I used to really love airports. For many years of my life, an airport represented a welcoming passageway to a place I wanted to go. I loved the romance of people holding each other in a passionate hello or goodbye. I savored the people-watching, making a mental card catalog out of the different shoes and luggage pieces. The flight attendants in their matching uniforms and made-up faces were glamorous and sophisticated. The pilots were almost as sexy as firemen.
Now that I travel primarily for work, I see airports through turd-colored glasses. Airports have become my personal incubator for irritation and impatience. I mainly become irritated at myself for being irritated with others. The woman who can’t find her mobile boarding pass. The man who’s pushing up into my personal space in the coffee line. The man clipping his fingernails with a toenail clipper. That guy is always near me.
Last winter, I was suffering through another stressful experience at my #1 Most Hated Airport, Chicago’s O’Hare International. At times like this when my schedule seems almost entirely out of my control, I self soothe by observing the people around me to find funny things to post about on Facebook. On this particular day, most flights were delayed several hours due to weather, and the terminal was packed out with weary travelers. I found the only available seat facing an endless Starbucks line and started observing the scene.
I watched as a sweet looking mommish woman with a piercing midwestern accent told about 75 strangers that they started the day in Ft. Wayne where they were stuck on the tarmac for 3 hours because they had to de-ice, and she and her husband had been at the airport for the past 12 hours and she hoped that they wouldn’t have to stay over in Chicago. She was wearing a fluorescent colored tourist sweatshirt that she clearly purchased at the airport store, and despite being inconvenienced for the past day, she was somehow still pretty chipper. At some point her husband, who was dutifully holding her suitcase and leopard print handbag, said something in her ear that I couldn’t catch. Whatever he said flipped her switch, and she said loud enough for anyone in a 15 foot radius to hear,
“Marty, would you do me a life size favor and shut your face for once and for all?”
Marty shut his face and I felt truly sorry for him but I turned my head and laughed and laughed just the same.
When it was time to line up in our spots for boarding, I landed up at the front thanks to a last-minute decision to shell out the extra bucks for a seat upgrade. The plan was with the extra legroom and space, I would have ample time to tackle my work inbox on the flight home.
I watched as bleary-eyed business travelers and tourists lined up, eager to get going already, and noticed a few women rolling an ancient man to the front of the line in a borrowed airport wheelchair. They leaned in intently to talk to the frazzled gate clerk. The clerk asked if the man spoke English. He did not. I began piecing together the story and determined that the women were putting the elderly man on the plane alone.
This is the point in the story where I should have gone back to scrolling through Facebook or looking around to see how Marty and his wife were doing, but unfortunately I’m not that kind of person. I’m the kind of person who leaves her posh spot in line and approaches the gate clerk and women speaking Spanish and and asks one of the women,
“Does he need help?”
The woman nods and maybe thanks me – I really don’t recall – and the next thing you know I’ve volunteered to help the man if he needs assistance getting on the plane. I ask the clerk to tell me the man’s name so I can greet him properly. His name is Serafin Maldonado.
The clerk thanks me, tells me to wait at the front of the line, and then I’m being asked to board first to help my new friend. One of the first class passengers thanks me for doing such a nice thing and I’m proud of myself for doing it. I’m nice, but I’m not certainly not humble.
On the plane, the Southwest flight attendants greet me with an overabundance of cheer and gratitude, and I spot Serafin Maldonado in an aisle seat. He’s 102 or 105 years old, it’s hard to say. He’s wearing a baseball cap, a nice sweater, and slacks. I extend my hand and he reaches for mine, peers skeptically at me through 3 inches of cataracts. I tap into my sole semester of college Spanish and say,
“Hola, Señor Maldonado. Me llamo es Amy.”
Señor Maldonado doesn’t respond, staring through me. It takes me less than 4 seconds to realize he has absolutely no idea where he is and what is happening. As people begin to board the plane, I’m realizing that this sweet man needs me more than I realized, or more than the family or gate clerk revealed when I volunteered to be his personal Candy Striper. I make the decision to crawl over him and sit in the middle seat.
Señor Maldonado focuses on the tray table in front of him and fidgets uncomfortably as I Google Spanish phrases to put him at ease.
“Serafin, le deje a tu familia que me sentaria contigo.”
I told your family I would sit with you.
Serafin shrugs. He’s got nothing. The sweaty flight attendant brings me a cup of red wine.
“I thought you might want this. Thank you so much for helping out, ma’am!”
As the plane begins to pack out, a really good looking 20-something year old kid I’ll call Tyson for the sake of the story asks if he can sit next to me. I light up at the thought of having someone to flirt with besides Serafin, and when he crawls across my lap to sit in the window seat, I say,
“If you spill my wine I’ll make you buy me another one!”
Tyson laughs the kind of laugh young guys laugh when weird moms flirt with them and takes his seat, folding his long praying mantis legs around until he’s somewhat comfortable. I quickly explain the situation to Tyson, noting that I’m concerned that Serafin’s family put him on a plane alone, that he doesn’t speak English, and that he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on. Tyson tells me I’m a really good person and that he’s not sure he would offer to do something that nice. Then he starts chewing on his cuticles and scrolling through Instagram and I’m reminded why I shouldn’t be flirting with millenials.
