Paris (Oct. 2, 2010) -- "If there were more people like you, the world would be a better place."
Isn't that what we all want to hear?
During a recent three-week vacation in the United States, I was told exactly that. By a cougar dressed in a jean jacket, no less.
What began with me losing my wallet in New York City quickly turned into a solo mission to do as much good as I could for those around me.
Our three-act tale begins with Michael Buchwald of New York City at some point losing his wallet. A kind stranger found his wallet and returned it to him. I don't know Michael and I never met him in person.
I only know of Michael because, on the second night of my trip to the states, I dropped my wallet in the middle Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. This was immensely bad timing since over the next 20 days I was going to be traveling on planes and trains up and down the East Coast before flying over to Kentucky.
All my tickets were accessible using my credit card. Getting the tickets would be possible without my credit card, of course, but it would be a headache each time I had to make a move. And then there was the more serious matter of getting money from my bank account. I tried not to think about that financial issue on that first Saturday night of the trip. I had a feeling that everything was going to be fine.
So after brunch on Sunday morning, I checked my email in a nearby coffee shop and was overjoyed to see a message from a stranger with the subject line, "Your wallet."
The email was from Micheal and explained that he had found my wallet lying in the street. I had mistakenly thought that I had left it in the taxi that I had taken to Christopher Street. And in case you didn't know, all the New York taxis might look alike, but they have different owners. So calling to report something lost is impossible without knowing who owned the taxi. I learned this after a few phone calls.
Anyway, Michael said that he had left the wallet with his doorman and that I could pick it up there.
My friend Travis and I quickly made our way to Michael's building only to find that the doorman was on break. So we used the break time to go over to a wine shop to buy Michael a bottle of Champagne. When we returned, the doorman and my wallet were both there. The $30 that I had was also in the wallet.
Travis and I spent the rest of the Sunday afternoon celebrating by watching sports and drinking beer at Blondie's bar. It was a great day spent commenting over and over about how kindness and civility still exist in the world. We left a few hours later, forgetting behind at the bar a photo print that Travis had made and wanted me to give to my parents. Before we could get too far away, a nice man chased us down and gave it back to us. Karma, baby!
A few days later, I sent an email to Michael thanking him once again and making sure that the doorman gave him the Champagne. He replied that he lost his wallet once and someone returned it to him. "Saved me a lot of trouble," he wrote. I have no doubt about that. He also said that he appreciated the Champagne.
After my time in New York with a side trip to Ocean City, New Jersey, I traveled down to Washington, D.C. to see old friends. On my second day there, while walking to get drinks, I found a wallet lying in the middle of a busy sidewalk. It was my turn, the Karma gods had decided.
The wallet belonged to Robert Louis Harrington. I know this because inside were his driver's license from Arizona, $30, two Social Security cards and various documents and vouchers that led me to suspect that Mr. Harrington was homeless. I have no idea what he was doing in Washington.
Once at the bar, I called the first phone number I found in the wallet. I dialed the number. They picked up. "Good evening, F.B.I." End call. What the...?
After a few minutes, I dialed back and tried to explain to the very serious lady on the other end of the line why I was calling. She had never heard of Mr. Harrington. He wasn't in their "system." And she also seemed a little suspicious of me and my story. I thanked her for her time and hung up.
A short time later, I did a more thorough search of the wallet, spreading out all the documents on the floor and looking through them for some clue as to how to get this wallet back to the owner.
The only other phone number was for a Mrs. Salazar who worked at a post office in Manhattan. I called her and explained the situation. She had no idea what I was talking about. Then I mentioned how a number for the F.B.I. was the only other number in the wallet.
"Oh," she said, "I remember that guy. He was in here complaining about how his Social Security checks weren't getting to him. I told him that he could call the Post Master General. He was mad and said that he was going to call the F.B.I. instead."
Things were starting to make a bit more sense, although I was also getting the feeling that Mr. Harrington was a bit off kilter.
But he had lost his wallet and I was on a mission. Judgments on mental stability would play no role.
Mrs. Salazar told me that if I sent her the wallet to the post office where she worked, she would walk it over the homeless shelter where Mr. Harrington apparently lives. So I planned on sending the wallet to her once I was in Louisville, my next stop on the Karma Tour.
