We meet so many people when we travel. There are things about these people that you might want to remember. How did they impact your vacation? How did they change you? How do you feel when you are around them? Just a few descriptive sentences can often keep these people memorialized among your pages.
Mysteries in the Mist
His brow was deeply furrowed, as he stepped into our compartment of the train. Like his gloomy mood, he was dressed in a black leather jacket, black trousers and a dirty white t-shirt. His hair was a similar dark color, but greasy, as if he hadn’t showered in a number of days. There was a faint odor of cheap cologne. The stubble of his beard and red rimmed eyes, gave an impression that perhaps he hadn’t slept in a while either. Knowing that all the seats in this compartment were assigned for our return journey down the mountain, I began to think that I should say something to this man. Perhaps I could encourage him to move to an unoccupied seat. His mood bordered on angry. Nothing about this person indicated that he wanted to communicate. His clothes seemed to hang loose around him, as he retreated inside of himself. Something about him frightened me, so I remained silent. The carriage finally filled with all of its passengers, the extra traveler now making it a very uncomfortable journey for the next hour. Even as I perched upon my husbands knees, to give the other elderly travelers a little more room, this man did not attempt to move to one of the vacant seats, in another car. We began our decent down the mountain, at about the same time, a brown paper bag appeared with what was likely a bottle of alcohol. As most of the passengers were trying to view the scenery out of the far side of the car, I kept my eye on the mysterious man as he swigged from his bottle. His forehead was pressed tight against his own window, twisting his body away from the other passengers, perhaps in an attempt to hide his addiction. As the alcohol began to work, an evil grin crept across his face. In that moment, I knew he was not fully present with the rest of us. I wondered if he was perhaps mentally ill, like my own father. Unpredictable was the thought that kept swirling through my mind as my body screamed caution. The train finally came to its destination, at the bottom of Mt. Snowden. As my husband went to retrieve the car from a nearby parking lot, I watched the mysterious man for a moment longer. The alcohol now fully working, he stumbled across the road, seemingly searching for a bus or someone meant to pick him up. I will never know his story. Had he just lost his job? Had he pulled a long shift on the mountain? What drove him to drink? Was he married, a father? He might be easily forgotten to many, but to me, he is part of a collection of interesting people that I come across as I travel, many of whom are just trying to get through another day, most of whom I will never know anything about. We are all connected in this big world of ours, so among my stories, he will live on.