Ms. S.

The Flight Back Home

I rode to the airport on an invalid bus ticket and some advice that this would work because of the low opinion that authority figures have for foreigners. Translation: act stupid, get out of trouble. It was the role I was born to play. Thankfully such theatrics were not required. I got to the airport 3 hours before my flight departed for home which was plenty of time given the structure of Tegel Airport.

The Allied Powers, as a response to the Russian blockade of West Berlin, built Tegel hastily to help accommodate the overwhelming amount of supplies needed to keep Berlin from starving. The important word there is hastily. Unlike what you might see at an airport like Munich, JFK or Charles DeGaul, there is very little polish and very little chrome here. The gate was walled off with glass partitions immediately behind the ticket counter. The security check point consisted of two x-ray machines, two metal detectors, and before that, a pair of German immigration officials. The security area, ticket counter and gate took up roughly as much square footage as my apartment. It would not be a long walk.

I gathered my belongings and did all the necessary things before leaving. I bought some overpriced tourist crap, I called my friends for a last goodbye (Lisa was the hardest but I miss everyone) and wrote my postcards. It sucked, but that's how vacations go. Cool to arrive, fun to be there and sad to leave. Above all else though, it left me with a sense that I had just done something utterly and objectively cool. The only thing I wanted to do was tell people about just how cool it was and how cool I was for doing it. It was under those conditions that I met a very nice woman I will call S.

S. was a very nice, older woman on my flight. To be more specific, she sat in the aisle seat while I sat next to the window. For most of the flight we paid attention to the movies (as I said before Midnight in Paris isn't very good) and shared little more than the arm rest. Then, about half way through the flight, with the movies off, sleep eluding us both and the complementary adult beverages working their way to my tongue and voice box, I decided to try and strike up a conversation. I found she was very nice indeed, telling me that she worked at a drug store in New Jersey. She said everything she ought to: asking me where I was from and what not. She was easy to talk to and unassuming like the alter ego of a superhero.

As I had said before, the main thing I wanted from her was an opportunity to talk through what I thought was the fairly important story about all I'd seen and done. Go me. What I got from her was a lesson in what an important story really is. I began as such, hoping to quickly move the conversation to me,

“So where have you been traveling to?”

“Bratislava.”

“Oh that sounds terribly interesting, I was in Prague a few weeks back.”

“Oh I hear Prague is wonderful but I've never gotten the chance to visit.”

“You should. It's great.”

“I'd like to, but I doubt I'll make it. I don't get to travel much.”

“So did you have a good time in Slovakia?”

“Oh yes, I grew up there.” Her lack of an accent, among other things, startled me.

I feel some background is necessary here. Czechoslovakia has a very sad history. They were sold out by the French and British and delivered to Hitler like some sort of virgin sacrifice. They were sold out by the United States as a peace offering to Stalin. They were sold out by their own for the unity of the people's revolution. There were student protest, violent crackdowns, Soviet tanks twice, listening devices, unanswered radio transmissions begging for help and forty three days of protest and general strikes. These would culminate in the first true self rule of that land since the fall of facism, and that would reveal some cracks. Namely a large crack between the Slovaks and Czech peoples. A split was necessary, and Czechoslovakia divided syllabically into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. The Czech Republic was obviously centered firmly around Prague. Slovakia placed its capital in a town called Bratislava.

Now you know where she went, but you also know what she came from. Cut to our hero, a near speechless Madison, trying to unravel a hairball of emotions. In that moment, I felt like I was going to laugh and cry in the same instance.

“You grew up in Slovakia? How long have you been in the United States?” Best I could do.

“Since I was a little girl. My family was trapped there after the Second World War.”

“How did you get to the United States then?”

“My mother and I were able to escape during the Prague Spring in 1968. My father had to stay behind.”

Prague Spring, for those less historically inclined, was a political experiment of sorts. Moderates in “The Party” tried loosening a number of the Draconian laws put in place by the Stalinists. One such change was a lifting of travel restrictions. As has been said in the past, people will vote with their feet if there is no alternative. Many people did and a flood of humanity left Czechoslovakia.

“What about your father?” She had previously mentioned him.

“He couldn't get the paperwork to get out.”

“You had to leave your father?” To use the vernacular, shit just got real.

“Yes, he had to stay behind. It was very hard.”

“Where did you go?”

“We were able to make it to America but that didn't last long. My mother didn't do well without my father and the only way to see him again was to give up our visas.” They had to leave.

She proceeded to tell me a story about how she and her mother moved two more times, were forced to change their nationality at each stop, and how she was eventually able reconnect with her father and move, family unit intact, first to Germany and then the United States. She told me this entire story as you or I might recount going to the grocery store or how work had gone the previous week.

She impressed upon me a deep sense that I am very lucky to be where I am. She also gave me a sense that, although I doubt any of us would willingly trade a good life for a hard one, there was an immense value in her suffering. She was able to smile through a story that was so sad I had trouble controlling my emotions while I listened to it. She told me about riding a bike down a street she used to ride on as a kid. She told me about what I'm sure was crushing poverty and long nights on both sides of the world's greatest pissing contest. She told me about some people she knew that never made it back to Czechoslovakia; particularly her parents. How do you smile while saying things like that? How are you not sad or angry or filled with self pity?

I suddenly didn't feel like talking about how great it was to go to Oktoberfest or see people smoking weed in Amsterdam. It was very cool to meet a person like her. I'm glad I did.

Ok, next blog'll be about Oktoberfest or something.