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| Pat, my exchange coordinator |
Sitting on a brand new United Airlines Boeing 777, long-range,
wide-bodied, twin-engine jet airliner, at London’s Heathrow Airport on
the 5th of January, 2001, I had no idea what was in store for me in
the forthcoming year, nor the US for that matter.
My last year had been an exciting one. We’d visited
Perth, I’d worked at the University in the computing center, Sydney had held
the Olympics (and the soccer had been hosted in Canberra, with the athletes being
housed at the very hotel where I had also worked), we’d visited Singapore,
Germany, the UK. Life couldn’t have been sweeter.
We had spent Christmas with Liz’s family in the UK,
and I’d bussed from Bristol to London solo, staying overnight at a cheap hotel.
I’d made my way to the airport by taxi and would’ve changed my itinerary and stayed
at the airport Hilton, if I’d known beforehand the cost the highway robbery cab
fare.
Liz and the kids would fly several weeks later, as we
knew nobody in the northeast of the US and I was possibly going to have to sleep
on park benches. We had $300 spare in our bank account and needed to pay for expensive
initial accommodations, an apartment, food and all the other initial set-up
costs. Thank you Christ Community Church in Brockport, you will forever be my
heroes!
The aircraft hurtled along the runway at breakneck
speed, and I allowed my face to become contorted, whilst simultaneously smiling
assuringly at my travel neighbour, Alice. This young lady had been visiting her
boyfriend in London, and was travelling back to her native New York. How
long-distance relationshipers do it, I’ll never know.
We landed in Dulles and to my surprise, snow
EVERYWHERE. We’d enjoyed some snow whilst in Bristol, something most Australians
are unaccustomed to in January (our summer). We’d made the most of it with
toboggans and the like, but that was just a thin layer which soon turned to
ice, making it less enjoyable (Franny grew quite the bruised bot-bot). This was
the real deal, meters and meters of fluffy, white stuff.
Back in early 2001, every airline flew 737s into
Rochester, except for US Airways. I boarded my late night flight, and was lucky
enough to be placed next to a Greek exchange student, Oscar, who was also bound
for Rochester.
My flight companion looked mean, but once he cracked a
smile, he was handsome, funny and easy going. He told me about all of the
Rochester highlights, and after those 2 minutes were up (kidding Rochestarians
– get a sense of humour! Seriously…), we chatted and laughed about witty
American tv shows like Seinfeld, Frasier, and the Simpsons.
We landed in Rochester and I marched off the plane looking
somewhat like a European movie star, donned with leather jeans, this swanky new
underclothing Eurovision top (a Christmas gift from my brother inlaw) and my
lambskin jacket! My jacket? I left the blasted thing on the bus at Heathrow! Ah
fiddlesticks…).
I jumped into the loos and fixed myself up, ready to
meet my delightful exchange coordinator, Pat, who had not presented herself at
the gate for my arrival (back in the day when you could wait at the gate), only
increasing the anticipation of our first physical interaction. To this point,
I’d only spoken with Pat over the phone, and e-mailed. I didn’t know whether I
should wave and say hello, shake her hand politely, or take her in an embrace
like a long lost relative.
I ran past the sauntering flight attendants, so lazy
and knowing… I flew down the escalators and ran straight into a huge white horse,
with pink and purple poker dots. Western New Yorkers are known for their love
of contemporary art, and 100 wild metal horses, strategically plonked around the
city of Rochester, was my new community’s taste in all things magical,
personified to the enth degree, in animal form.
The flight attendants continued their lazy stroll and
I took their queue, not racing to the baggage belt, which would take another 20
minutes to kick into action.
My bags finally arrived. “What should I do?” I
wondered… “I don’t know anyone here, and I don’t even have any American money.”
I went to the atm and withdrew a crisp $20 bill. “So green and papery,” I
thought to myself. I strolled along a slew of shops, which were all shut up for
the night.
I came across a delightful looking old lady, sitting
on a boring old airport bench (which would later be replaced by one of
Rochester’s 100 fine and fabulously decorated, artistic benches…) and beckoned
her to listen. “Hello old lady,” I said (or something similar). “My what
beautiful teeth you have.” (Americans are renowned for having decadent
dentures, and seeing as though I was going in for a favour, I felt best to flatter)
The woman screwed up her face, which made her look
even lovelier, and said with a smoker’s voice “Wadiyoushay?” Well, apparently
great looking teeth needn’t smell great. “Oh, dear Mrs. Wolf, I’m Little Jed
flying dude, and I was just wondering if you might be able to spot me some
change for a telephone call?” (back in the days when airports had public
telephones – am I THAT old?)
