Travel and weather are close associates. Ask anybody about their holiday and the answer will most likely be the weather was fantastic or terrible, or some such. That says whether it was a success or not.
Packing to suit the weather can be tricky. Some people spend days fretting over what should go into the suitcase. Days are hot, nights are cold, airconditioned buildings can be stuffy, outside the opposite. In goes this, out comes that.
Then, as happened to me, as with some others I know of, the airport baggage handlers intervene, and the scenario becomes more complicated.
I left Johannesburg in early December to attend a UN climate conference in Montreal. It happened at short notice, leaving me not much time to ponder the clothing aspect.
Locally the summer temperatures were about 30˚C. I knew it was going to be the opposite on the far side of the world and put in some warm stuff. I almost as an afterthought threw in my raincoat. It had seen better days, but it still kept out most of the wet and its fluffy inside lining trapped at least some of the body heat.
I thoughtlessly took nothing warm with me on the plane, and there on my arrival in Montreal I found myself left standing forlornly watching the empty carousel go round and round. My suitcase, I learnt, was still waiting for a lift back in Johannesburg.
It was a Sunday afternoon, ours was the last plane in, and by the time I had filled in the baggage reclamation and compensation forms, all the taxis had left.
The airport bus was the last to leave and to her eternal blessing the driver stopped to pick up the sorry figure standing on the pavement in short sleeves as the temperature dropped to -14˚C in the falling dusk. On learning my sad story she said she knew one clothes shop in town that might still be open and she would try to get there as fast as she could.
I came slipping and sliding along the iced-over sidewalk as the shopkeeper was locking up. He gave me one look and before I could say a word he unlocked the door and waved me in. “I think I am about to do my best business of the day,” he smiled.
Over the next few days as the UN debate droned on, two bearded young fellows constantly tickled my curiosity. While most delegates kept on their warm jackets and jerseys inside the airconditioned convention centre, these two were perspiring heavily although they wore only short-sleeved shirts. Every now and then they slipped outside to catch some cold air in the garden.
They told me they were from Alaska. It was just so hot down here in Montreal, one sighed.
My baggage arrived late the afternoon before my departure the next morning. I retrieved my old raincoat and did not bother to unpack the rest as, before leaving for the airport, I had to get to the convention centre’s communication section at two’clock that morning to talk to my newspaper during working hours back home.
Walking the kilometre or so from the hotel to the convention centre in those small hours I came across a wide street going up a hill that was lined with Christmas trees. The multi-coloured lights reflected off the snow that was sifting down.
The scene was so magical I thought if I narrowed my eyes I would see angels dancing, stirring up little puffs of snow where their toes touched the white mat fading into the distance. Looking back as I crossed the street I saw my footprints getting covered up quickly. Soon it was as if I had not been to that wonderland.
Landing at Frankfurt for a long stop-over to Johannesburg, I decided to catch the train into town. It had been a long day and my unshaved face was heavy with stubble. I regretted not having put a razor in my carry-on bag.
Getting off at Frankfurt station I sunk my head between the lapels of my old raincoat and pulled the beanie I had bought back in Montreal over my ears. Passing through a seedy quarter people seemed not to mind me, but in a smart area with boutique shops further on I noticed the passers-by giving me a bit of a birth.
I came across a Saturday morning farmers’ market where I so loved the warm Appelwein that I promptly had two large glasses. I discovered I spoke German well. The farmers laughed and patted me on the back, telling me I spoke German like a German and encouraging me to have more wine.
I caught myself tapping my foot so merrily to the rhythm of the oompah band that I realized I better get back to the station while I was able to. On the way there I sat down on a bench next to the Main River to watch the geese and swans glide by, and to gather my wits.
A girl who stood watching me from a short distance away came and sat down next to me. Guten morgen, she said. Wie gehts? I answered guten morgen, and still surprised by how easily German was coming to me, I added es geht mir gut . For some reason she decided at that point to switch to English and ask me whether I was okay.
Remembering the red-light aspect to the nearby seedy area I had passed through earlier, I had my suspicions. I wanted her to know I was really okay but did not know how to put it.
Before I could speak she touched me on the shoulder and said she wanted me to know that God cared for everybody. As she got up to leave she handed me a leaflet that said Stadsmission. I knew that German city missionaries took care for down-and-outs.
All I wanted was to get back to the airport and on the flight back home.
