By Peggy van Hulsteyn and Sasha Mahar
I am convinced that the only escape from the Theater of the Absurd is a sense of humor. Case in point:
Recently, we attended the World Parkinson Congress in Montreal, Canada. The event was a vast melting pot of neurologists and experts, PD patients and their partners. After three days of non-stop workshops and networking, David and I decided to take a brief foray to romantic, charming Quebec City. We settled into a cozy room in a pleasant hotel in the heart of “Vieux--Quebec.”
In the spirit of gastronomical adventure, I asked the handsome and knowledgeable concierge to make reservations at the best French restaurant in town. He did so with aplomb. After he made the arrangements, we chatted, and I came to learn that he was a hockey coach as well as a bon vivant. This should have given me a clue as to his preference in restaurants.
"Restaurant Pierre" was classically French, he assured me. It provided a magnificent rack of lamb and Crepes Suzette. The food was stellar, the ambiance perfect, the champagne was flowing...
If only I could get there!
For when the taxi deposited us at the given address, beneath the carved wood shingle for "Restaurant Pierre", swaying in the brisk autumn breeze, we looked to find the entrance at the top of two flights of very steep stairs--and I in a wheelchair!!
The situation was so absurd that I felt like Alice in one of Lewis Carroll’s maddening conundrums, peering at the door to a magnificent land, but unable to enter. David and I caught each other’s eye and began to laugh. It was frustrating, yes, but tres amusing.
Not to worry--our hosts had everything under control. Once the maitre’d received news of our arrival, he opened the distant door at the top of the steps to unleash a team of waiters who, presumably, were off-season, hockey players themselves. They swooped down the stairs, grabbed my wheelchair and carried me up. I was terrified; I was grateful; I was amused.
And suddenly, with a fan fare that only the French could pull off , I was placed at my table.
Breathlessly gazing upon this beautiful table, shining with silver, wine glasses and candles, David and I started to laugh again, as he observed “Talk about being carried away by the perfect dining experience!”
“You know, there’s nothing I like better at dinner parties than a dramatic table setting,” I piped up, “but this is the first time that I felt like the centerpiece!”
At that moment, the entire dining room began to applaud as the waiter poured us champagne ordered by an anonymous customer.
“Bon Apetit,” many of the dining room patrons said in unison.
Even before the splendid rack of lamb and Crepes Suzette graced our table, we knew this was a repast we would never forget!
Showing posts with label kindness of strangers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kindness of strangers. Show all posts
Monday, December 2, 2013
Sunday, July 14, 2013
The Kindness of Strangers
I am not a cock-eyed optimist. No one ever mistakes me for the perpetually cheery novel heroine, Pollyanna. My personality is best typified by my recent election to the post of Grand High Inquisitor in the local chapter of the Oscar Wilde Cynical Society.
And though I try to see the glass as half full, life experience has instructed me to equate skepticism with realism. Recently, I took a trip on board an Amtrak train with an upbeat friend. As we settled into our Lilliputian sleeping car, which showed signs of former elegance, now faded and shabby, my friend looked around and envisioned the archaic railroad line someday being updated and transformed into a European style bullet train. Whereas I, listening to the creaking of the car around us, and to the groans and sighs of the engine, concluded that The Little Engine that Could indeed could not, and never would again.
But my seasoned world-weariness and lack of trust in humanity has been sorely tested of late by some amazing acts of random kindness.
The symptoms of Parkinson’s disease are always shifting, and my condition varies greatly day by day. Often, thanks to my helpful yoga practice, I am as graceful as Grace Kelly.
Then there are other days during which I relate to PD’s guru, the incredible Michael J. Fox, who says that he used to walk the walk and talk the talk. Now, he confesses, he stumbles the stumble and mumbles the mumble.
On these days, I am ungainly at best. Walking across a room takes resolve, and stairs and doorways are especially daunting passages. When I’m at home, I make these my writing days, grab some snacks and set up shop in my office. But when I am traveling, I have no choice but to carry on as best as I can. And the remarkable thing is that people not only notice my condition, but they try to help improve it.
