The Soft-Spoken Traveler

Her face had long faded from my memory, but I would always remember her voice, and the softness in it when she said the two little words that changed everything: go ahead.

I looked up, surprised, not sure if I could believe her.

"You look like you need it," she added with an equally gentle smile. "I mean, you have a baby."

She also looked like she could use some sleep, but I wasn’t about to argue.

We had departed from Amsterdam airport in the Netherlands a few hours ago. Lucy was already fussy when we boarded the plane, but she completely lost it when we took off.

It took all I had to make her stop screaming, and not start crying myself.

People around me had rolled their eyes, sighed, or been straight-up rude. “Some people shouldn’t have babies” was the most hurtful comment I heard, from a woman who should have understood my predicament since she was traveling with what could only be her teenage daughter.

Things got worse when we approached Trondheim, Norway, our destination. As I learned later, coming in over the fjord makes landing incredibly difficult.

Our pilot didn’t know this or chose to ignore it. He made several attempts to decrease our altitude before going back up and spending an extra fifteen minutes every time to get back in position in the sky. Each new try resulted in more and more turbulence.

I could feel my organs move up in my body with each uncontrolled jump of the plane.

So did Lucy.

She woke up from her hard-earned (by me) nap and started wailing again.

This time, people were too busy trying to keep their stomach contents in check to make me feel guilty.

Someone was even shrieking louder than Lucy. A woman.

It had started with something that strangely sounded like laughter at the first sign of turbulence. The laughter had progressively become more hysterical before veering toward the tragic.

Where Lucy screamed consistently, the woman emitted a terrified sound with each dip of the plane. In between, she was sobbing.

In another life, one where I didn’t have my very own crying human resting on my lap, I would have wished I sat close to her. I would have told her everything was going to be okay. Maybe taught her a breathing technique even.

I couldn’t see her from my seat, but I was hoping with all my heart that her neighbors were doing just that.

Her ordeal ended, and I wish I could say mine did too, when the pilot decided to reroute us to Oslo.

Lucy cried non-stop for the forty minutes this extra leg of the journey took.

Being exposed to constant yelling is exhausting as it is, but it is particularly trying when you’re already sleep-deprived from, well, having a newborn at home.

So is the unforgiving judgment from your peers. The nasty comments had made their comeback.

At this point, I was desperate to use the bathroom, but there was no kind face in sight, no one I could ask to hold Lucy for just five minutes.

When we landed, it was so late that the staff on the ground had already gone home. We were told to find a hotel by ourselves.

The thought of having to spend the night outside with my baby in the cold Norwegian night terrified me to my core.

Still holding Lucy in one arm, I grabbed my belongings as fast as possible, and followed the crowd.

After a short bus trip from hell, where we were all pressed against each other—which did not improve Lucy’s mood—we were dropped off at the gate.

I hurried along with the other passengers toward the exit, the panic slowly rising within me.

I was starting to understand there would be some competition for the nearest hotel rooms.

Frantic, I followed a large group of people into the only hotel in sight upon immediately exiting the airport.

To my horror, the line was already excruciatingly long. Could they possibly have a room for everyone?

I stood there, evaluating my options, but the truth is I was so distraught I couldn’t think.

Lucy had been silent when we entered the hotel, but she was starting to fuss again.

Which is probably why the young woman, a few spots ahead of me, turned around.

"Go ahead," she said, gesturing to the empty space in front of her.

I said her face had faded away, but I can still remember her smile. One of those that reaches the eyes.

"I mean, you have a baby."

Her voice was still gentle, but there was a certain power in it.

It was loud enough that the people around us could no longer ignore the fact that I was carrying a baby while struggling with a suitcase.

They could no longer look the other way.

As soon as I took my new position, the person now standing in front of me offered to let me pass. Then the next person did the same, and again, and again.

We were quite far back in the line, but all of this created enough of a commotion that it got the attention of the front desk staff.

"Ma’am, you may come here, please."

And just like that, because a young woman who couldn’t do much still did what she could, I was bumped to the front of the line.

I could have cried with gratitude when the woman with the gentle voice gestured me to go ahead.

If her small kindness hadn’t rippled the way it did, I would still have been facing the possibility of not having a room to put my baby to bed.

But in that moment, that simple show of humanity was all I needed.

It had melted my sense of hopelessness and given me back my strength.

Never underestimate the impact of a small kindness.

***

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