But then misfortune struck. During my last night in D.C., I was out at a bar playing pool. To get the pool table, I had to leave my credit card. I forgot that my credit card was there and I left the bar that night without picking it back up.
It wasn't until I was on my way to the airport in a shuttle the next morning that I realized that my credit card was not in my wallet. I had already paid for the shuttle, so I was fine on that point. But I only had $30 on me for the rest of the trip.
This became a problem when the lady at the airport ticket counter told me that I would have to pay $50 since my bag was overweight. Being $20 short and without a credit card, I had no choice to but to use the $30 in Mr. Harrington's wallet to pay the baggage fee. Thanks, Rob! (And yes, I replaced the $30 before I sent it back to him.)
The next good deed happened a short time later. I was waiting to get on the plane to Chicago, where I would catch the flight to Louisville. A woman I can only describe as The Cougar was talking loudly on her phone to a friend about how she was trying to get to San Francisco before nightfall. The Cougar, about 43, quite skinny, far too tan, with a frosted hairdo and wearing tight jeans and a jean jacket, told her friend on the other end about her problem. She was upset and it was hard for me not to over hear.
It was also not hard for me to hear her next conversation with the Southwest Airlines lady at the boarding gate who told The Cougar that our plane was landing in Chicago at Gate B10. At Gate B18 just ten minutes later, she told The Cougar, there was a flight to San Francisco. If she made that flight she would on the West Coast at 2 p.m. instead of 9 p.m. But, she explained to The Cougar, you need to be one of the first people off the plane in Chicago if you want to make the flight. The Cougar seemed to understand this.
But the problem was that, judging by her place in line to get on the plane, she was going to be one of the last people on the plane.
I saw all of this transpiring and realized I that I could save the day. San Francisco, after all, needs all the cougars it can get.
So when I got on the plane I took a seat in the front row, in a middle seat in between two huge Americans that was uncomfortable but also right by the door.
I put my backpack down in front of me. The stewardess welcoming us all on the plane saw me sit down and said that my bag would have to go in an overhead bin.
"I'm saving this seat for a lady who has a quick connection," I told her, leaving out that it was for The Cougar. "I won't be sitting here during the flight."
She seemed a little confused, but she left me alone and went back to her welcoming duties.
Finally, as the last person to get on the plane, The Cougar arrived.
She began to explain to the stewardess that she had a quick connection but before she could say much more, the stewardess stopped her, pointed at me and said, "This gentleman is saving you a seat."
"What? Are you kidding me?" The Cougar exclaimed.
"Yes," I replied, "I overheard your conversation and so I saved you a seat."
"Oh my God," was the response.
As I slung my backpack over my shoulder and turned to walk to the back of the plane, a woman in a black pantsuit sitting in the next row back pointed up at me and said with authority, "That was awesome!"
Once we were in the air, The Cougar came down the aisle to the back of the plane.
"You're the one," she said. I nodded. "I just want to tell you that if there were more people like you, the world would be a better place."
I didn't know what to say. Thinking back, I'm not sure if I said anything.
The Cougar then went into the bathroom.
When she came out, she handed me a napkin. On it she had written, "If you're ever in the Bethesda/D.C. area I owe you a drink (at least)! -- Sally"
Under her name was her phone number.
Later that night, once in Louisville, I told the story of Sally The Cougar at dinner and the obvious question from the table was whether she made the flight to the West Coast.
I sent her a text message asking her that very question. Her reply came quick. (I still have it in my phone.)
"U r a doll! i did! ran like a crazy woman. unfortunately my luggage was on a later flight so i had to go back to the airport but i got it. thank u SO much for that terrific act of kindness. my drink offer is sincere so let me know if u r game. will be back in bethesda mon. pm. where do u live? sal"
I replied that live in Paris and was just in the states on vacation.
"Bon soir! looking forward to hearing back from u. have a safe trip home."
And so, Michael Buchwald, if you're reading this, The Cougar thanks you as well.
Hope all is well with everyone.
And a small bit of advice in closing; Do a random act of kindness. There really is no telling where it might lead.
Take care,
Brett
