Say-So

Last night I spent five hours sleeping, tossing and turning on a cramped seat of American Airlines red-eye flight San Francisco - Boston. It was a nightmare scenario, due to a late flight and a missed connection I had to decide whether to pursue my luggage all the way to where it needed to be claimed triggering a cascade of delays which would never (or so it seemed) get me to my destination , or forego the luggage and spend the 2 weeks bare, with only purchased emergency necessities. Luckily it was a decision which did not come about. A coincidence had me cross paths with a personnel who was relaxed, knowledgeable and willing to help. I managed to intercept my luggage in Boston and remained there until the next flight allowing me a few hour’s peak at Boston’s downtown. I came across two events which had me reflect on the fragility and a single face dimension of my middle class, definitely bourguois existence. An incident in chinatown where a woman driver has seemingly hit and possibly injured a pedestrian (it is my imagination filling in the gaps as I did not want to disturb the scene by gawking). She sat in front of her car possibly where the victim once was and cried remorsefully. Consoled by another woman, she was fully oblivious to the busy streets, the pedestrian rubber necks, the high sun at noon and a warm summer day - the fragility of our “safe” daily routines threatened by others but more obviously by our own falliability. Next, in a park I was approached by a stranger who literally invited himself to come and stay with me in San Francisco for what could be a lengthy visit. Ivan, a Ukrainian man approaching 50’s who’s been roaming the US for 2 years, living hand to mouth, with no permanent address, no doubt sleeping frequently under the open skies. He recognized a slavic face. “Am I in your way?” I asked startled by his intense gaze. - “Maybe”, he muttered hinting that I may be of help to him rather than an obstacle. Polish hospitality is historically a subject of national pride. A popular saying loosely translates: “A guest in the house - God in the house”. When somewhat awkwardly the topic of illegal labor came about, he excitedly exclaimed - there is no other country like Poland. He recounted how he could easily find day jobs at flea markets simply by talking to people. He was offered accommodations and once, was able to spend 3 months in his hosts house all by himself. His story has a flavor of old rural Poland and its population, a romantic picture of a simple human interaction, an exchange.
I can’t place it in the context of the current socio-economical reality with very high unemployment rates and people who have been held back for decades under a socialist regime, just bursting to realize the economical opportunities which they believe they were robbed off. Even less so, I can imagine how Ivan was able to survive in the United States, where even an occasional baby sitter is required to be CPR certified. I am not around a milieu which could offer a day job to Ivan and I squirm at an idea of having a long term guest at my apartment. As Ivan pereceptably commented: “you are not like other Poles” noticing my reluctance. “I suppose I am not” I admitted.
Ivan walked away with my email address, which he still has to figure out how to use. I have the time to ponder whether I was unreasonably defensive, being unwelcoming to a stranger bound to me by ethnic origins, or whether I am being outlandishly romantic by reflecting back on the incident.