Serafin rubs his hands back and forth on his pants, and then to his chest pocket as if he’s searching for something. I can tell he’s very uncomfortable, so I reach over to poke the sweaty flight attendant and ask him to bring a cup of water. When the water arrives, I note that Serafin seems baffled by it. I hold the cup, lift it to his mouth, and he shakes his head violently in an angry no.
“Okay, you’re not thirsty, Señor Maldonado,” I say. “I can tell you’re a decisive guy!” The man across the aisle peers at me over his reading glasses and looks at me with an expression of pity and amusement.
Takeoff is rough, because Serafin has no idea what is happening and at this point, I’m already pretty angry at his family and sincerely concerned about him. He begins reaching in his pockets again, rubbing his chest, and finally fishes out his boarding pass. He hands it to me. I hold it, and he yanks it back out of my hand and shoves it back inside his shirt. We do this several times as I determine that this going to be a very long flight and that the flight attendants better keep the wine coming. Serafin grabs the airline magazine in the seat pocket in front of him. He opens it up and fumbles through the pages frantically. I use my one semester of college Spanish to shout out stupid words when an object I can name in Spanish appears.
“Agua! Agua azul!” I shout into his ear. Serafin scowls and shakes his head no. “Okay, you don’t like blue water. Who doesn’t like blue water? Mr. Maldonado, that’s who!” I feel like I’m teaching pre-K.
“Comida!” I shout. He grunts. “Well, you don’t like water, so I guess you don’t like food, either?” Tyson snickers while he eats his cuticles.
“Ooh, cerveza! Tu quieres una cerveza?” He grunts and puts the magazine back in the pocket. He starts rubbing his hands across his pants and chest again, searching for his boarding pass. We’re still ascending and I’m already completely exhausted.
I’m a terrible Candy Striper.
I decide to treat Serafin as if he were a family member, because I’d like to think that if someone put one of my family members on a plane and they needed help, a stranger would step in and do the right thing. So I start getting creative. I grab my headphones and go to my happy place, Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life.” I shout, “Musica?” and don’t wait for an answer before I assault Serafin’s ear with one of my headphones, shoving right past 2 years of ear wax to give the poor man a little relief. His eyes open wide and he looks at me and there is almost, almost a smile.
“Now there we go, Serafin! We’re getting somewhere now.”
Over the next hour and a half, I learn a lot about Senor Maldonado. I learn he has the attention span of a gnat and that he doesn’t like smooth jazz (which makes me really sad), that he’s not fond of the Gypsy Kings (which I have to admit surprises me but how stereotypical is THAT?), and that he seems to really enjoy soul and R&B. I learn that just like with toddlers, videos work for a while, and together we lean in and watch The Real Housewives of New York. Señor Maldonado seems to enjoy those women quite a bit. I learn that music and videos are a good choice but even that wears him thin after a while, and when he starts to fall asleep, I’m almost able to grab my laptop when he jolts awake, wincing and moaning, and I see his hands, twisted and stiff. There is panic on his face, and I’m not sure what to do, but I grab some lotion out of my purse and begin to massage his hands until they relax in mine.
Now, before you go thinking that this is a very sweet moment – because it certainly started out that way, let me rudely interrupt the mile-high version of a Hallmark movie to let you know that Serafin’s hand rub must have given him the wrong idea, because the next thing you know he is reaching over and making a play for my right thigh.
“Serafin!” I say, loud enough to wake up Tyson, “Hold on just a minute here, man! I am a happily married woman and you cannot go GRABBING MY THIGH!”
At that point, Tyson turns into the mile-high Hallmark version of a young studly hero, and says, “If that man is messing with you we can trade places. That is like totally not okay.” He looks over and gives Serafin a look. Serafin stares straight ahead as if nothing ever happened. I pat myself on the back for being the kind of woman who causes a handsome millenial to come to her rescue but assure him that I’ve got it under control.
“I think The Real Housewives of New York riled him up a little.” I say.
After endless attempts to soothe Serafin flop, he finally falls asleep again and I get about 6 minutes of relief to finish my second wine, and we finally land in Austin. The landing wakes Serafin up, and once again he’s confused and afraid.
“We’re in Austin, Serafin! You will see your family soon!” I say in English, long since having given up on my crappy Spanish since he doesn’t seem to care either way.
Because I told Serafin’s female relative that I would help, I maintain my commitment to get him to his family in Austin. We wait for everyone on the plane to exit, and it’s late, and we’re weary, but I’m close to the end of my mission, and a 15 minute drive away from my warm bed and my warm people.
The sweaty flight attendant thanks me for the 100th time and I tell him I’ll go wait at the gate since I don’t want to be the person to get Serafin into the wheelchair because I really do have some limits. I wait at the gate as a surly Asian attendant arrives with Serafin in the borrowed wheelchair, and I introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Amy. I’m a passenger who volunteered to sit with Mr. Maldonado for the flight, and I told his family that I would help him so I just want to be sure that he makes it to his family, so I’ll stay with you.”
