When we last left Wendell, he was behind the Iron Curtain on a river cruise through Eastern Europe. The our had taken him to Christmas markets in Budapest, but now it was time to head to the next stop.
I made it back to the boat in the nick of time for departure. I had to let my friend see my face, so I hustled down to our cabin. She knew I was the last passenger unaccounted for. I sat on my side of the bed, facing out to the river, and wondered, would she have really let them leave me?
“For sure,” she said, “But be glad we didn’t have to find out.”
Just then, the boat engines came alive, jerked us slightly forward, and in a minute, we were rolling down (or it is up?) the Danube River with all its history ahead of us. At this point, I had no idea what the next stop was, because I hadn’t read the itinerary. I only knew we were moving east by watching the live “ship cam” channel. I had never heard about Bratislava. I didn’t remember the breaking up of the Czech Republic or the non-violent 10-day Velvet Revolution in November of 1989, which created the new country of Slovakia with Bratislava as its capital, a little more than a hundred miles upriver from Budapest.
As we moved away from the bright lights of Hungary’s capitol, it was pitch black outside. On occasion, we were able to make out shapes of things sitting on the high bluffs overlooking the river. The water was very calm, and with the clear, cold sky, you could see the mountains come right downriver. The moon backlit the outlines of houses and farms along the way, and every now and then, there’d be a home or tree lit up for the holidays. The holiday decorations were simple, stylish, and tastefully done. The low, strong, steady hum of the engines rocked us to sleep.
Having breakfast before disembarking from the boat was one of the great pleasures of being on this cruise. With all the choices, we were provided with enough nourishment to carry us through our long day of sightseeing. We were amongst the last group to make it to a circle in the middle of downtown for the walking tour with a local guide. We met the group at an interesting statue of an important Slovakian historical figure. The park was also the main transfer point for the city’s public transportation since no private automobiles were allowed on the center city streets. It was plain to see this part of town was designed to be walked.
The guide gathered us all up, did the headcount, and we were off to see the legendary Christmas markets of Bratislava. After a nice, short 20-minute walk from the river, we came into the main city square, and it was 360 degrees of Christmas markets. The big crowds this early were puzzling to me, especially given the cold weather and grey skies. Yet there were thousands of people out.
Our first stop was not on the itinerary, but impressive nonetheless. I found the nicest and cleanest bathrooms this side of Iceland, well worth the one-euro cost. The bathrooms were down some well-lit stone steps in the middle of the square, with an older woman as the attendant. After our senior pit stop, we crossed the square for our first cultural stop: A small century-old church built to pay for a nobleman’s transgression. Inside, it was very tight and only sat fewer than 50 people.
But what came next was heavenly. An Eastern Orthodox priest came out and briefly spoke on the history of the church and its importance to their Christmas tradition. And then the music started. First, it was from an old organ, then from a choir of what must have been young boys before their voices changed. I wasn’t sure because we couldn’t see them. Their voices were literally coming from above. I’d never heard the voice of an angel before, but I think we did this late morning, a few days before Christmas, in Bratislava. No mics or sound system were needed for the wall-to-wall sound of joy in this tiny, perfectly constructed building. It took us over 45 minutes of standing in line in the cold to get in, and in less than 20 minutes we were back outside, walking past other tour groups waiting for their chance to experience a piece of heaven.
We were on the move again, hurtling towards my destiny, and I was to realize the Creator’s reason for allowing me to be the recipient of this Random Act of Kindness in the first place.
We crossed the main town square and went down one of the many old streets built long before motor vehicles. It was cobble-stoned, paved, and narrow. It reminded me of the movies we watched set in Europe growing up in the 50s, or a time travel episode of Star Trek.
As the group made its way through the crowded streets (again, think of Times Square on New Year’s Eve,) it became increasingly difficult to stay together and move as a group, especially when the average age of said group was around 70. I was trying to balance my need to look in every shop window. It reminded me of the displays of long ago in downtown D.C. I began to fall further and further behind the group, and I started to get anxious and nervous in a way I hadn’t felt in decades, thanks to therapy and medication.
I now know the feeling as separation anxiety, and this moment on this street brought back the horrifying dreams of my childhood, where I was always left behind, no matter my efforts to catch up. Before leaving the ship, I’d asked my friend to wear this loud yellow hat so I could visually pick her out in the crowds quickly, but she refused.
