Better lucky than smart

Lucky people get to eat cake for breakfast.
With their dad at Queen City Bakery in Sioux Falls, South Dakooooota!
(and Mom, brother, and SISTER-IN-LAW, not pictured)

My dad and I have a running joke (you know, the kind you tell when jogging) that when I was a kid, he tried to make me feel like everything good that happened to me was a result a good luck, not talent.  It’s healthy for kids to have a strong sense of luckiness, rather than self-achievement.  And maybe luck really is something that you can cultivate!  Easier than learning to be smarter, right?

These last few weeks in particular, I have been super lucky!  Flying west from Dubai to New York, my Emirates flight had a wonderful crew.  I know because I couldn’t sleep and got up to stretch my legs, only to find that the guy on the aisle was in deep REM when I came back and I ddin’t have the heart to wake it (that is, after I nudged him hard a few times to no avail).  Instead I struck up a conversation with the flight crew—they were as international as you’d expect—one was from Lebanon, another from Argentina, another from the Ukraine—and really kind.  When they found out that I was a chocolate fiend, they were happy to hook me up with a nice stash that would hold me over the whole trip (there is nothing like being cranky on the bus and finding chocolate in your purse—instant good day!).

I had a great trip around the United States—New York, Boston, and even South Dakota—full of nice runs, delicious food, youtube videos (multiple viewings of the Taylor Swift "I knew you were trouble" video with goats spliced in--is this really a thing?!  Holly cried from laughing so hard!!), plus awesome company and thought-provoking conversations.  Despite the fact that it snowed a lot in Sioux Falls, South Dakota over the past two weeks, for the 4 days that I was there, we managed to have sunshine and 70 degree weather.  Good thing, since I was traveling with a pair of flip flops and no jacket.  In New York and Boston, I didn’t quite so lucky with the weather the whole time, but managed to borrow a few layers to tie me over.

What I look like in New York when I borrow clothes
from a very generous, but very tall friend!!

 Leaving was harder than usual.  I’m not sure why.  Part of it was that I felt like I had moved in with Scotty, my old roommate.  I’d had a key made and treated the living room like I owned it—i.e. my papers and clothes were strewn all over the place.  I even bought granola and helped myself to the Spartan offerings of Scott’s fridge—the diet coke and beer, but not the soup that looked like a 5^th grade petri dish science experiment.  I ran into people in the neighborhood, set up breakfast dates, and even kind of developed a routine.  It was legitimately like I lived there again.  So leaving was hard.

At the airport, I was surprised that my ticket said “priority access”.  Luck, again.  So I got in the first class/priority access line, which incidentally was a little long.  I sent my brother an SMS musing about the wait, since he’s now paying the big bucks for this express service that guarantees no wait (not yet in Logan airport, but I can sense that they are in the demand-building stage where they make everything painfully slow…..or is it always that way?).  While daydreaming away in line (mainly about bhortha and other delicious Bengali foods awaiting me on the other side of the world), a familiar voice and movement pulls me back to scene around me.  Is that Dr. Paul Farmer going through security in front of me?  It is!  So I yell, “Paul! Paul!”  He turns.  I think he recognized me.  It’s been over a year since I saw him, and the time before that may have been in the Entebbe airport, Uganda. I mentioned I was heading to Dhaka to help.  But I’m still stuck outside, so we exchange gate information, and it turns out that Miami (him) and JFK (me) are next to each other.  And right next to the starbucks (I refrain, but only because I know there’s one in Dubai that’s going to lure me in, and twice in “one day” seems excessive).  I get to hear about the beautiful hospital in Haiti that just opened and some of the other recent Partners in Health updates.  Paul still leaves me in awe—some part of my 20-year-old, Mountains beyond Mountains-reading brain remains unchanged by the experience and other incredible shoulders I’ve rubbed over the years.  So, I’m still a little high when I get on the flight to New York.

That, of course, is just the beginning.  I wait a bit in JFK before getting on the 12-hour flight to Dubai.  I was a little annoyed that I’ve been given a window seat on the flight.  Until I realize that one of the few empty seats is next to me, so I can sprawl out a bit.  It’s still long, and the 7-hour layover in Dubai doesn’t shorten anything.  After browsing the bookstores and hitting up duty free (bought some tequila in honor of Cinco de Mayo!!), I inevitably end up at the Starbucks.  Finally it’s time to board, so I head to the gate.  While standing there trying to stretch out my body one last time before forcing it to sit for another 4 hours, three members of BRAC’s senior leadership team come ambling up.  Man am I glad that I had decided to wear something decently presentable for this journey, who knew I’d have so many chance encounters.  They were coming back from a big meeting Uganda where people from across BRAC’s global operations (11 program countries + 2 fundraising offices) had met for a few days.

They were not in economy, like I was, so they boarded ahead of me and I didn’t see them again.  As I walked back to find my seat, I ran into the Argentine stewardess who had accompanied me on the trip to New York!  She recognized me first, and upon learning that I had consumed all of my chocolate, helped me stock up again.  She had 24 hours in Dhaka, so I gave her a few ideas on where to go to see the city.

I arrived home and after freshening up, headed into the office.  While catching up with my team, my phone rang.  Unknown number.  I answer, and it’s someone from the Emirates office at the airport.  They had found a kindle that had several boarding passes with the name “Maria May” wedged between the cover and the device, so had a suspicion it would be mine.  “You should come get it immediately,” they said.  Always what you want to hear after a long journey, but hey, they found my kindle!  My colleague agrees to take me on his motorcycle, so off we go.  It’s a beautiful day—the weather is cooler than usual (it had rained in the morning) and the roads are completely empty.  We are flying along.  Until we get about 3 miles from the airport.  Then I notice that there’s a line of cars going the wrong way (towards us) on our side of the highway.  Weird, even for Dhaka standards.  Suddenly I see ahead of us a sea of men dressed in traditional white Muslim garb and caps.  They are taking up the entire 8-lane road and walking towards us.  The demonstration scheduled for 3PM had started over two hours early.  We decide to turn around and head back to the office—without cutting through the army cantonment (which is off limit to people who look obviously foreign, like me), there’s virtually no other way to the airport.  I notice on the way back that the police and Rapid Action Batallion (RAB) teams look ready for action; they are well armed, large in numbers, and alert.  Definitely a sign that we don’t want to be there when the crowd reaches them.

We have no problem getting back to BRAC Centre.  I call the Emirates office and explain—they agree that I should come today instead.  Good plan, until last night the city erupted into further violent confrontations between protesters and police.  Half my team couldn’t get into the office today.  It seemed a little foolhardy to try to go out.  So I called Emirates again to see if they were planning to have anyone come to their office that’s down the street from mine.  Indeed, they were.  So they sent it over here, and I was able to grab it after just a 5 minute walk.  I stopped on the way to buy credit for my phone.  This is one of my least favorite activities, since normally a few minutes after the purchase, I start getting phone calls from the guy who just sold it to me (“You want Bangladeshi friendship?”).  Shazzad normally takes care of it for me now, which has helped significantly. But, occasionally I still get myself into situations where I run out and need to buy more by myself.  That happened a few weeks ago in the same area.  The man I bought it from (just a stall with an umbrella on the street) was really polite and excited that I spoke bangla, and I didn’t get any calls afterwards.  So I went back today, and he smiled in recognition and bumped me up to the front of the line.  You know you've had your expectations seriously revised when you're just happy to know that there are at least two mobile phone flexi sellers in Dhaka that aren't that sleazy.  But guess what, I am happy about that!

Luck feels good, wherever you find it!