“You don’t need to do that,” he says. “I’ve got it from here.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say cheerfully. “We’re like family now anyway.”
The attendant grunts but I stay side by side with him as he pushes Mr. Maldonado through the terminal. I ride with them in the elevator, and together, we make our way to baggage claim. The attendant stands with his arms crossed as the passengers grab their bags, and Serafin stares into space as suitcases pass him by.
“Do you know which suitcase is his?” I ask the attendant.
“I have no idea.”
We wait as all of the bags are claimed by their exhausted owners and one bag remains – a Fisher Price duffel bag that looks like it was intended on carrying a kid’s bouncy seat. It’s very curious that it would be the bag that a 105 year-old man would carry, but everything with this man has been curious up until this point, so I yank it off the turnstile and check for a name tag.
No tag.
Also, it’s been becoming abundantly clear to me that nobody is here to pick up Señor Maldonado.
“What are we supposed to do now?” I ask, starting to panic. “Where are his people? What is happening?”
“Ma’am, you go home.” he snaps at me. “This is not your problem. Why are you still here?”
“Listen, sir. I have been with this man for the past 2 and a half hours and I will not have you treat me like I’m not a good person because I am. I am not leaving this man alone who has no idea where he is, doesn’t speak English and doesn’t have anyone to pick him up. I will take him home with me before I leave him here alone.”
“I’m not talking to you any more. You go home,” he says, and gets on his walkie talkie to get help.
I am not going home.
Soon, a woman from Southwest that we will call Carla for the sake of the story arrives and immediately puts me at ease. I give her the highlights up until the point I had to deal with her unfortunate colleague, and I tell her that I am not going to leave until he is taken care of. Carla leans into Señor Maldonado and speaks Spanish slowly and clearly. She looks up at me with a familiar sadness in her eyes.
“He has no idea where he is,” says Carla. “He doesn’t even know his name.”
As I fight back tears, another Southwest guy with a walkie talkie that we’ll call Glenn for the sake of the story (and because he looked and acted almost exactly like my dad, Glenn) arrives to assess the situation. We head into the Southwest Airlines baggage office and form an informal task force as we try to figure out where Serafin’s identification is. Glenn and I are able to fish a wallet out of Serafin’s pants. Glenn opens it and there are a few Mexican pesos in there and that’s it. No US cash, no ID, no credit cards. We decide that perhaps there’s a note in his bag? I ask if I can look in the Fisher Price bag. Glenn tells me that I can’t, but if I do it, he will look the other way. I huddle on the floor, unzip the bag, and inside, find folded clean clothes, two kinds of deodorant, a box of over-the-counter medication, and an envelope.
“La Villita Travel and Income Tax Service,” I read aloud. “I’m opening this.”
Inside, a card from the Department of Homeland Security. On it, the name Serafin Maldonado, and his birthday – July 16, 1930.
And that is it.
Carla tells me that this happens, that people cross the border and end up in airports with nobody to take them. That his family probably sent him to Austin in hopes that someone would take care of him. She said the only step now is to call the police, who will take it from there.
That is when I lose it. I lose it to the point that I’m huddled behind the Southwest Airlines Christmas tree, sobbing because it has hit me that I am going to have to adopt an 89 year-old Mexican citizen who has no idea where he is. Carla brings me Kleenex, and that is when Señor Maldonado begins coughing and spitting a scary-colored liquid onto the floor of the office.
“Oh my God, he’s really sick,” I say.
Glenn, who’s very sweetly volunteered to heat up his Shepard’s Pie in the microwave for Mr. Maldonado to have for dinner, arrives and cleans up the situation while we wait for the police to arrive. I call my daughter to have her wake up my husband.
“You have to come get me,” I cry on the phone to a rattled and sleepy husband. “I’m okay, but something terrible has happened and I need you to come pick me up.”
At the same time my husband walks in to rescue me, two burly Austin police officers arrive on the scene. One goes over to speak to Señor Maldonado, and the other stops to interview me. Through tears, I tell the story from start to finish, and as I’m asking the police offer what happens next, a young man walks into the office.
“There you are!” he says, “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
The kid is probably in his late 30’s, and he walks over to the chair where Serafin is sitting, holding the Shepard’s Pie on his lap and staring into space. The police officer helps identify that the kid is Serafin’s grandson, and that he’s there to pick him up. I am tired and I am fragile, so instead of being thankful that the kid shows up at all, I stand there doing everything I can in my power not to punch this kid in the face in the presence of two airline employees, my husband, and two Austin police officers.
“You need to know that this man should not be traveling alone,” I say. “I’ve been with him since Chicago and he was afraid and confused and he really, really shouldn’t have gotten on that plane without someone to help him.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me and my brothers are real pissed at my sisters right now.”
And that’s that. The police officer comes over and thanks me, gives me the hug that the kid should have given me, and it’s clear at that point that it’s time for me to go. I approach Serafin, grab his old, familiar hands in mine, and wish him a happy life.
