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The man sitting next to me on the plane was a nail biter--right down to the skin on the fingers of both his hands. As we chatted about our plans, he would casually nibble on those nails, as methodically as one eats corn on the cob. However, as it became clear to him that I had no real itinerary, and no plans for that particular night, he seemed to get more visibly nervous. "Did you know there’s an international shipping conference in that city, all hotels are booked, and you will find no place to stay?" he asked, and then nibbled some more. "No," I replied, making a mental note not to let his nervousness affect me as I glanced at my own intact finger nails.
It was five years ago, on a beautiful autumn Saturday night when we landed in Cyprus, and once again, I was testing Fate. I had left Greece at the last minute that day, with no hotel reservations in sight. Traveling without plans was my usual M.O. Going with the flow, from minute to minute, made me feel alive. One cannot think too much about the past or be too focused on the future while traveling, I mused to myself. I trusted my intuition implicitly, and knew that everything would work out. A few years before, I had traveled to Cyprus alone, without knowing anyone there, and had had a great time. The travel gods had always smiled favorably on me.
This time around, a friend had offered a week’s stay at her empty apartment in Nicosia, with the promise that her nearby relatives would be available if I needed anything. However, as was the custom, we had landed in Larnaca, an hour’s drive away, and there was no public transportation that late at night. I knew what to do. In the airport, one could find information booklets published by the Office of Tourism which listed hotels in each major city. I would pick up a booklet, phone a hotel, and stay in Larnaca for the night. The next day I’d figure out how to get to Nicosia. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I figured that tomorrow was another day.
However, Fate had decided to test me as well. After the Nail Biter and I had gotten through customs and collected our bags, he wished me good luck, and went off to his hotel as I poked around the airport looking for the appropriate hotel booklet. Unfortunately, by this time, it was well after 10 p.m., the exchange offices had closed for the night, and I had no Cypriot currency or calling card. No problem. I walked up to a man behind one of the airport counters and asked him to phone the hotel I had picked out in my booklet. A few minutes later, the hotel reservation had been made, I had thanked the official profusely, and was on my way outside the airport to get a cab. I could anticipate the nice, soft bed awaiting me just minutes away.
The driver of the cab I had selected had other ideas in mind. "Why are you going to this hotel?" he asked. "It is too expensive for you!" "What, do I have ‘budget traveler’ tattooed on my forehead? What do you care?" I thought. He was tall and thin, with wild unkempt grey hair and beard, crowding 50, and altogether too nosy for his own good, or so I thought.
A friendly argument began. The driver kept asking personal questions. He did not like the idea of a woman traveling by herself in his country. "Something is wrong with this picture," he muttered as he peered at me through his rear view mirror. Why was I in Cyprus, and whom was I planning to visit? The people I planned to visit didn’t know I was arriving that night and I couldn’t call them at this hour, I explained. (The sad truth was, I couldn’t figure out how to make a long-distance call from Greece to Cyprus, and after a few unsuccessful attempts, had given up.) Why couldn’t I call them at this hour, he demanded to know? Well, I don’t actually KNOW them, I confessed, and I couldn’t call people I didn’t know at that hour of the night, especially when they didn’t exactly know I was coming on that day. They had an inkling I was coming, but they didn’t know the dates. The truth had finally come out at last, and I sat, exhausted, and red-faced, in the back of the dark cab. He seemed satisfied with my answers...for a moment or two.
When I told him I was going to Nicosia the next day, he said that was impossible. There were no cabs on Sunday. He offered to take me there that night, and besides, he had a friend who owned a budget hotel. The fee would only be a few pounds extra to take me there. He did not want me to waste my money staying at a hotel I couldn’t afford, with no opportunities to make it to Nicosia, where I would be taken care of by the people I didn’t yet know.
I had witnessed a type of good-natured haggling years before, when my mother would argue with cab drivers about the cost of taking us to my grandfather’s village in Greece. By the time the price was determined, we were on the outskirts of Athens, and there was no question that our selected driver would take us to our village.
On this particular night, many years later, I was very tired, but my instincts told me my driver was all right. He had been a merchant marine who had traveled the world, and he had met people from all over the U.S. He had been helped by Americans many times in his journeys, and he liked them. He had a Native American dream weaver hanging from his rear view mirror--a gift from a North Dakota friend. It was a comforting symbol from the Midwest.
By this time, we were halfway to Nicosia, and it was my turn to ask the questions --- why did he, a perfect stranger, care so much about my welfare? And how did he know I couldn’t afford that hotel back in Larnaca? I also demanded to see his license and registration. He gave me the information, and I copied it down in my travel journal as the bantering continued. He wouldn’t try anything funny, he promised. He was an honest man--and Cyprus was a very small country. A lot of people knew him.
However, on the outskirts of Nicosia, he seemed less sure of himself, and he hesitated a bit. It was nearly midnight, and nothing looked remotedly familiar, though I had been there once before. He couldn’t remember where the hotel was, he said. Suddenly, I became alarmed. As we slowly passed by block after block, my overtired imagination kicked into overdrive. I envisioned my body, lying in a field somewhere, identification and traveler’s checks long gone, not to mention the luggage I had borrowed from my friend. Could I take this man down with one punch? Why had I taken this cab, instead of another one? I would have been in Larnaca, safe and sound. Why did I listen to my intuition? Was it bad karma? Was the good luck in my travels all used up? Why had I never taken up a self-defense course? Why did I have no upper body strength, anyway? Did he know this--could he tell? By this time, I was munching on my own fingernails, and breaking into a cold sweat.
After what seemed like hours and was in reality about five minutes, we arrived in front of the hotel, where the cab driver carefully explained my situation to the owner, who gave me the appropriate discount. The owner also promised to call my friend’s relatives the next day. My gut hadn’t lied to me. I was safe. After the driver took my luggage out of the trunk of the car, he said, "Here’s my card with my number. If you need anything, you know where to find me." I must have looked a little frightened still, because he added, "You know, Teresa, sometimes, you just have to trust people, and let them help you." I began to cry.
On this occasion, I knew he was right. There are times in life to open up and trust one’s instincts, and to take the risk and hope it all turns out for the best. The rewards are that your journey can turn out even better than you had imagined, and you may end up with new friends and a whole new outlook on life, even if a few fingernails get sacrificed in along the way.
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