The Kindness of Strangers

I know why Snow White was too willing to let the evil queen in disguise dig a poisoned comb into her scalp and refusing to learn her lesson, take an apple from an unassuming old lady.  She was desperate for a simple act of kindness and gratitude, after living with seven thankless little men who never acknowledged how she cleaned up after them all the frickin’ time. Oh believe me, I’ve lived it and though I once thought Snow White to be the most annoying of the Disney princesses, I have new found respect for her. 

It didn’t take much to pull a Rose Madder.  If you’re not familiar with the Stephen King novel (get a copy, quick!), Rosie was a battered housewife (understatement) who saw a spot of blood on the sheet, sat in her chair and then just walked away from it all with nothing but the clothes on her back.  She moved to another city and started a new life there.  Believe me, if it were that easy, I’d have done it a long time ago.  I’ve got stuff that Rosie didn’t.  I have money (not a lot, but enough to tide me over), a relatively new car, and Google.  But I also had a dog that I adore, lots of books, clothes, shoes, grandparents, a new job waiting for me… baggage.  For one weekend, however, I could feel how she felt… that initial whiff of freedom before reality sets in that somehow, you have to survive.

I just got fed up.  So I took out my phone, searched Google to find a nice little place that would welcome me and my dog, found one, made the payment and started packing as much as I could fit into my backpack.  Then on a Friday afternoon, I left work early, picked up the dog and started driving. 

You know what I realized on this trip? That I found kindness in strangers.  Kindness that I had expected but didn’t get from the people who, typically and by the laws of nature, would give to you – your own blood. I guess that’s what hurts most… that I had to seek comfort from strangers but not my own family. It’s pathetic that I desperately wanted to hug the motherly innkeeper for welcoming with a smile instead of a problem.  I enjoy conversations with the innkeeper’s daughter more than with my own siblings.  I look forward to seeing the nice lady who brings my meals more than I want to see my own house. I joke around with the trusty errand boy. I think the food here is more home-cooked than the ones I eat back home.  Good Lord, even my dog likes it here… he’s got a lot of room to run around although he’s been coughing because he’s not used to fresh air. And then he’s got the chickens that he could bully.  I know I paid for the accommodation but their hospitality is priceless.  They're obliged to treat me like the paying customer that I am but they don't have to be as nice to me as they already are.  Meanwhile, the people who should be biologically compelled to ask if I'm okay don't even sense that there's something amiss. If these aren’t signs that anything’s wrong then I don’t know what is.

Looking out the window with the pretty view of the garden and the top of a mountain I so desperately loved, I can understand why Hemingway needed that cottage by the lake (I’m not sure if I got that right) and the necessity for the existence of a writer’s colony.  I would so love to come here every weekend but I don’t think I could afford it, cheap as it is.  And like every other good thing, I’m afraid of being here too much, I might lose my appreciation for the wonder of the place and I don’t want it to wear off.  I want to be able to come back here and appreciate it.

Song of the Day:  Waitin' for a Superman (by The Flaming Lips)
Tell everybody
Waitin' for Superman
That they should try to
Hold on
Best they can
He hasn't dropped them
Forgot them
Or anything
It's just too heavy for Superman to lift