Silent Gaps
31/03/09 05:37
I’ve been accused of having a glamorous job several times, but twice in the past six months I’ve felt what must be the worst fear of a traveler: news of the serious illness or injury of someone close when you are far from home. Last October, I was in Delhi. I was on a six-week jaunt across east and south Asia, no longer than a few days in any one place, traveling alone, focused on specific goals for each place, managing emails despite intermittent internet access, and keeping my next flight prominently in mind. On such trips, “time off” is usually little more than laying in bed in the few minutes before sleep with a book, but I had never been to Old Delhi despite three trips to the new city in the past year; I had scheduled a rare free day.
Though it was a sunny Saturday morning in Delhi, I
knew it was late in Oregon — some 12 and a half
hours behind me. So I had a slow breakfast in the
hotel without my cell phone, which was left
charging in the room while I read the paper and the
histories of the major sights. When I came back to
get my camera, I saw my wife had called a few
minutes before. Puzzled that she would call so
late, I dialed the house. Almost without greeting,
she said, Your mother just called; your uncle is in
the intensive care unit. He's not doing well.
I couldn't talk. There was no air in my room. My wife is a physician, so if she tells me that someone is in poor shape, I know she's preparing me for worse news. She waited until I could speak again — for the news to sink in. I'm very close to this uncle. He's lived a hard life, and though he expresses his feelings with the small movements of horses, they are no less deeply felt or received. We've always been paired by others for some reason. But I think we would have felt some connection anyway. Perhaps it's the shared experience of being the oldest son in a Southern family, with high expectations and too much self-discipline.
I didn't think any of those things at that moment, of course. I just thought, My god. I'm so far away. I can't get back for days. I am so far from the people I love. I made some choking sound, fighting for control. I have another two weeks and three countries of travel, with appointments scheduled months ago. But I need to be there.
Do I need to come home now?
Not yet, she said. I would tell you, she said simply. She explained the needless details. I asked even more needless questions, some more than once. Are you sure? I can be at the airport in an hour. Not now. I promise: I will tell you when. I didn't know what to do next… should I pack? I wished I had my running shoes and a silent forest if I couldn't have my family. Some exertion and focus. What should I do? Take your camera, go on your walk. But carry your phone. OK, I said. But the controlling, over-organized, forebrained, and perhaps angry part of me turned to my laptop. I wrote to my various managers: A close relative is near death. If my wife tells me that his end is near, I will abandon this trip and get on the earliest, fastest plane that I can.
An hour later, oppressed, still breathing with difficulty, I saw a Sikh temple as I walked through Old Delhi. I stood looking at the marble doorway. In the language of hands, a man met my eyes and asked me if I wanted to go in. I nodded, and he led me to a small room. They kept my bag and gave me a scarf to cover my head for respect, then led me back to the entrance. I cleansed my feet and entered, walking as far to the back of the long, tall room as I could. I sat by myself and began to cry even as I felt breath come again.
How was it a century ago, when distances also meant ignorance? Illness and death occurred as fait accompli, events that had happened months or years before. Grief without worry. Our rapid connection by voice and email is constricted by the silent gap of planes, of wanting to be someplace else immediately. Of knowing that you could somehow breach that gap with enough money.
Walter passed this crisis though the past months have not been smooth or easy. And I finished last fall’s trip to make all stops and return on schedule. Nonetheless, travel since then has tempered by a strong awareness of vulnerability. I am an astronaut on these trips, far in space, returning only with difficulty. Carrying as much with me as I dare and am able but still separated from all that is most important.
I write of this now because I am on a fast plane home now. It is as silent as I feared, and I keep my cell phone nearby though I won’t be able to turn it on for another five hours. At the end of a month of travel across Europe and Asia Minor, on my last evening, last night, I received an email from my mother. My uncle is having emergency surgery. They’re going in. They’re not sure what’s wrong. My last dinner in Istanbul with my wife — our first vacation together in a long time — was quiet, beers half-drunk even as we could see the incomparable Blue Mosque big and close in the night. I flinched with each vibration from my cell phone, worried and hoping for another update. Preparing myself for news upon landing.
I couldn't talk. There was no air in my room. My wife is a physician, so if she tells me that someone is in poor shape, I know she's preparing me for worse news. She waited until I could speak again — for the news to sink in. I'm very close to this uncle. He's lived a hard life, and though he expresses his feelings with the small movements of horses, they are no less deeply felt or received. We've always been paired by others for some reason. But I think we would have felt some connection anyway. Perhaps it's the shared experience of being the oldest son in a Southern family, with high expectations and too much self-discipline.
I didn't think any of those things at that moment, of course. I just thought, My god. I'm so far away. I can't get back for days. I am so far from the people I love. I made some choking sound, fighting for control. I have another two weeks and three countries of travel, with appointments scheduled months ago. But I need to be there.
Do I need to come home now?
Not yet, she said. I would tell you, she said simply. She explained the needless details. I asked even more needless questions, some more than once. Are you sure? I can be at the airport in an hour. Not now. I promise: I will tell you when. I didn't know what to do next… should I pack? I wished I had my running shoes and a silent forest if I couldn't have my family. Some exertion and focus. What should I do? Take your camera, go on your walk. But carry your phone. OK, I said. But the controlling, over-organized, forebrained, and perhaps angry part of me turned to my laptop. I wrote to my various managers: A close relative is near death. If my wife tells me that his end is near, I will abandon this trip and get on the earliest, fastest plane that I can.
An hour later, oppressed, still breathing with difficulty, I saw a Sikh temple as I walked through Old Delhi. I stood looking at the marble doorway. In the language of hands, a man met my eyes and asked me if I wanted to go in. I nodded, and he led me to a small room. They kept my bag and gave me a scarf to cover my head for respect, then led me back to the entrance. I cleansed my feet and entered, walking as far to the back of the long, tall room as I could. I sat by myself and began to cry even as I felt breath come again.
How was it a century ago, when distances also meant ignorance? Illness and death occurred as fait accompli, events that had happened months or years before. Grief without worry. Our rapid connection by voice and email is constricted by the silent gap of planes, of wanting to be someplace else immediately. Of knowing that you could somehow breach that gap with enough money.
Walter passed this crisis though the past months have not been smooth or easy. And I finished last fall’s trip to make all stops and return on schedule. Nonetheless, travel since then has tempered by a strong awareness of vulnerability. I am an astronaut on these trips, far in space, returning only with difficulty. Carrying as much with me as I dare and am able but still separated from all that is most important.
I write of this now because I am on a fast plane home now. It is as silent as I feared, and I keep my cell phone nearby though I won’t be able to turn it on for another five hours. At the end of a month of travel across Europe and Asia Minor, on my last evening, last night, I received an email from my mother. My uncle is having emergency surgery. They’re going in. They’re not sure what’s wrong. My last dinner in Istanbul with my wife — our first vacation together in a long time — was quiet, beers half-drunk even as we could see the incomparable Blue Mosque big and close in the night. I flinched with each vibration from my cell phone, worried and hoping for another update. Preparing myself for news upon landing.
