Brief contacts

There’s something invaluable about those occasional moments of contact we have with strangers, however brief. When they go well, they leave precious memories.

Some weeks ago, Danielle and I went for dinner in a small restaurant in Alcalá de Henares, near Madrid. We ordered too much food, including ‘patatas’ which we thought would be a side dish of potatoes. It turned out to be a near tray-sized plate of chips. Fortunately, a bunch of students came in and we gave them the dish, virtually untouched by us, and they devoured its contents with great joy. And speed.

Not just a side dish of chips
Food for a whole bunch of students

To my amazement, we discovered that despite the excellent Spanish of the student who talked to us, they were in fact Americans. And, what’s more, from the deep South – Alabama.

I was so astonished by their apparent mastery of Spanish that I wondered whether they’d perhaps spent time in Latin America. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong way to frame my question.

“Do you know Mexico?” I asked.

“Mex… Mex… Mexico?” answered the principal wag amongst them. “Do you know, the name rings a bell.”

I decided to reply in kind.

“Yes. You know the place. Long wall along its border.”

“Not yet!” they all chorused immediately and together.

I thought if young people, even from the deep South, could be so keen to establish their opposition to Trump, there was hope for the US yet. And for us all. It was a good moment. An encouraging moment.

A couple of weeks later I was in Milan on business and decided to have lunch in a small restaurant which looked fun. It wasn’t upmarket – in fact, it was surprisingly cheap – but it seemed cheerful and attractive.

In the more expensive places, once you’re at a table, even alone at a table for four, no one else joins you. Not so at this place. Only a few minutes after I’d arrived, the waiter brought a young couple over towards me.

“Do you mind if these people have lunch with you?” the waiter answered, but in a way and a tone that made it clear that the answer “no” wasn’t an option.

With my unexpected lunch companions in Milan
Much more entertaining than a Kindle

They weren’t from Milan but had moved there recently, for work. But they enjoyed the city. However, they also knew Rome, the city where I was born. We had fun comparing the two. Rome is known for its corruption and its inefficiency, to the point that anger is beginning seriously to boil these days: there are too many potholes in the streets, too much rubbish uncollected, and there are even three stations on the underground system closed for repairs with no sign of them reopening.

Milan, by contrast, is brisk, efficient, wealthy, well-kept. But, to those of us who know and love the capital, just a tad soulless. I always regard it as a city of Austria’s deep south, rather than of Italy’s north.

How much corruption, how many potholes, how much ineptitude is it worth putting up with for the greater warmth and relaxed attitudes of Rome? I don’t know the answer to that question. But I think it’s worth pondering, because I don’t think the answer is “none at all”.

As I write this, I’m in a plane on my way back from Wiesbaden in Germany, a city I didn’t know and which astonished me by its beauty. No wonder the Americans chose it as a major centre for their occupation forces.

I’d been warned that there wasn’t much accommodation available, so when I logged onto a hotel booking site I was ready to take whatever came up. A message flashed up on screen to say that an apartment had just become available near the park in the city centre; I jumped at the chance and booked it at once.

I landed at Frankfurt airport and rang the number I’d been given.

“Welcome to Germany!” said by soon-to-be landlord. “How do you plan to get to Wiesbaden? Don’t take a taxi!”

“You suggest I travel by train?”

“Surely. The station is right underneath the airport. Ring me when you get to Wiesbaden and I’ll come and fetch you.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that too much to ask of you?”

It turns out that he regarded it as a pleasure. And, as it happened, he was already at the end of the platform when my train pulled in.

The flat was fine and I told him so, which seemed to please him. Then I asked what I should do with the key when I left.

“Don’t worry,” he assured me, “there’s no tenant after you so you can leave your things in the apartment until the afternoon, and I’ll come and meet you and run you to the station.”

I was astonished, but he seemed keen so I accepted the offer with pleasure.

There was only one minor hitch in the arrangement. I told him I would meet him at “half-two” on the day of my departure, forgetting that in German that means half-past-one. They call 2:30 half-three. But he was unfazed by the problem.

“No problem,” he said when he rang to ask where I was, “I’ll come back.”

He was as good as his word. But he had an announcement to make.

“Before I take you to the station, I will make a detour so you can see something special. Our Russian Orthodox cathedral with its golden-roofed spires. Built by a prince in mourning for his Russian princess wife, who died in childbirth.”

When we got there, he suggested I get out and wander around, even taking a look inside. I was a bit worried about missing my plane and said so.

Russian Orthodox cathedral in Wiesbaden
Quite a tribute from a widower to his lost wife

“Oh, no. You must see the place.” He thought a moment. “It’ll be no problem. I’ll take you to the airport.”

Which he did. So I got to see the cathedral. And make it to the airport on time.

My host in Wiesbaden, Karl
“Charlie. No one calls me Karl.”

Which explains how it happens that I’m writing this on the plane. And also why. Because there’s something special about these brief moments of friendly contact with a stranger.