There’s nothing like moving to a foreign land to make one feel like a complete airhead. I’ve had countless clutzy moments recently, from waiting on the wrong side of the road for the bus, to taking in the wrong direction, intending to go two stops on the train and accidentally getting on an express instead, mishearing and misunderstanding people and sitations. The other Monday I had one such incident, somehow felt a bit like I was in a scene from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, the crazy girl on the bus incessantly talking to the straight-laced guy, only I’m even less suave. Since I arrived I’ve had the idea to head down to the FPMT Buddhist Center here in Melbourne, where classes are held every Monday and Wednesday. The first week+ Jason kept me busy, and next week things just seemed to come up. So the following Monday when I arrived home tired and hungry at 6 PM I knew I had to try to go anyway. I made it out of the house by 6:45 and walked up the few blocks to the train station, where I caught a train to the city, transferred to another, then walked several blocks to the Tara Institute.
By the time I arrived it was a little after 8, but someone directed me downstairs where I snuck in the back. It was a large room, filled with people of all types, maybe a hundred of them or so. A middle-aged man in a dress-shirt and tie spoke about karma and purification and led us through a couple of meditations. Afterward I hoped to hang around and chat, learn about the center, the offerings there, meet some people, but it was hard to do with this group, maybe because it was so large. There was a tea room, but it didn’t look inviting, people seemed to be talking intensely in twos. Others congregated in the hallway, catching up with friends. No one seemed very open or welcoming although I could have tried talking to the other people hanging about, intently staring at the posters on the bulletin board, a tell-tale sign that they are new and alone as well. Instead I wandered into the bookstore to have a look around. I picked up a card for my step-dad for his upcoming birthday, looked at the huge book selection then headed over to the incense counter, were there was this youngish guy perusing the supply too. We did a bit of a dance so each other could get closer, and then again when we were joining the line to pay. He bought a couple boxes of incense ahead of me, and asked about becoming a member then disappeared. After I purchased my card, I left the institute and walked the ten blocks or so to the train station.
As I approached the station, I saw the train pass, so I popped into a convenience store to buy a chocolate, my stomach grumbling. I’ve been constantly craving chocolate and unfortunately it’s really well done here. I bought a Jamaican, dark chocolate with rum and raisins. So then I was sitting alone on the platform, eating my chocolate when I glanced across the tracks and noticed the guy from the bookstore waiting on the other side. I walked down the platform to where he was and yelled across. “Didn’t I just see you in the bookstore?” He nodded , but then looked down, perhaps hesitant to shout back. He gave in and said, “ Heading to Sandringham?” Unfortunately with his accent and the distance I misheard him, thought he said, “I’m heading to Sandringham” so I just said, “Oh” and paused for a moment, then felt silly yelling across the tracks to a stranger. Not knowing what else to say, I walked away. More people started accumulating on the other side and I was still alone. I glanced up at the sign as I strolled down the platform. “Platform 2, Sandringham”. Oh crap, I realized I was on the wrong side and that I had just walked away when he tried starting a conversation. As I walked around to the pass-over, the lights started to flash and the railway arms lowered. I ran across but the metal gate closed, locking me next to the tracks. A couple of other strangers witnessed my confinement, came over and opened another gate to the side, letting me through just in time. I ran the last 100 feet or so and jumped onto the train, where I plopped down in the row across from the same guy.
“Uh, hi again.” I felt the need to explain, “I was on the wrong side…this is my first trip on the train here,” I said, feeling like the biggest dork. He smiled in a slightly guarded way, and asked where the accent was from. I felt extra loud and animated, quirkier than usual. Maybe it was the chocolate. In chatting I found that he’s from Vancouver BC originally and lived in Seattle for a while. Actually came down to interview for Amazon in 2000, but took an offer at another dot com because they paid more. Somehow he ended up in Sydney, has been here for a few years, and recently became a citizen. He mentioned heading back to Vancouver next week for a visit.
Then quite suddenly it was his stop, Windsor. He must live near St. Kilda I thought, maybe more mainstream than my neighborhood, but they have great cafes and the beach. He put out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Paul.” “Renee”, I replied, shaking his hand. “Maybe I’ll see you at the center sometime again?” “In a couple weeks” he said. Right, he’s heading to Canada. I think I said, “Okay, bye” but I’m not really sure if anything actually came out of my mouth. I suddenly self-consciously wondered if I had chocolate all over my mouth. We smiled and he coolly sauntered to the door, but when the train stopped the doors opened on the opposite side, leaving him standing at closed doors. He was at the wrong side this time! Ha, I’m not the only dork. He laughed, made a motion as if jumping off the edge into the abyss below, then turned around and headed out the correct door, waving as he headed onto the platform.
I wondered if I’d see him again, and if years from now we’d still be friends and look back and a laugh at this ridiculous encounter, or if maybe we won’t cross paths again, and it will just remain as another story in the book of Renee’s clutzy moments. Nevertheless it put me in a good mood. I changed trains in the CBD (Central Business District) at Flinders St.
On the second train, a few rows from me sat a middle-aged man who didn’t look so well. I thought he might vomit, but the real trouble was that he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. I watched him closely the whole ride, thinking he might pass out. His glazed eyes and labored breath worried me. He put his head down on the chair in front of him for a bit and when he lifted it again he seemed slightly better. He moved towards the door at my stop, Westgarth Station. He seemed a bit lost getting off the train, didn’t know how to exit the platform. I didn’t either, but helped him find the opening in the gate. I walked with him, asked if he was okay. “Yeah.” I mentioned to him that it looked like he was going to be ill on the train. He said yes, he was, but he’s better now. I smiled and asked if he’d had a few too many beers (although I was thinking his symptoms looked more like a bad trip). “No”, he said, barely able to breathe as we were walking, “it’s emphysema.” “Oh I’m so sorry.” “Thanks,” he said. “Can they do anything for you?” “No.” “Can I help you get to where you need to be?” “Taxi or bus,” he squeaked out. “Do you need help getting a taxi?” He knodded. I looked up and down the street and thought there’s no way a taxi will come down this street at anytime soon, It’s 11 PM on a Monday in a residential neighborhood. I looked back at him, struggling along behind me. “Bus stop” he said barely audibly. “I think there’s one right over there,” I pointed to the next block. He turned and headed that way. I crossed the street and headed home, glancing back now and then, hoping he’d make it home or at least onto the bus.What a horribly painful life. I turned the corner then wondered why I didn’t walk him to the bus stop, didn’t help him more. Tears started in my eyes thinking of the suffering people like him endure. Here I am concerned with eating chocolate and not looking like a dork in front of a stranger while this man struggles for each breath of air. Wow. It sobered me for a moment.
I haven't seen the train guy, Paul, at the institute again, rather the next week ventured back and met another guy named Paul who collects American cars of all things. I feigned interest in Cadillacs and Corvettes while he kindly drove me to the train station in his pick-up. Entering the car, he looked down and noticed a couple long ropes. "For tying things up in the back, not for tying up people," he laughed nervously as he threw them in the back. Maybe dorkiness is universal.
