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"

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

"
— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)



"New York City is a panic attack on Houston and Essex, it’s a broken down Q train, it’s a 45 minute schlep to work. New York City is finding yourself in your friend’s ex-girlfriend’s most recent ex-boyfriend’s apartment, it’s a roof in Brooklyn, it’s a bar in the East Village. New York City is a fake ID that expired 3 years ago, it’s an $8 show that changed your life, it’s a kitten found in a box 2 blocks from the office. New York City is a text message that was never responded to, it’s a photo pass to your favorite concert, it’s free drinks on a ship in mid-July. New York City is being in love with everyone you see, it’s a cup of coffee that makes you crazy, it’s your friend putting lipstick on you outside the venue 10 minutes before the show. New York City is platform shoes, it’s a pair of Converse, it’s taking a couple of Advil when you get home. New York City is thrifted treasure, it’s a stoop sale that saved your life, it’s the best cup of cocoa chai you’ve ever had. New York City is a sweaty room full of BK’s hippest, it’s missing an opportunity only to get another, it’s a lot of anxiously waiting. New York City is realizing your dream, it’s passing your current boss’s girlfriend on campus, it’s an iChat that got sent to the wrong person. New York City is a library full of tired kids, it’s a brownstone full of addicts, it’s a dorm room full of outsiders. New York City is a laugh attack in a quiet room, it’s a crick in your neck, it’s a stack of vinyl in your desk drawer. New York City is a walk to the waterfront, it’s an endless conversation, it’s 4 cups of tea in one work day. New York City is a revelation, it’s an exchange of words with the nicest stranger, it’s a never-ending beginning."
— (via blaineandersons)