in Madison in the 70s while I bounce around to the elliptical, the bike, the weights.   The topic of my healing memoir gets broached.  I mention Bernie Siegel’s Love, Medicine and Miracles as the kingpin in my long and strong remission from Crohn’s Disease.  He’s an engaged listener, sharing he’s a two-time survivor of cancer.  

“The first time I was twenty-three.  I felt a lump that turned out to be testicular cancer.”  He goes on to say he wouldn’t wish chemo on anyone, makes a face still haunted by it.  “The second time was a couple years ago–prostate cancer.  Go figure.”  He attempts half a smile. 

“I was young, too, when my disease hit.” Our connection widens and deepens as we talk about how isolated our uniqueness made us.  Surrounded by the vibrance and strength of youth, while your body fights against you.  And you in turn try to fight back.  

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

“Me neither.”

A bond is forming–overcoming similar obstacles locks you in with another person. I stop working out, falling into the warmth developing between us.  We talk about the tests of old: drinking barium and watching your insides light up on a monitor above your bed. The need for a sense of humor.  Having good doctors, having not so good doctors. 

“It changes your whole thought process,” my unplanned workout partner states.

I nod at his all encompassing answer to what having a chronic illness is like.

“I was in an intense career with high performance goals and heavy pressure to meet them, flying all over the place.”  The second cancer wrote his resignation letter, giving permission to step into something calmer, lighter.  Healthier.  Confirming a major tenant in my book. . .

A disease has symptoms, but is also a symptom itself of the life we’re leading.  Doctors laser focused on one area miss seeing the person as a whole.  Until we look and treat holistically, there’s little hope of true healing.  I share how I, too, was living at mach-10 speed with my hair on fire when my broken belly yanked me back and demanded I drop a gear.  

Or two.

Then three.

To now, living the life I want and choose because any day, any moment, the rug could get pulled out from under me.  

He nods that he relates.  “I didn’t think I had the option to wait till I retire, like everyone else.”

“Neither quantity nor quality of life is guaranteed when you have a chronic condition.”

He shares he gets scanned every six months.  Instinctively, I hold my breath in empathy of what that must be like. The topic turns to love and inspiration.  

“If not for the love of my mother the first time and the love of my wife the second time…” his voice trails off.

I scan my mind’s files for the person I could say the same about.  “For me, that was God. You definitely need a power greater than yourself to get you through it.  Love is so powerful.”

“I’ve got a friend at my gym back home who told someone my story and it really inspired him.  He wants to write my story, but I’m only just starting to talk about it.  I’ve kept it pretty private, it’s personal.  But the idea someone could be helped by it tugs at me.”

“I look at it like I made withdrawals of others’ stories of strength and miracles to inspire me.  Now, it’s my turn to make a deposit.”

He considers this as the streetlights pierce the surrounding darkness.  Our topic adding more light.  I share how even though my intention was to help others with my story, in writing it I’m reliving it and it’s helping me all over again.  

“I bet your mom would want you to write it.”

Not one to be flippant, he mulls it for a moment and smiles, “Yeah. . . she would.”

Laying in bed, I think of two things.  How I want to be in a hotel room this nice on my own dime, because of my book.  And how I’d like a duplicate of this guy, except single.  He was so attentive and easy to be with.  The warmth and the connection–that’s what I want.  And for a moment, I had it.  If that’s what I’m attracting, even for a half hour, then I must be growing.  I want to grow more.  I want to be in a whole other place personally and professionally by next summer.

You Know It’s a Good Day When You’re Saying “I Gotta Blog About This!” and It’s Not Even Noon

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

It was at this exact spot—Delta’s check-in counter at Madison’s International Airport–that I first learned how awry one’s travel plans could go. A bubble of innocence popped. My trip to Europe had begun magically enough, on my birthday driving with my BFF through a snowy, cold November day when Marvin rings from London.

“Celebrating Jen‘s birthday!” Kate answered his what are you doing question while putting him on speaker. We knew him from a spiritual academy in Wisconsin, before he became a self-made millionaire, dreaming in code.  Feats I can’t begin to fathom.  Kate got a lot closer to him than I did—he’d flown her to Colombia, given her a laptop, a phone.

After his birthday greetings landed, he made a generous suggestion, “I’ll fly you both to my place in Holland as a birthday present.  We’ll tour around. . . Spain, Italy, Belgium, maybe come to my flat in London–I love London.  I’ll cover your food and drink, all you’ll need is spending money.”

We lived in awe of this offer for the next five months, our greeting became, “We’re going to Europe!”  In a shrill octave, like we just won the lottery.  And to my gypsy spirit madly in love with going anywhere, I felt like I had.  Europe.  EUROPE.  Across the pond.  The closer it got, our greeting became the countdown: “One month!”  “One week!”  “Tomorrow!”  The anticipation was titillating—a future we were living in the moments of the now until we’re wheeling and clicking across the shiny floor to the counter where the Delta lady wouldn’t let me on the plane because I didn’t have three extra months on my passport past my return date. 

Her words slap the silly grin right off my face.  Promises I’ll come back on time, claims of complete ignorance, an offer to sign said promise, nothing changed her mind because it’s not up to her.  It’s Europe’s rule, one that comes with a hefty fine if not complied with. “They could send you right back on a plane once you land.”

A risk I considered taking.

Instead, she suggested (and a plan hatched) that I drive the three and a half hours to the embassy in Chicago, get an expedited passport and fly out of O’Hare the next day exactly 24 hours later.  

I’m approaching that exact same spot now, twelve years later, my heart beating rapidly. In memoriam. There’s a woman off to the side, smartly dressed in a shade of orange best described as happy. She’s encircled by more luggage than can possibly be her own. I motion for her to go ahead. She gives me a big smile and motions for me to go ahead. Classic Wisconsin.

I hesitate, restate my motion that she go ahead.  Also, classic Wisconsin.  

“It’s a long story,” she offers by way of explanation, doubling down on her smile.

And I, by way of empathy, extend a, “Yeah, I was there once.”  Explaining my passport issue of twelve years ago.

Her eyes brighten, “That’s us, too!” 

Stunned (but also not, because I lived it) I keep going with how I solved it.  Her husband comes up, looking dejected saying how there’s no appointments for two weeks unless they drive to Colorado.  To which she exclaims, “She had the same thing!” pointing to me and explaining how I got on a flight the next day.

After a little discussion, they do the ol’ what do we have to lose shrug. Their gratitude and the timing of it all makes my heart do a different kind of excited beat—the thrill of playing a part in alleviating another’s struggle, a satisfaction in fulfilling what feels like my purpose, and seeing the big picture get divinely orchestrated once again. 

Turning back to the counter, the agent is beaming and says incredulously, “Oh my God, what are the chances?  I had no idea how to help them and then you came along!”

I feel the space flip from what had been a place of angst and mistakes into a place of magic and promise.  After twelve years.  Dare I say, it felt surreal.  

I’d once asked one of the main teachers at that spiritual academy about these serendipitous type experiences which often occurred in my life.  

“Checkpoints,” he’d said. “Between you and the Universe.”

I’ve carried that answer with me for years and it’s always made me smile.  Writing this, I decided to look the word up: a location whose exact position can be verified visually or electronically, used by pilots to aid navigation.

Yeah, that’s exactly what it feels like.