Thank You, Matt
By modeling equanimity, you gave me a gift for life.
Dear Matt,
I hope this message finds you well.
I just wanted to thank you for a gift you gave me a long time ago, thousands of miles from home. It’s a gift that took me nearly 20 years to finally unwrap.
Like a seed that germinates only when it’s ready, your gift finally sprouted one March evening at Los Angeles International Airport. I made my way through a teeming throng of travelers in the Tom Bradley International Terminal, eventually lugging my two stuffed duffel bags to the Thai Airways ticket counter.
I’d spent the previous six months preparing for a trip to Nepal’s Mt. Everest region: hundreds of hours on bikes, treadmills and trails, sweating my way into the kind of shape required to climb high in the Himalayas. By the time I’d arrived at LAX, I’d checked all the boxes required by a trip of this nature: a current passport, visa, shots, updated equipment list … Matt, you’ve traveled the world, you know the drill.
I just needed one more item: a boarding pass.
And I wasn’t getting one.
A minute earlier, I’d handed the ticket agent, a diminutive young woman with almond eyes and a kind smile, my paperwork.
Her smile then faded, her brow creasing slightly with concern.
“Are you Larry or Lawrence?” she asked.
“I’m Larry.”
“Hmmm.” The crease in her brow became more pronounced. “Your passport says ‘Larry.’” She glanced down at her monitor. “But your reservation says ‘Lawrence.’”
I’d assumed, apparently without checking, that my passport said “Lawrence.”
She sighed, gave her head an almost imperceptible shake and added, “This could be a problem. May I see another form of ID?”
Feeling a growing sense of dread, I handed over my driver’s license.
“This says ‘Larry.’”
“Yes,” I replied.
“But, again, your reservation says…” Another sigh, this one with a measure of exasperation. “Lawrence,” she muttered to herself. “This isn’t good.”
I grew weak in the knees, deducing where this conversation – and my Himalayan adventure – might be headed.
“I’m really sorry, but there may be a problem letting you board,” she said. “It’s a security issue.”
Matt, you spent two months with me, years earlier, cycling throughout Europe, and we got to know each other pretty well. So, you can probably guess what I wanted to say to the LAX ticket agent: Something like …
“Listen. I need to get on that goddamn plane, and if you don’t stop this cross-examination and give me my boarding pass – a boarding pass I’ve already paid for – there’s gonna be hell to pay. I wanna speak with your supervisor. NOW.”
But I didn’t act in this manner. Rather, I thought of you … and Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Because, right then, I needed some Jedi magic.
The Eurail Pass we’d each purchased for our 1994 European cycling trip was our ticket to freedom: unlimited train rides throughout the Continent. We could make our way to, say, Copenhagen, cycle around the region for a week or so, then hop on another train to Stockholm. Easy, right?
Wrong.
Nobody warned us how difficult it was traveling with bicycles, since most trains weren’t equipped to carry them. At nearly every station, there’d be the inevitable delay, sometimes for hours.
Matt, you must remember how, for whatever reason, I was the point person who’d inquire about the next bike-friendly train. And surely you must recall how, on more than one occasion, I’d get abrupt with the ticket agent upon hearing of yet another delay.
Acting in this manner never swayed any of the ticket agents.
“We’re sorry, sir,” they’d say. “The next train headed to Oslo, one that takes bikes, won’t be here for three … no, four hours.”
That all changed one balmy July evening in Brussels, when you first shared with me your gift.
We were headed toward Zermatt, Switzerland, home of the Matterhorn, and the next bike-friendly train wasn’t scheduled until the following morning. Right when we received the bad news, a regular Zermatt-bound train was taking on passengers about 100 feet beyond the ticket counter.
Matt, you must’ve seen my expression darken. This time, however, you put a hand on my shoulder, gently guided me back a step and addressed the ticket agent yourself.
“Sir,” you said in a slow, measured tone, “we really, really need to get on that train. It would help us a great deal.”
The ticket agent expression softened. “Okay, take your bikes and follow me.”
Stunned beyond words, my mouth hung open as my gaze comically moved back and forth between you and the ticket agent. Wha … Wha… What the hell just happened? I thought.
Your brief exchange reminded me of a scene in “Star Wars: A New Hope,” when Jedi master Obi Wan Kenobi used his powers to get past a checkpoint manned by Imperial Storm Troopers.
The magic you worked with the ticket agent wasn’t just a one-off, Matt. It occurred on several occasions during our trip. And though I soon learned to keep my pie-hole shut within a mile of any train station, I never fully acknowledged the simple but powerful magic you’d conjured.
The LAX Thai Airways ticket agent headed to the back office to consult with her boss.
And, right then, Matt, your gift – given to me 18 years earlier – finally emerged.
While waiting for the supervisor, I thought of you. Taking a slow, deep breath, then another, I actually tried to channel you.
Then something gently fell into place. Something just clicked.
A minute later, the supervisor, a portly fellow with wire-framed glasses and a comical combover, followed his subordinate to the counter where I stood. His eyes darted between my passport and the computer monitor. Larry, Lawrence ... Larry, Lawrence …
I went for broke.
“I’m really sorry about this problem,” I said slowly, calmly, tapping into my own inner Obi Wan. “They’re really the same name.”
The supervisor looked at me with a slightly befuddled expression.
I smiled at him.
“It’s like Rick … and Richard,” I said, slightly tilting my head left, then right, creating an unspoken rhythm that seemed to merge the two names into one, a rhythm that calmed my still-jangled nerves.
Then the names just flowed out of me, as I continued to rhythmically, almost imperceptibly, move back and forth.
Phil … and Phillip.
Maggie … and Margaret.
Ted … and Theodore.
Suzie … and Susan.
Bill … and William.
Mike … and Michael.
After sharing a few more examples in this manner, I took another deep breath, finishing with ...
Larry … and Lawrence. Followed by a shrug and a smile.
Without hesitating, the man turned to his subordinate and said, “Give Larry his boarding pass.”
Matt, by modeling calm, confident equanimity during so many stressful scenarios, you saved my trip to Nepal. And by showing me the positive effects of slowing down and simply being nice to people while asking for what you need, you gave me a gift for life.
And for that, I thank you.
A big, hearty THANK YOU to Dana Allen, Kathy Ayers and Linda Kaun, who went over an early version of this essay and provided valuable feedback.
I loved this description Larry. I could 100% see you doing this. It conveyed the mood of your calmness so well. “It’s like Rick … and Richard,” I said, slightly tilting my head left, then right, creating an unspoken rhythm that seemed to merge the two names into one, a rhythm that calmed my still-jangled nerves.
What a powerful gift of calm power Matt gave to you. I can unfortunately relate to what you went through. Having the name of Flori which is so foreign to most people to begin with has created problems all my life. Your exceptionally told story felt all too familiar, but reminds me that remaining calm and connecting is key. You always give good on the humor. :)