The kindness of strangers

Thursday’s New York Times had an essay by Justin Horner, a Portland Oregon resident who seems to have had particularly bad luck with his cars. And the good luck to meet with a family of Mexican migrant workers … and the grace to write about his experience, originally for a “reddit” thread entitled “Did you ever pick up a hitch-hiker“.

Horner’s touching story seems to amaze the Times’ readers,  who aren’t used to how we, in what too many of their country-men think of as a “failed state” treat our fellow human beings.  From the same “reddit” thread comes a comment by “sozeldt” of the real Mexico, and it’s unfailing people:

I never have a reason to tell this story but I think it fits here. I was traveling in Mexico, one of my first times outside the U.S., and at the time I spoke essentially no Spanish. I scratched my cornea, which for the lucky among you who don’t know is indescribably painful. After literally 72 hours with no sleep due to the pain, I finally deliriously admit to myself I’m going to have to see a doctor, and thus cut my super low budget trip short. I walk into a sunglasses shop, best thing I could think of in my state, and with the help of a phrasebook, I clumsily convey that something is wrong with my eye. The sunglasses guy puts me on the phone with a friend who’s an eye doctor and who speaks some English. The doctor gives me detailed directions on how to get to his office on the subway from where I am, and tells me he can see me. When I get there, I realize he’s not normally open on Sunday, and in fact he has interrupted family Sunday dinner to see me in his office which adjoins his house. From the table next door where everyone else is still eating his very young daughter peeks her head in a few times, and he tells me she’s learning a little English and wants to eavesdrop, but she ends up being too shy to converse. He gets me completely patched up (literally; turns out an eyepatch is step one in stopping the pain), and gives me a prescription for some drops. I ask him “What do I owe you”, sort of already bracing for what I assume will be the “off-hours” price and wondering if I’ll have bus fare back to the States. He says “Some day, someone in your country will be in a jam, maybe they won’t speak the language too well, and they’ll need some help. That’s what you owe me.” It’s been years and I still can’t think of that story without tearing up a little. It immediately pops into my mind whenever I’m faced with the question of whether to make a little extra time for somebody in a jam.

(Sombrero tip to “bournmouth” for linking to the NYTimes essay on the MexConnect message board).