I met the love of my life on a plane to Spain.
Well, not really. However, i did meet an extremely beautiful, well spoken, polite and intelligent man whilst going on holiday at the end of March this year. It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.
Having spotted him in HMV at London Gatwick, my colleague and great friend Becky and I were already keeping a close eye on his every move, and had vaguely and unbelievably talked about the possibility of him being on the same plane as us. After careful consideration and the realisation that this probably wouldn't happen - we resumed almost normal behaviour.
At the departure gate, we played that funny, girlish game where both of us pretended not to be secretly wishing that we would see him come storming through the gates at the last minute, whilst positioning ourselves carefully with direct view of the door - just in case. With five minutes to departure - our dreams were made when we saw him breeze in.
Undeniably, we couldn't hide our excitement any longer. We saw him wait as the queue to board yet another packed Ryanair flight diminished, and worried when we saw him remain seated. What was going on - was he boarding after all? Or just enjoying the fun? Our minds were put to rest when out of our window, we saw him at the end of the queue at the bottom of the stairs. Thanks to Becky's careful prompting, I put my bag on the chair next to me - in the vain hope that he might sit in it over an annoying french exchange student.
I think my heart actually stopped when he did...
For the first hour of our short two hour flight, we were both too scared to talk - especially to him. Our hopes were then dashed when we then overheard him in fluent Spanish conversation with one of the air hostesses, and presumed him to be wholly Spanish. I am unsure to this day why this diminished our attraction to him.
It is only thanks to the two slightly drunk, overweight businessmen seated in front of us and their pantomime-like conversation in raised voices that the whole plane could hear; that it happened.
He turned to me and said one short sentence. 'It's like watching a play, isn't it?'. In response, all I could say was, 'Yes, it is', before turning to my friend and pulling silent faces to express my delight at this moment of sheer wonder! As we grew in confidence (literally) we began to talk to him more and more. We found out where he went to university, what he studied, where he now lived, how he could speak Spanish (he turned out to have a Spanish mother and English father. Being bilingual was far more attractive that just being able to speak one language...) what he did for a job, and why he was flying to Spain on this occasion.
What we didn't find out - was his name. He will forever be etched in our memories as the beautiful, perfect man that we met on the plane to Spain.
It seems I am rubbish at finding out people's names.
This evening with some friends, i went into town to see the latest masterpiece of Sacha Baron Cohen, 'Bruno'. Thoughts and opinions of this film aside, it was a lovely evening, made even more poignant by our journey back to the car park.
As we walked past the historic Millets, there was a lady sitting in the shop doorway. I walked past, as I normally do - but in contrast to other times, felt something different about this poor homeless woman who was asking for change. I rounded up all of my friends, and we headed to the only shop that was open: a cheap and cheerful chicken shop just metres down the road. Pitching in all our spare change, we bought her a burger and took it back to her, for her to enjoy a warm and tasty - albeit questionably nutritious evening meal.
Her eyes lit up, and something in me stirred. I had never experienced gratitude like this before. She opened the box immediately and started to eat, telling me that she hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous morning. I told her I hoped that she would enjoy it - and then churned out that annoyingly safe Christian phrase 'God Bless', before leaving her again.
I didn't ask her name.
This has been bugging me since I have returned. I have no way of keeping my memory of this woman solid in my mind - no personalisation of who she was, no identity to place on her - except for remembering her as a stereotype. 'That woman who was sitting in the doorway of Millets.'
Our names are so inextricably linked to who we are. Our names hold much of our value, and our identity. Identity theft is one of the biggest crimes in our country today - and that must be the case for a reason. I feel totally ashamed that I had forgotten to ask her name. I feel totally gutted that I forgot to ask the name of the guy we met on the plane (for no other reason than I can't add him as a friend on Facebook - I don't know who he is. This could also be a good thing). In my mild OCD, remembering people's names is important to me (and I am a little bit fascinated with finding out people's middle names).
Jesus would never forget my name. And he knows the names of those I didn't think to ask. I'm doing a rubbish job at trying to be like him on this earth. From now on, asking the name of those I don't know will be my first and most important question. Everyone deserves recognition by their name, and the lady in the doorway deserves it most of all.
