The Stopover

As my flight to Honolulu was delayed at SFO, United Airlines offered a voucher for a 24-hour stopover. I collected my bag and joined thirty other stranded passengers at the departure curb where we boarded a charter bus. Our driver navigated through the airport maze and headed toward San Francisco on Highway 101. Late afternoon commuter’s car lights wove wispy red and yellow ribbons on the fog-shrouded freeway.

The other passengers chatted about how they would spend the evening in the city, making the best of a disappointing situation with a show or dining at a great restaurant. Without a travel companion, I didn’t fit in ─ not that I cared. I was fleeing to Hawaii to break away from my soon-to-be ex-wife and the thorny family matters that divorce creates.

My decision to be out of Denver during the holidays was prompted by a discussion with my twenty-three-year-old daughter, Darla. We met for coffee at Starbucks and she put in plain words that breaking up with her mom and moving out had caused distress and discomfort about whether to include me in the upcoming holiday family get-togethers. The heart-rending decision was that I would not be included this year and maybe not ever.

She tearfully assured me that I would always be “Dad” to her and Jack, Jr. no matter what and that she would try not to take sides.

When I startlingly envisioned myself all alone in my one-bedroom bachelor apartment eating out of a can while watching football on Christmas Day, I decided on the Hawaiian holiday alternative. I didn’t know a soul in the Big Pineapple but at least I’d be among festive tourists with the possibility of holiday romance.

One-half hour later we were double-parked in front of a boutique hotel in a down-town part of The City. Fifteen of us disembarked, the rest went on to some other hotel.

The carpeted lobby was clean and neat with upholstered furniture and a thriving fichus tree. There was only one desk clerk to handle seven couples and me, so I slumped in an overstuffed chair and closed my eyes until it was my turn to register. The stylishly uniformed and cordial clerk reminded me that United Airlines had paid for my room. Smiling awkwardly she said, “Fly the friendly skies” while handing me a key card. A bellhop took my spinner wheel travel 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 chest of drawers with a small T.V. on the top. The white-tiled bathroom smelled of disinfectant but it was accommodating. I broke the paper tape on the toilet seat and took a leak which was the most enjoyable thing I’d done all day.

Then, I went to the sink and splashed cold water on my face before returning to the lobby. When I stepped out the front door onto Pine Street a Yellow Cab driver, parked at the passenger curb, waved and hollered through the open front seat passenger window.

“Mr. Carter?”

Noticing my startled expression as I walked toward the open window, he explained that the desk clerk called after receiving a message from United Airlines, “She said you’d be needing transportation to a restaurant where you could eat alone without feeling conspicuous.”

He went on speaking in an accent I didn’t recognize, “United has an arrangement with Aman’s Thai Garden. I’ve heard good things. It’s all on them.”

I reconsidered some of the nasty things I’d thought about United Airlines earlier. I boarded the cab and we pulled away from the curb into traffic. 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 pedestrians who were too nonchalant about where they tried to cross. 

We zipped around like that 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 of the car’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, AMAN’S THAI GARDEN.

The foggy-wet sidewalk reflected the glow from a lone streetlamp that lit 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?”

The driver answered “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 where I was welcomed by a warm, well-appointed dining room.

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 rosewood, ivory inlaid fork, and spoon. Plush, tan carpeting extended beyond a small slate entryway, enhancing the room’s elegance and hospitality.

Genuine enchantment wafted 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 a honeymoon beachfront villa in Pattaya. Recalling our thatched cabana I thought about Darlene; how lovely and enticing she was, 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 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 Aman.”

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. He said, “Unaccompanied eating is the major cause of C.D. (Conversation Deficiency) which is just as dangerous to our minds and spirits as malnutrition is to our bodies.” 

We chortled at the mock-serious way The Chef stated this principle, but recognizing its underlying truth, and Chef Aman’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 Aman’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. With the ice broken, all the other diners engaged in animated and jovial conversation. I felt rescued.

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. The cheerful banter between the seven of us, who had been sad strangers until we sat down and began dining together at the big table, broke into individual chit-chat as the food and wine performed its primordial magic.

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 unenthusiastic in her message, although it was not insincere; as if Jackie wanted to direct me so I wouldn’t have to discover some hard truth 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 Aman, 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, lively conversation and good feelings 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 let know her how much I appreciate all the wonderful things she brought into my life that I just took for granted.

I mentioned this to Jackie and she said, “Jack, I need to reveal something about myself. She dug into her handbag and withdrew a leather business card holder. She pulled out one of the cards and handed it to me. Jacqueline Martin, PhD – Marriage, Child, and Family Counseling.” She said, “If you want to talk more about your situation at home, I’m all ears. And don’t worry about my fee. It’s part of United Airline’s friendly skies stopover package.”

After a period of silent soul searching, I told her I wanted to hear what she had to say, but that I’d already given it a couple of years of thinking it over. Darlene and I each had challenging and rewarding careers that gave each of us plenty of respect and appreciation, but that required lots of energy and concentration. I own and operate a company called Carter Engineering Solutions and Darlene is a respected history professor at the university.

Since our kids had graduated college and were on to lives of their own we seemed to be just two strangers staring at each other. We have plenty of money so there are no challenges to share. I bought a new car and Darlene didn’t even know about it for three days. And, frankly, the bedroom is just another space in the house, if you get my drift. I need someone to share my dreams; and…I think she does too. Tell me why I’m wrong.”

Jackie said, “You’re not wrong, but you’re playing against the odds. What are the chances that you’ll find someone to grow young with?”

We both chuckled. Jackie continued. I kept listening.

"It sounds like you're experiencing a significant transition in your life. It's common for couples to feel a sense of drifting apart when their children leave home and their careers take up much of their time. It's important to acknowledge these feelings and understand that they are valid.

One approach could be to explore new shared interests or activities that can bring excitement and connection back into your relationship. This could be anything from traveling, taking up a new hobby together or even just setting aside regular time for date nights.

Communication is the key. Have an open and honest conversation with your wife about how you're feeling. Express your desire to reconnect and grow old together. She may be feeling the same way and is also looking for ways to rekindle the romance and adventure. Take that money you’re blowing on a new car and spend a week in Parma going light-headed on the world’s most amazing food, or some other romantic place with inspiring art, music, architecture, or history and be blown away.

Remember, it's never too late to rediscover each other and build a fulfilling future together. Accept that you can’t grow young. The trick is learning how to be happy growing old.”

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 Airlines. 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 Aman 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”.

I 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.”

“Luka, Jackie is staying at another hotel. I want to cover any…?

“I know where Jackie is staying, my friend.”

All three of us exclaimed, “Fly the friendly skies,” and again we burst into laughter. Back in my room I grabbed my phone and called home. Darlene came on after several rings.

“Jack! Is everything okay? It’s two in the morning, here.”

I hesitated.

“Jack?”

“No. Everything’s not okay…and it won’t be until I’m together with you forever.”

There was a long hesitation; then, “You’re the one who left. I’m still here.”