The world is a book and those who do not travel only read one page.  ~ Augustine of Hippo

The cabin air is thick with floral perfumes and stale sweat. I breathe through my mouth and have to duck when a man lumbers down the aisle and his overstuffed garment bag almost knocks me sideways. With Arabic music ringing in my ears, a thin sour film on my teeth and the fog in my brain from crossing multiple time zones, my patience has frayed to a thin thread. I bite down hard on my lower lip and close my eyes.

The incessant clicking of a tray table in and out of the upright position peppers my consciousness and a headache brews. The woman beside me sighs and and as I glance at her through the corner of my eye, I notice that her hair is completely hidden by a traditional muslim scarf. When I look beyond her to the object of the commotion, I can’t help but smile at the messy curls, tiny leopard print pants, and flecks of green hi-lighting a pair of big brown eyes. With the faintest of British accents, my littlest seat mate asks her mother to PULEEZE tell her when the plane will take off.

“Mommy has a headache Yasmin. You must wait quietly. “

I close my eyes again. Perhaps I can sleep for the duration of the 3 hour flight to Morocco. I don’t feel like trying to engage this woman with tightly pressed lips in conversation. We likely have nothing more than a headache in common.

Yet, as her child continues to prattle about the lights outside the window and the sound of the engines as the plane pulls back from the terminal, I can’t resist.

“How old is she?” I ask.

The woman turns to her daughter, “Yasmin – tell the nice lady how old you are.”

The elfin girl holds up 4 fingers and her grin stretches from cheek to cheek.

“She is full of energy all of the time. Normally I love it, but today is a hard day.” The woman’s voice cracks and she stops speaking.

I pause and wait for her to continue.

“You see,” she clears her throat, “My Mother passed away today. I didn’t make it back in time to see her.” Our eyes connect. For a second, the plane and the rest of its passengers disappear. Her eyes fill with tears. She apologizes and grapples with her hand bag until she finds a kleenex. I blink back the tears now pooling in my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. My words feel flat and tinny – like throwing a penny into a tip jar of hundred dollar bills. The tears crest onto my cheeks as I imagine a day when I might receive a phone call like this one.

After a moment where neither of us speaks, we talk about easier things. She tells me about her husband and son who will join them later in Morocco. She asks about my travels. Although, she seems to drift in and out of the conversation, I can tell she needs the diversion. Eventually, she tells me about why life brought her to London 14 years ago. She talks of how much she has missed her mother and wishes they could have lived closer. I tell her I understand.

Even though I don’t know her name and will never see her again, for those few moments, we ae not strangers. We are daughters – united by the love of our mothers. 

Traveling always reminds me of our shared humanity and encourages me to let go of all stereotypes and preconceived ideas of other people. To remember that we are not the religions or cultures that might divide us. Instead, we are all sisters, daughters, fathers, and brothers. We are all capable of great joy and devastating loss. And, we are all able to touch the lives of someone who we might only meet in passing. So, even as I wait out my 24-hour layover in rainy Casablanca and I’m slightly irritable from the lingering jet lag and the lack of gluten free food, I’m grateful to be here. And, so grateful you’ve decided to join me.