By Judith Barker Kvinsland
Our fiftieth anniversary trip to Scandinavia, the Baltic countries, and Russia began with a frenzy of unexpected drama. Actually, it began with a sandwich; turkey with cheddar, two dill pickles, mustard and mayo, carefully layered between two slices of whole wheat bread.
Five minutes after we boarded the crowded, but air-conditioned Park-and-Jet shuttle— that serviced Seattle-Tacoma International Airport—my husband Steve, smacked his hand soundly against his forehead. He turned toward me and lamented,
“My sandwich! I left it in the car. In the cooler.”
He began to fidget nervously. It was not yet the level of fidgeting he had exhibited the last time we returned from Mexico—the time he misplaced his passport and was detained by U.S. Customs. I stared at him and observed his distress morph into beads of sweat, that dripped from his forehead, even though the AC vents were blasting frigid air around us. I quickly realized that his reaction to what seemed like a trivial situation, had the potential to escalate to Missing-Passport-Level status, given enough time.
“Which cooler?” I whispered and attempted to remain calm.
“The little one, the red one, “ he gasped.
“Oh heck, that one? That old thing. No big deal. Just throw it away when we get back,”
I responded, eager to get going.
“No!” he was undaunted. He stood up, strode up the aisle toward the shuttle driver, and
exclaimed,
“Stop! We need to get off. I left something in our car. Some of these folks may be in a real hurry, so we’ll get off here and walk back! We’ll catch the next shuttle. Okay?”
The driver turned around and realized that Steve was associated with me and my packed-to-the-limit, purple suitcase nudged up alongside him. Just minutes ago, in a labored show of strength, the slightly-built driver had miraculously hefted it above the sweltering pavement, dragged it up the short flight of steps, and plopped it near his seat. After his labors, he was out of breath, sweating profusely on the hot July afternoon, unable to carry it any further.
From the rear view mirror, I saw a look of horror flash across the driver’s face. Perhaps
he was thinking:
“No way in hell are you two and that suitcase getting off! I’d have to drag that purple monstrosity on board again!”
At first, the driver seemed to ignore Steve, who by now could envision the stench of
rotten turkey in our new car, three weeks from now, when we returned. I shifted around in my seat, and hoped he’d give up his plight, but Steve did not back down.
“Just calm down,” the driver attempted to soothe him. “I’ll take you back up there. Go
sit down. We’ll just go get it.”
There was a slight murmur on board as passengers stared at the digital clock above the driver’s seat and began to compare its bold numerals to the departure times on their reservations.
The crowded van turned around and roared back up the hill to our pickup point. We clutched the seat backs in front of us as the driver hastily maneuvered through the maze of parked cars, baking in the heat of mid-afternoon, reflecting the intense July sunshine.
Everyone on board, including me, peered intently through the sticky, finger-printed windows of the shuttle as Steve got out and rushed over to our car. His torso disappeared into the expanse of the already stifling SUV, as he searched through the cooler stashed behind the driver’s seat. We watched him emerge triumphantly, clutching his turkey sandwich, zip-locked inside a plastic baggie.
A woman in the back seat of the van snapped her head back in dismay and loudly exclaimed to her traveling companion beside her, but loud enough for all to hear,
“Jeez! Can you believe it? Oh, my God! Can you actually believe these people?”
Mortified, I glanced back at her and attempted to explain,
“You know, our car is going to sit here for three more weeks—in the sun. He couldn’t
just leave the sandwich there. Think of the smell.”
No response.
I surrendered to her disdain and whispered, “I am sorry, really sorry.”
She looked away in disgust. It occurred to me that she might have assumed that we were first-time travelers, which was hardly the case. Perhaps she thought we had just sold the proverbial family farm, now traveling for the first time in retirement, and had enacted the following scenario, before we left home that morning:
“Ma, do you think I should pack a sandwich for the trip?”
“Sure, Pa, why not? You could use up that turkey in the fridge!”
We rode in silence as the shuttle sped toward the airport. The van screeched to a halt before the sky bridge that led to the International Terminal. The driver took a deep breath and decreed,
“All of you, get off here! Now! This is your stop.”
Steve turned toward the fuming woman behind us and attempted a conciliatory overture, “Please go ahead of us. Go first, please.”
The woman and her companion swept by in haste—without a backward glance—and left us in a whirlwind of frigid air, an atmosphere chilly enough to cool our Honda for the next three weeks.
Later, in the International Terminal, while confined with fellow travelers— biding our mutual two- hour, pre-flight requirements—I couldn’t help but notice how many others, unaware of our previous drama, gazed at his sandwich with envy, once he pulled it out of his backpack, wishing they, too, had thought ahead. I have to admit, I felt the same.
Judith Barker Kvinsland 