Traveling with a baby can be difficult. Sam Robinson shares how the kindness of a stranger helped ease the stress.
According to fossil evidence, homo sapiens have roamed the earth for approximately 300,000 years — time enough to paint caves, compose symphonies, and split the atom. But not long enough, apparently, to figure out clear ground-transportation signage at airports. It was after midnight at SFO, and my wife and I, with our 9-month-old in tow, were at the wrong shuttle stop. We could see our bus — thirty feet above us, on an upper roadway.
Our child was in an exhausted fugue state, edging toward meltdown. There wasn’t time to wait. I told my wife to hang back and bounded up the escalator, rolling bag wedged under my arm like a football. I ran through the terminal like the final sprint of a 10K.
The bus was still there. “Well, there you are!” said the driver, completely relaxed. Turns out the shuttle app had shared our location—he’d been waiting. “Take your time,” he said. “No problem.” I went back down to collect my family. We loaded in, grateful. The wipers punctuated our conversation as the driver chatted amiably. He was from Central America, newly arrived to work and support his family. “I miss my kids,” he said. “But… America. Nowhere better to try to make it, right?” We nodded.
Our ancestors had made a similar calculation. Even now, when the fabric of the American dream looks faded, the driver’s unexpected kindness had woven us together as we drove along the western selvedge of a national experiment. At the parking lot, he helped with our bags. “You’re doing good, new dad,” he said, patting me on the back. “Ok? Ok.” This was a year ago.