The Layover

The Layover

My connecting flight from SFO was postponed so United Airlines compensated me with a voucher for a 24-hour layover. After picking up my bag I joined thirty other stranded passengers at the departure curb where we boarded a charter bus roughly two hours after the scheduled Honolulu departure time. Our driver navigated through the airport maze and headed toward San Francisco. Trails of car lights wove wispy red and yellow ribbons on the foggy freeway. Commuters were heading home.

The other passengers talked about restaurants they knew about and how they would spend the evening in The City – making the best of a disappointing situation. Having no travel companion I didn’t fit in with them - not that I cared. The whole purpose of my jaunt to the islands was to experience the world without my soon-to-be “X” wife.

One-half hour later we were double-parked in front of a boutique hotel in a down-town part of The City. Half of us left the bus, hauling our luggage. The rest continued to some other stopover.

The carpeted lobby was clean and neat with upholstered furniture and a fichus tree. There was only one desk clerk to handle seven couples and me. I slumped in an overstuffed chair and closed my eyes until it was my turn to register. The well-groomed and friendly clerk reminded me that United Airlines had paid for my room and handed me a key card. A uniformed bellhop grabbed my bag and led me toward the elevator.

My third-floor room had a double bed an overstuffed chair like the one in the lobby, and a functional chest of drawers. The white tiled bathroom smelled of disinfectant but it was clean and accommodating. I broke the paper tape on the toilet and took a leak which was the most enjoyable thing I’d done all day, then went to the sink and splashed soothing, cold water on my face before boarding the elevator back to the lobby. When I stepped out the front door, a Yellow Cab driver parked at the passenger curb waved and hollered through the open passenger window.

“Mr. Carter?”

Noticing my startled expression as I walked to the open window, he explained that the desk clerk had called him after receiving a message from United Airlines. 

“She said you might need transportation to a restaurant.”

 Well, fly the friendly skies! I reconsidered some of the nasty things I’d thought about the airline and asked the cab driver if he could take me some place where I could eat dinner alone without feeling conspicuous.

He answered, “The airline had a suggestion. I think you’ll be satisfied.”

I boarded the cab. We pulled away from the curb into traffic and he drove as if he was in some sort of competition, with jolting stops and starts for traffic lights, and a horn for sluggish traffic and any pedestrians who were too nonchalant about where they tried to cross. 

We zipped around that way for several minutes and then turned onto a quiet street. He drove cautiously for two and one-half blocks before coming to a side street with a cast iron archway spanning its entry. 

We turned under the leafy, vine-covered arch, and drove to the end of a cul de sac where we made a circular turn. I saw fleeting images of old brick buildings as the bluish/yellow light from the cab’s headlamps swept through the arc.

Now headed in the opposite direction we stopped in front of the only building that had light coming from its windows. A lamp lit, red-lacquer sign said Amon’s Thai Garden.

The foggy-wet sidewalk reflected the glow from a lone streetlamp that lighted wispy drops of night air splattering on timeworn, stone steps leading up to the front door. 

I asked, “Are you sure this place is okay?”

He answered with two words: Trust me while handing me a card with a number to call when I was ready to return to my hotel.

The restaurant looked as forlorn and lonesome as I felt, but I was too beat down, and too hungry to bicker. I stepped out, and cautiously walked up the steps. The entry door, a street-front type with a thumb latch handle, creaked open and I stepped inside.

A cozy, well-appointed dining room greeted me. There were just a handful of tables. In one corner, a small shrine with golden Buddha statues and fresh flowers added a touch of serenity. Each table was adorned with beautifully crafted ceramic dishes and polished tableware consisting of a large fork and spoon. Plush tan carpeting extended beyond the slate entryway, enhancing the room’s warmth and hospitality. But the true delight came from the kitchen. Closing my eyes, I drew a long breath, savoring the splendid, awe-inspiring aromas. Layered fragrances, like the flavors within flavors of vintage wine, evoked memories within memories. The exotic scents transported me back to our honeymoon beachfront villa in Pattaya. Recalling our thatched cabana. I thought about Darlene and why Thailand is called The Land of Smiles.

I took a seat at an empty table. There were six others, one each, at tables-for-four. We must have arrived within minutes of each other because no one was eating. There was no host, no food servers, and no menus to look at.

The dining room was silent, except for an occasional cough, but there was energetic chatter coming from behind a swinging door that led to the kitchen. That familiar clamor, as well as the marvelous aromas, partially relieved the uneasiness of being in a room with total strangers, who all seemed intent on avoiding eye contact. 

Then, the door to the kitchen swung open. A slim, handsome Asian man in starched whites, a chef’s toque, and a bright, blue, and white checkered neckerchief strode in wearing a smile that took in the whole universe. He spread his arms and said, “Welcome, everyone, I am Amon.”

We answered his gracious greeting with dead silence and vacant stares, but his radiant smile remained as he swept his arm toward a table that occupied the center of the room. “Please everyone; sit together at the big, round, family table.”

He commented on the importance of family style dining for good health and harmony. “Unaccompanied eating is the major cause of C.D. (Conversation Deficiency) which is just as dangerous to our minds and our spirits as bad nutrition is to our bodies.” 

We chortled at the mock-serious way The Chef stated this principle, but recognizing its underlying truth, and Chef Amon’s authority, we all got up and moved toward the big table. The only woman in the group ended up next to me. She said her name was Jacqueline, which was easy to remember because mine’s Jack – Jack Carter.