The little lady, apparently hard of hearing, leaned in
and raised her voice (cause when you’re the deaf one, you’re the one who needs
to speak louder) “WADIYOUSHAY?” A little embarrassed now, because I suddenly
had an audience, and although I looked like a movie star, I certainly wasn’t
acting like one.
“Coins” I said a little louder, though breathily… Her
face now looked puzzled. “Have you got some chaaaaange for my crisp, new $20
bill?” She dug into her purse. “OH, YOU WANT SOME MONEY?” I started nodding so
fast my teeth began to chatter on account of my furious head jerking.
“Hereyagodear. $1.” Charming and delusional – NEW YORK, NEW YOOOOOOOOOOORK! “Right,
thank you.” I offered warmly and commenced my backwards walk away, like a humiliated
court jester, leaving the thrown room.
I eventually sourced the change I needed and called
the University Police at SUNY (State University of New York), Brockport. Now
I’m truly a law abiding citizen (no quoting please), but I have to tell you
something I’ve learnt about American Police. I’m not thoroughly sure, but I
think the hierarchy goes something like a national police force, and then a
kind of state police force, a village/town police, and then there’s the
university police.
I have to confess that it is my belief, that all of
the Police Academy movie talent scouts, retrieved their movie’s characters from
SUNY Brockport’s police division. It’s not that they are not gifted policemen, for
they are, it’s just that they reek of eccentric character, and I’m sure in an
emergency, due to the general lack of delinquent activity, they’d be
hard-pressed to know what to do (whilst I was living there one of the academics
got a DUI, and in the past there had been a gun shooting – viva America… They
must have their guns…).
I got into the “cab” and was greeted by my chirpy African-American
driver. “Wazzup?” he said enthusiastically. “Oh, you know… I’ve just arrived in
America and I’m a little bit nervous” “Dats cool, dats cool, he chimed,” seemingly
disregarding my one and only comment to date. I ended up liking this guy a
HEAP, but couldn’t really chat on account of my tiredness, my fear of crashing
in the snow (we were driving like snowboard whack-jobs) and the accent, that
thick American accent.
“So,” he said, “what do you do for shits ‘N giggles?”
My driver, who clearly hadn’t concentrated during etiquette class, shocked me
at every turn. “I DO beg your pardon?” was my hoity-toity response. He explained
his meaning and I continued, “Oh, you know…” (I was REALLY tired) I’m studying
and a Dad, and travelling and snore…” I fell asleep.
My driver had a coarse tongue, but he was every bit
the gentleman. I awoke to him shaking my shoulder. “It’s time to fess up” he
said. “I DO beg your pardon?” I said again. You’re here, with the pigs, the men
in blue…” Cross-cultural exchanges can be difficult at the best of times, but
when you’re tired, haven’t done things the way they’re meant to be done, and
you’re presented with unique-first time experiences, you just have to wing it.
Before long I was at Buck’s B&B, showered, fed,
and out-for-the-count. This was my first time in a snow filled wintery wonderland,
and I was excited to wake the next morning.
As I peered out the window, squirrels ran along the
power lines. The second storey outdoor Jacuzzi lay dreamily under a doona
blanket of snow. The television boasted 99 channels. I was as snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug,
and trotted down the stairs to indulge in breakfast.
I chatted awkwardly with Buck, the proprietor of this treasure
trove B&B, as often is done when 2 men who don’t know each other and don’t
want to really try, make polite morning conversation. Then enter stage right, Pat,
my future friend, a lovely lady, someone I knew from the outset would be
forever a part of my life. She let herself in, because in Brockport, the
backdoor is always unlocked.
I knew instantly I loved her. Pat has a generous, kind
face, warm eyes, a pleasant radio voice and clear blue eyes that look straight
through you. “So how are you Jed?” Pat asked with a curious tone. “Good thanks!
The University Police were very helpful and Buck here, what a chamion cook,” I
said as I munched through another mouthful of cornflakes. Buck and Pat laughed
from the stomach.
“I’m sorry about the confusion,” said Pat. She was
genuinely sorry. I had brought my travel
date forward, concerned about not being able to find a job in time, and worried
that setting up a house would be a major task, unachievable in a week. I had
e-mailed Pat about the changes, though the message had been sent the day after
she’d left work for her Christmas break.
We chatted some more and I swiftly fell into that sensation
of kindredness. To me, Pat was that
stranger who is instantly friend. She was in the right job, you could tell
that. My feeling from the outset was that she went into work to live, easily
navigating through her administrative tasks, because of her love for people.