Readers who have met me or regularly get their Street Sense from me are only seeing the finished product. They have no way of knowing how far I’ve gone or come from with some of my mental health issues. Once upon a time, they crippled me and factored into my chronic depression and homelessness, which led me to this moment on the street in a country I’d never heard of behind the old Iron Curtain.
As the group got out of eyesight, I thought, no worries, I could still hear the guide on my earpiece. Then I lost audio connection with them.
In my substance abuse work, I used this statement to get clients thinking about solutions: “I have met the enemy, and he is me.” It also goes in the opposite direction: “I looked around for a friend and found one in me.” I saw groups of people headed through an archway into a church courtyard and another huge Christmas market and followed the flow right to “the me” of long ago.
There I stood, about a foot shorter and half of the weight. But it was me. It was very cold out and started to snow as I walked closer, noticing his vest and the newspaper in it. I watched for almost 10 minutes as he tried to pitch his paper to hundreds of passersby, with no takers, before I approached him with my standard opening, “Do you speak English?” He didn’t understand that. But our eyes locked, and right then, the panic attack went away. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I felt the emotions he was going through because I had felt them myself.
I had been there in Cincinnati when I started with street papers, out on a corner in the freezing winter weather near Fountain Square Ice Rink, without the proper winter gear, just like he was. I wanted so very much to just take my big warm coat off and give it to him, remembering the many times I was shown similar kindness, but it was just too big for him. If someone was watching, I’m sure it sounded like we were two cavemen just making grunting sounds in hopes of connecting. I could tell he was getting frustrated because I was too, trying to point to the paper in the sleeve of his vest to let him know of our kinship and that he had a sale. There were so many questions I had for him about his paper, but I was on vacation. His being out in this weather demonstrated (like my situation long ago) that he needed to sell papers to survive, and he was desperately selling me in his language. I was trying in every way I could to let him know that I understood until I put my finger on his paper in that sleeve, pulled out my phone, and showed him a photo of me holding up a copy of Street Sense. I shook my head up and down, he lit up, and we fell into each other’s arms for the biggest reassuring hug ever. Every street paper vendor knows what it’s like to go through what feels like personal rejection after personal rejection until one person comes along and connects with your humanity, even if not in the same language. I know the trauma vendors experience daily, only I’ve gotten better at not personalizing it. And you could see he hadn’t arrived at that space yet.
Without words, we acted like long-lost brothers reunited before I realized it was getting later. It gets dark at 4 p.m. in that part of the world. So, I pulled out my wallet and saw his eyes. I’m used to traveling to where people are more than happy to accept U.S. currency, but I forgot about the difficulty of a homeless person to convert it. His smile turned to sadness as I tried, without language, to let him know we still had a sale. And then the universal language jumped into my head as I hollered those three magical letters if you’ve ever had teenagers, “ATM euros?”
And off he led me to an ATM that dispensed euros, which was not an easy task in those crowds. I gave him a healthy donation for the paper and a Christmas tip, asking him to pose for a photo holding up his paper. For him, I imagine it felt like a strange foreigner came along who didn’t know about his paper, but knew the movement, and didn’t speak his language, but knew him intimately and helped break his streak of no’s on a snowy day in a Random Act of Kindness for them both.
I forgot about the panic of being separated while focusing on relieving him of his pain and didn’t realize until walking away from him and saying goodbye that the audio had returned with instructions on how to return to ship if you were out on your own. And that would be me, except I wasn’t alone. He thought I gave him something, but in reality, he gave me back so much more.
On the way back to the ship, I took my time looking at cultural landmarks like the opera house, parliament, and McDonald’s.
Then I headed back to the main square where everything was now lit up, including buses and trollies, with more people arriving every minute and that gigantic Christmas tree in the center of the city’s largest Christmas market. You could only imagine what the night before Christmas would be like.
It was an easier walk the rest of the way to the ship for dinner now that I’d been reintroduced to myself through that vendor and understood that because of our many shared experiences, I’d never be alone. It’s kinda like what Tom Joad said in Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath:” I’ll always be walking or traveling with them or for them.
Wendell Williams is an artist and vendor with Street Sense Media