Jacqueline, (I’d soon be calling her Jackie) said she was ready to kill her cab driver when he stopped in front of Amon’s Thai Garden, but he convinced her to go inside, and ‘take a whiff,’ while he waited. Then she said in a voice everyone could hear, “If the food tastes half as good as it smells, the cabby lives,” and the room filled with laughter. Her honeyed voice reminded me of Darlene, my soon-to-be “former wife”, who could say practically anything, and make me laugh. All the other diners engaged in animated and jovial conversations until the food arrived.

Without any menu checking or ordering, food servers appeared with dish after dish of hearty, delectable Thai food: Pad Tai, Som Tum, Gaeng Daeng, Khao Pad, Gai Pad Med Mamuang, Pla Rad Prik, and other dishes whose menu name I didn’t know.

We selected spoonfuls of these while uttering some version of “Mmmmmm,” while placing portions on our oversized dinner plates piled high with sticky rice. With the ice broken, there was cheerful tableside banter between the seven of us, who had been sad strangers until we sat down and started eating together at the big table. 

Jackie asked how I came to be in San Francisco. I didn’t give her a straight answer at first, so as not to spoil the moment, but as the night wore on, I leveled with her about giving up on twenty-eight years of marriage, and about my plans to start a new life, and go for my dreams.

She said, “Well, good luck with that, Jack,” while patting the back of my hand. There was something negative in her communication, although it was not insincere. It seemed as if Jackie wanted to guide me so I wouldn’t have to find out the hard way.

The Chef provided all the Gewürztraminer wine we could handle, and made several visits to the table to make sure everything was OK. I suppose Chef Amon, like everyone else, enjoys praise, and our group did not let him down. We had crossed a threshold into that unmatched state of contented buzz that only fabulous food, fine wine, and lively conversation can bring about - ready to show appreciation and gratitude - to raise a toast to whoever had one coming.”

I had a flashing thought that if Darlene and I ever speak again, I’ll tell her how much I appreciate all the wonderful things she was to me that I just took for granted.

 When it was time to go, the others each left forty-dollars for the prix fixe tab, plus a liberal tip, on the table. My check said, Compliments of United Air lines. I dropped a bonus twenty-dollar tip on the table, ready to take back all the unkind things I’d thought about the airline earlier in the day.

While we were saying goodnight with handshakes all around Chef Amon came out of the kitchen, this time to a hearty round of cheers and applause. He bowed and gestured toward the kitchen and the dining room staff ─ like the star he was ─ sharing the curtain call spotlight with the supporting cast. 

I found my cabby’s card and called the number. He said he could be there in ten minutes, so I asked Jackie if she wanted to split my free cab. The night was still foggy while we stood on the dimly lit sidewalk, but the air felt brisk and refreshing rather than dismal and damp, as it had when I arrived. 

The taxi rolled up, and as we piled into the back seat the driver said, “I see you made a friend.”

“Yeah, I had a great time. You brought me to the right place.”

He said, “Želim da ti udovoljim”.

Jackie said, “What was that, again?”

“That means ‘We aim to please,’ in Bosnian.”

All three of us laughed like hell, I’m not sure why. Everything was funny – everything simpatico between the world and us, just then.

When the taxi stopped in front of my hotel, I glanced at the Operator ID attached to the sun visor and read his name: Luka Kanali. I reached across the front seat and handed him a twenty saying, “Keep it, Luka. Thank you.”

He said, “Anytime, Man. Thanks for flying the friendly skies.”

When I turned to express my appreciation for a lovely evening, Jackie was reaching across my lap for the door handle. I asked, “Are you at this hotel, too?”

She answered, “I am now.” We both tumbled out of the cab and entered the warm lobby. I nervously asked if she wanted to find someplace to have a drink and more conversation. She winked, reached into her Gucci handbag, and pulled up a half-pint of Remy Martin cognac. Her message became undeniably clear when she asked the desk clerk to send a bucket of ice to Room 322. I couldn’t imagine how she knew my room number, but I didn’t ask.

We got in the elevator. I pressed three and she pressed me. We turned, face to face, and I didn’t need any more subtle signals. I put my hands inside her coat and pulled her toward me. Our faces met and when she parted my lips. Time disappeared. It could not have been for long, however: because when the elevator doors opened, the bellman using the stairs, was already standing at my door holding a Champagne bucket filled with ice.

It’s all a mental jumble after that. I remember Jackie luring me into the overstuffed chair. As we snuggled in the chair she guided the conversation into my prior life. She must not have had family of her own because she seemed fascinated by the one I was leaving. I leveled with her about how the spark had gone out of my marriage after Jack, Jr. and our daughter Darla finished college and left to start their own lives. I had done well and Darlene was locally famous as a College history professor. With no problems or challenges to share, we were just two roommates.

Jackie said, “Sharing the good times is a choice. Sharing bad times is mandatory. There’s no pressure. It’s absent the shared challenges and joys when you succeed together…”.  I barely heard the jumble of what she was saying as I drifted off into an untroubled sleep.

In the morning I woke up and quietly moved to the bathroom. I took a “cat bath’ shaved and got back into my clothes.

I returned to the room and Jackie took my place in the small bathroom.

When she returned to the room with a bright smile, she asked if I had my chit for the hotel. Funny question, but I said I did and showed it to her. She noted a serial number and wrote it in a receipts log with the letterhead, Jacqueline Martin, PhD – Marriage, Child, and Family Counseling.

 She closed the notebook and asked me to zip her up in the back. Then she turned and said, “The bus will be along in about fifteen minutes to take you back to the airport. You can continue on your leg to Honolulu or, if you choose, you may fly back to your home in Denver, compliments of United Airlines.”

Then she gave me a big smile, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. Before disappearing toward the elevator she said, Thanks for flying the friendly skies.