And boy did she love. From her tiny office at SUNY Brockport, she welcomed in the
world. People came from China, Bulgaria, Australia, the UK, Ghana, Brazil, and
the like. Pat was an artist of communication and over the years, a mother to
many.
Early in our relationship, Pat let me know that I
could make one call, on-the-house, to my home country. I was excited, because I
didn’t have money to phone Liz. We had been arguing via e-mail (no facebook
back then) and I now had the chance to call her and make things right.
Pat gave me the privacy I needed and I dialed Liz’s
parents number in the UK, where Liz was staying. Excitedly I asked Liz’s brother
if I could speak with her. Moments later Liz picked up the receiver and I
called through the phone “Lizzie, how are you?” Liz, not prepared for my call, responded
“I don’t want to talk to you!” and hung up.
I paused for a moment, and my eyes filled with tears.
Pat returned and through the rear of my skull I felt those warm eyes, boring holes in my head. “Oh
Jed,” she said… I tried to hold it back, but one tear escaped. Pat gave me a
hug. This was the side of Pat that made her more than just my exchange
coordinator, this was the side of Pat that made her my friend.
Pat was kind, spoke words softly, and helped me with
my problems. Pat, to me in 2001, was one of my heroes. The University, I don’t
think, knew what a pearl they had in their international office. I returned to
my temporary home at one of my church’s filthy bachelor pads, and watched Dr.
Phil & Oprah shows, back-to-back. Of course, I bawled my eyes out and only
stopped due to one of the buffest, manliest, most scariest dudes in the Church
returning home. His name was Jerry. “Oh, I have something in my eyes,” I lied.
Many of my classes were held at Hartwell hall, just
around the corner from Pat’s office. Several times a week I’d visit Pat on my
long walk along the train tracks to home. I’d sit in her office, spinning on
one of her chairs, chatting as she worked. I was that peculiar creature, the
odd one, who would talk and talk and talk (like I write and write and write –
are you still with me?). Pat would just keep working, throwing her two bits in
whenever there was a gap (which wasn’t too often).
Even after my exchange, when we returned to Brockport for
Liz’s exchange, and I was completing an MBA via correspondence, I would drop in
from time-to-time, with kids in tow, and have long discussions with Pat. I also
asked Pat to proctor my university exams. She did so willingly, though I’m sure
she was always wondering what the deal was with me and university – when would
it all end!? I was homeschooled, my desire for professional qualifications is
unquenchable!
And so in 2012, here we were, back in Rochester.
Pastor Sneed had graciously invited us to share at his Church, the Discovery
Church. Rochester is a tough gig for us, because Churches in the area are
reluctant to work with complete strangers – something about “working with
relationships.” But we have so many family and friends in Rochester, and so we
must persist.
I was very nervous about sharing at this Church, as I
have explained in previous posts. I had invited friends to come and hear us
speak, and it was also the home Church of our very best American friends, Shane
& Jen. I think Pastor Sneed was nervous too, but only on account of
perceptiveness. We’re not very good at hiding our true feelings.
Upon grabbing the mike and taking the stage, my eyes
were drawn to the people I knew. And there, gazing supportively through clear
blue eyes, was my beautiful long-time friend, Pat. We only had the chance to
talk briefly at the service, because when you share about what God has put on your
heart, people always want to talk with you about specific facets of your talk,
or share what’s on their heart. We organised to visit Pat at her home a few weeks
later.
We drove up their drive and a heavy hush fell over our
kids. Their mouths silently “wowed” the scene. Wide, WIDE open spaces, a
massive barn, a double storied house, a cute caravan. It was like we were back in Bungendore,
Australia. We silently exited the vehicle and took it all in. Pat and Jim (Pat’s
husband) strolled out of their house. “Welcome,” said Pat, enthusiastically.
“So good to finally have you here!”
Pat feeds the dear who visit in winter, grows her own
veggies, plays games with rice sacks that must be thrown with precision through
the hole in a board, and enjoys fun stuff like biking, travelling in her
caravan and catching up with loony exchange students.
We ate hot dogs that Jimbo cooked on the bbq. We drank
cool fruity drinks and the children were offered every opportunity to enjoy
themselves around the estate. We settle in for a cup of hot Jarrah and Pat
floored us with her final comment. “Jim and I have been talking, and we want to
sponsor a child.”
Isn’t that something? Someone who should have been
reciprocally nothing, throws herself into our vision for a better Nicaragua,
and puts her money where her mouth is. Pat should have just processed my
application, welcomed me to the home of the brave, made sure I was familiarised
with the campus, and feigned a smile and friendly wave every time I walked by.
But she didn’t. She invested in me, in Elizabeth, in our children, and in the
children of our community, right here in Nicaragua.
