The flight from Paris to Cincinnati
takes about 8 hours on a good day. Plus
I’d need four more to get to Seattle. We’d been sitting on the ground at Charles
de Gaulle airport for almost two hours now.
As the plane filled up, I worried about who would sit next
to me. I am 6’ 6” tall and need all the
space I can get. The worst thing someone my size can get is someone the same
size sitting next to them.
This time it was the opposite. A French African woman with three
kids filled the three seats left in my row. The boy is about five, the girl
about three and a baby girl not even one. They spoke French. I did not; I have
enough trouble with English. It was clear to me that this could be a long
flight.
I was just ending a very quick wine
trip through many parts of France. It was six days of food and wine with no
real sleep. Not that someone my size can even sleep plane in coach very well,
but I thought just maybe I could try.
As the baby began to fuss for a
feeding, I thought of my own wife, and wondered what some other stranger would
do in this same situation. Our daughter was two and a half years old and we were
due with another in less than two months.
The girl was small and shy, with
bright eyes and a sweet smile. She looked
at me with reservations, this giant, albeit tired, American. Her brother wasn’t
shy at all. He had no concerns of taking to me and touching my pale white skin
with his fingers. This fascinated him, his tiny dark finger pressing on my big
pasty arm. I didn’t understand a word he
said, except when he counted: “un, deux, trois, quatre, neuf, dix;”
1,2,3,4,9,10. Just like my daughter singing the “ABC” song over and over
again. He kept up his counting for a few
minutes as we waited to taxi out of the gate.
His mother smiled at me. I think she knows that I have kids too,
sometimes you can just tell.
The boy and girl finally fell
asleep. The chair that I barely fit in was gigantic to them. Finally we taxied out onto the rain soaked
tarmac and prepared to take off into the dark grey sky. They slept right through the takeoff and a
good while longer until it was time for lunch.
The mom was holding the baby on her lap, and had to stack her tray on
top of the girls just to be able to eat. The boy was still asleep, so I let the
flight attendant stack his atop of mine. I tried to eat before he woke. I almost finished and he sat up and looked at
my food. He stuck his finger into my dessert and his mother said “non!”
There is no way the mom could help
to get him his food. She was holding the baby on her lap and had the girl
beside her. I was sure the boy would feed himself, I just didn’t know if he could
open up the packaging they put airline food in.
I looked over at the mother and I smiled the way I hope translated to “Don’t
worry, I understand.” I decided helping is better than not. I did what I hope everyone would do. I couldn’t
tell him much more than “oui” or “non”, but I helped get his food uncovered,
water opened, and silverware out. I had,
for a few moments, a new family to take care of at 35000 feet. Just one that I couldn’t even talk to.
With a
little help we made it through the meal.
And, of course, his tray ended up stacked on mine in no time. Little boys from every country need to squirm
sooner or later. I tried to read, to watch some video, but the boy was in full
squirm and kick the seat mode. I
politely told him “non”, and smiled at the mother, as if to say, “I understand,
kids are a handful.”
I thought I
heard her talk about Seattle, but then my French in nonexistent so I couldn’t
be too sure. They could have been on the next leg of the journey with me. I hoped that whoever they sat next to would
at least try to help out. I thought
that’s what I’d been doing; trying.
After all,
boys will squirm, girls will shyly smile and babies need to be held and
fed. Kids are kids in every language,
and all parents should be there to help when another parent is in need.
No comments:
Post a Comment