Just this week, at the San Diego airport, during the hubbub of the 4th of July weekend, countless strangers stopped in the midst of their customary rush to hold doors open for me, extended arms to lead me to my destination, and asked if I needed help.
“Compassion and kindness are the only things you really need,” says his Holiness. And what is shocking to misanthropic me is that so many people are practicing his message.
This isn’t the first time I have been surprised by unexpected courtesy. Last summer when I was standing in a long line in a pharmacy in Avignon, France, an employee noticed my discomfort and quietly brought me a chair. Later, in allegedly hard-hearted Paris, I encountered many kind hearts and coronets. When I stumbled into a chic bistro, without blinking an eye, the proprietor rushed over, took my arm and seated me at the closest table, removing the “Reserved” sign there and placing it on another table. He checked on me throughout the evening and, after I praised my dinner, even shared the recipes, which were his grandmother’s.
I had become so accustomed to the fast and roughshod ways of our over-complicated world, overflowing with people infected with what the Navajo call the “hurry sickness,” that I am startled by these disruptions to the norm, especially when they happen so often. Despite my ingrained cautiousness, I find it impossible to ignore what Blanche DuBois dubbed the “kindness of strangers.”
Odd, this wave of benevolence. But very nice. Despite myself, it makes me hopeful. Keep it up, and I might have to resign my post at the Cynical Society.
And though I try to see the glass as half full, life experience has instructed me to equate skepticism with realism. Recently, I took a trip on board an Amtrak train with an upbeat friend. As we settled into our Lilliputian sleeping car, which showed signs of former elegance, now faded and shabby, my friend looked around and envisioned the archaic railroad line someday being updated and transformed into a European style bullet train. Whereas I, listening to the creaking of the car around us, and to the groans and sighs of the engine, concluded that The Little Engine that Could indeed could not, and never would again.
But my seasoned world-weariness and lack of trust in humanity has been sorely tested of late by some amazing acts of random kindness.
The symptoms of Parkinson’s disease are always shifting, and my condition varies greatly day by day. Often, thanks to my helpful yoga practice, I am as graceful as Grace Kelly.
Then there are other days during which I relate to PD’s guru, the incredible Michael J. Fox, who says that he used to walk the walk and talk the talk. Now, he confesses, he stumbles the stumble and mumbles the mumble.
On these days, I am ungainly at best. Walking across a room takes resolve, and stairs and doorways are especially daunting passages. When I’m at home, I make these my writing days, grab some snacks and set up shop in my office. But when I am traveling, I have no choice but to carry on as best as I can. And the remarkable thing is that people not only notice my condition, but they try to help improve it.
Just this week, at the San Diego airport, during the hubbub of the 4th of July weekend, countless strangers stopped in the midst of their customary rush to hold doors open for me, extended arms to lead me to my destination, and asked if I needed help.
I was blown away by the amount of aid
offered from every direction; it was life-affirming and hopeful, as if the
Dalai Lama himself had sprinkled his words of wisdom over the heads of the
kindly strangers.
“Compassion and kindness are the only things you really need,” says his Holiness. And what is shocking to misanthropic me is that so many people are practicing his message.
This isn’t the first time I have been surprised by unexpected courtesy. Last summer when I was standing in a long line in a pharmacy in Avignon, France, an employee noticed my discomfort and quietly brought me a chair. Later, in allegedly hard-hearted Paris, I encountered many kind hearts and coronets. When I stumbled into a chic bistro, without blinking an eye, the proprietor rushed over, took my arm and seated me at the closest table, removing the “Reserved” sign there and placing it on another table. He checked on me throughout the evening and, after I praised my dinner, even shared the recipes, which were his grandmother’s.
I had become so accustomed to the fast and roughshod ways of our over-complicated world, overflowing with people infected with what the Navajo call the “hurry sickness,” that I am startled by these disruptions to the norm, especially when they happen so often. Despite my ingrained cautiousness, I find it impossible to ignore what Blanche DuBois dubbed the “kindness of strangers.”
Odd, this wave of benevolence. But very nice. Despite myself, it makes me hopeful. Keep it up, and I might have to resign my post at the Cynical Society.
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