Andrew

10/8/2005 Saturday, Arlington, VA

I was checking out of the Arlington motel around noon. It was raining very hard. I had yet to make a plan for the afternoon before meeting up with my relatives. What to do? Wait in the motel lobby, or visit the city? I had heavy bags but no umbrellas, no car, and no destination in mind. I picked up a map at the front desk to study.

As I was spreading out a map of Arlington, a man moved next to me and said, “How can I help you?” It was a fifty-ish Robert Redford looking man, dressed in cowboyish outfit, with a friendly smile. I told him I was just looking at a map; I did not want to bother anyone with my indecision. But he was determined to help me.

“Every country I go to,” he declared to me and the two Indian motel clerks at the front desk, “people always take good care of me. I have been to China. I have been to India. I have been to many countries. People are just so nice to us. But in this country, nobody wants to help a foreigner. Isn’t it true?”

The Indian clerks smiled and nodded.

“I just want to return the help I get from all the nice people who have taken care of me. My name is Andrew.” He introduced himself.

Andrew came to DC for a Pediatric Convention. He drove from Charlottesville, Virginia, this morning and had just arrived, checking in to the motel. He insisted that I wait for him to discuss my plans with him. Since making plans was my only thing to do at the moment, I promised to wait.

First he made me look at a very used road atlas, already out of date for metro lines, while he retrieved his luggage from his car. He brought in a cardboard box of stuff, and a brown leather bag of cloth. All his possessions were in light brown color. He sat next to me and started to look at the maps enthusiastically. I was unable to explain that I had no need for the map. I let him flip the maps back and forth, discover little treasures printed on the map, spell words for me, and return the favor he received from my people. He was excited, and all the while he was talking about all sorts of things, with exaggerated expression and gesture. He made a great impression to me. I thought he was clearly a cowboy character from a Redford movie. Eventually I made myself clear—I wanted to take the metro to the city and visit museums. He offered to drive with me to the metro station on his way to his conference. Food first. I was glad to have a chance to know about him, and to correct any misconception he might have about me.

He changed into suit and tie, a wide brim hat, with bright brownish color, rather comical, especially with the little camel figures on his tie. He still looked like a cowboy to me. He acted like a gentle man. He ran into the rain and drove his car to the door for me. He was so smooth and friendly and sincerely like Robert Redford.

Andrew had a black jaguar, which he drove as if he was riding a horse. Near the metro station, he was facing the wrong direction on a one-way street. He said oops, made a U-turn, drove onto the curb, went through some traffic cones, and miraclely he found a place to park.

“Now the question is, which restaurant do we run for? I see there is a Vietnamese, a bakery, a Thai, an American… I eat everything. You take the umbrella, because I have a hat. ” He gave me his umbrella with distinct colors.

We ran to the Vietnamese restaurant and sat by the window. So far he had been assuming the air of a host, showing a clueless foreign tourist the way of American life. For the time being I let him. We ordered dishes to share. He got a glass of plum wine, I had a glass of water, and we cheered for our meeting. I wondered if he would stereotype me for not drinking alcohol for breakfast.

Andrew seemed to be well-traveled and worldly. He would soon find out that I could hold my side of an interesting conversation. The food was excellent. The conversation was better.

I first wanted to find out his personal history. Age 59, grew up in Alabama—he had a deep southern accent—Andrew went to college in Pennsylvanian to study business and then to graduate school in DC to study government policy and urban planning. He worked as a carpenter for film set in Hollywood, and made documentaries. When he was almost 30, he went to medical school and later became a doctor. He had traveled to other countries extensively to perform medical work. He knew many famous and powerful people, including the foreign affairs minister of China. He talked vividly of his life in Rome, his work in Gaza strip, his daughter of 8, his friends, some of his girlfriends and their stories. He was a humanitarian. Last month, he was in Louisiana for the Hurricane Katrina rescue mission.

He asked about me, and I showed him my true color. It was easy to talk to him. I was naturally drawn to his animated expression on his face. He talked and laughed while he ate. He was proficient with chopsticks; he grabbed big chunks of food from our shared bowls and put in his mouth directly, like a Chinese, or like a cowboy if a cowboy could also be Chinese. I was happy to share a table with him. Manner and formality were not needed for a lunch filled with great conversations. We were two people very alike in temper, interest, and style. We shared our concerns and visions of world.

“Tell me about scuba diving in the Red Sea. We are going to Egypt this winter. Is it safe?” I asked him.

“Egypt is very safe. Even Gaza strip is safe. I worked in Gaza strip for two years and I felt much safer there than the back streets of Detroit—every time I am in Detroit, I always worry someone is going to rob me,” he laughed.

“Speaking of Egypt, Lawrence Durrell had books about it. When I was living in Italy, my girlfriend then operated the only English bookstore at that time. Alexandria Quartet was the first books I read.”

“Can you believe that I have the first book in my bag? I was going to read it!” I exclaimed. We laughed and felt more connected again. We agreed that we were both smart but likely to be scattered. He told me what he thought of Mozart and of talents.

“Mozart is regarded as a music genius. Yet he did not write his own symphony until he was 21. When he was young, all his compositions were more or less written by his father, and some were merely re-arranged from other’s work. Mozart spent many hours a day on piano and other musical trainings. Until he wrote his first symphony, he had probably practiced music over 50,000 hours. That is how a genius is made. Someone with little talents but a lot of hard work would surely be more successful than someone with a lot of talents but little hard work. There is a difference between 1000 hours and 10,000 hours.

“I read the stories about Van Gogh to my eight year old daughter. She wants to do many things when she grows up. But I want her to understand now, from a young age, that she can only choose between two things—to be very good at one thing, or a little good at many things.”

Ready to leave, we marveled at two ginger trees in the restaurant. I thought the trees were not part of the ginger, but Andrew studied them carefully and exclaimed them to be authentic. He engaged a waiter to explain the growing of ginger trees. We were told to buy Hawaiian ginger from the supermarket, put in the water for two weeks, and then let it grow in the soil.

“Isn’t it amazing? I am going to try it when I go home.” Andrew was excited.

It was still raining. Andrew let me keep his umbrella, and offered to his car as a storage place for my heavy bag while I go to the city.

“I never lock my car. I will show you how to open it.” He wrote down his contact information, and even gave me an authorization letter for the access of his motel room in case of emergency. I thanked him sincerely, although I knew I would not need any help. He had been friendly, thoughtful, and courteous. I appreciated the trust between us.

“I think I will go to the spy museum.” I said when we reached the metro station.

“Let me know how it is. Send me an e-mail. It seems like a very interesting museum to visit. I have a good friend in CIA. Do you know…”

We parted at the metro station. Without a formal farewell, he simply turned around and walked away.

The next day I left the city. On my way to the airport, I returned Andrew’s umbrella at the motel. I called him to say goodbye and thank you. He was very happy to hear from me.

“You know what happened last night? I was having a great dinner with some friends at the conference. One of the women told me about The Alexandria Quartet. I said I was just talking about these books with you at lunch! Isn’t that amazing?”

Andrew has a very good memory for faces. He never forgets anyone he meets, and always recognizes his patients even after many years. I don’t think I will forget him. He is a modern cowboy living among the city people in the world.

10/11/05 3:50 AM
10/25/05