The Hug. The Ides of July, 2006
Months of planning, an itinerary set in near stone, objectives including the
World Cup & Tour du France along with trekking eastern Europe were set. All I
need do was to get on a plane and leave Afghanistan.
My last day backpacking in Europe was September 1st, 1989. I spent the day alone
in Stockholm, Sweden having just seen my traveling companion Keith Iovine off to
New Orleans. I had racing experience there and knew meet directors, so we spend
a couple of weeks traveling the Continent trying to get him into some track
meets following his Olympic Trials appearance a year before having ran a mile in
under 4:00.
While killing time waiting for my own departure the following day, I lounged at
the Grand Hotel Stockholm, reading the International Herald Tribune’s recount of
the 50th anniversary on Germany’s invasion of Poland, starting World War II. I
listened to a girl play a baby grand piano in the corner of the hotel ballroom.
That same day, my cousin and goddaughter, Margaret Elisabeth was born in
Louisville, Kentucky. Nearly seventeen years later, I planned to meet her in
Denmark and show her the Europe of my youth, the Berlin Wall withstanding.
Living in the 3rd world presents challenges: Intermittent power, poor sewage,
and bad airlines are a given. I had planned for flight delays and sure for form
there was one, though this case was unique. I arrived at Kabul International
Airport to find no airline workers present and was told by others:
The flight was cancelled. The flight went to Turkey instead.
The plane had 6 flat tires from a hard landing but would be ready in an hour.
(Makes one consider the competency of the crew!) Flight to Frankfurt? What
flight to Frankfurt?
I was later told by the airline that I could leave the next day but that the
plane would overnight in Tehran, Iran. They had arranged a temporary visa,
accommodations and hopefully a tour of Iran’s nuclear bomb facility currently
under construction. A nice way to kill a few hours…Have you ever heard that
little voice in your ear that simply said “No!”?
A series of emails and unsuccessful phone calls to coordinate revised travel
with family finally yielded a reply: Margee, already in Denmark for 17 days, had
her fill of Europe and was ready to come home. Well now…a solo trek of Europe
for 17 days? Nah, I’ve already done that, and though the Bulls of Pamplona were
tempting, they could wait another year.
This opportunity, I felt, was grounds for a truly clandestine, sporadic &
foolish act. However, time was at a premium. A new plan involved cashing in a
ticket to Germany, convert a 4-inch stack of afghan money into dollars, racing
through the goat filled streets of Kabul and buy a ticket to Dubai. Going home
and unpacking from a European backpacking adventure and repacking for 12 days in
a warm steamy climate. I also had to negotiate one of the world’s most secure
airports. I had two hours to make this entire event take place. A daunting task
for the common man, a way of life for me
The plot thickens. Upon arrival to Dubai I purchase an e-ticket to North America
on KLM & Continental, slept 10 hours in an air conditioned room for the 1st time
in a long time and arrived bright-eyed at 5am the next morning at the Dubai
Airport only to find my confirmed e-ticket was not confirmed and that the price
of the ticket had now doubled. A mad dash around town looking for a travel agent
yielded no luck. A call to Los Angeles caught senior American Airlines flight
attendant, Kelly Herrington, about to head to bed. She suggested doing the pilot
hitchhiking thing with Air France as they allowed free travel in the extra
cockpit seat to other pilots as space allowed. That is… all pilots except
desperate ones from America working for the UN. Forty dollars of phone cards
later, a compromise was made with
Continental Airlines and a short 36 hours later, I landed near sunset in
friendly southern town on the banks of the Red River. A balmy Summer evening
welcomed me home.
The next day, I met my objective of attending at Lt. Colonel Chuck Owens’
retirement from the United States Air Force at a ceremony at Barksdale AFB,
Louisiana. Since no one in America knew of my whereabouts and with a number of
friends in the building, I eased into the back of the room and sat next to the
rather stunned W.G. Anderson family. They obviously thought they had finally
gotten rid of me on the far side of the world. Near the end of the tasteful and
well-planned ceremony, Lt. Col. Owens was speaking and was shocked to see my
face in the crowd. His speech, interrupted by “Oh my gosh, Luken!” prompted the
sudden twisting of the head of a particularly beautiful young woman in the front
row. I thought she was in charge of security and wanted to know who the
troublemaker was that had crashed the party. Lucky for me, she was a family
friend of the colonel’s. As the formal proceedings ended, I approached the woman
to apologize for my transgressions. The woman was in fact named Loriana and as I
laid eyes on her for the very first time, received the very best hug I have ever
had.
The remainder of the trip is not unlike any other vacation: Seeing friends and
family, getting to know Loriana, going to familiar places I know and like; some
unfortunately were unfamiliar. I departed overseas a week before Katrina and
what I saw in Mississippi & Louisiana was far from the world I left behind.
I have since returned to Afghanistan, with its dusty air, unkempt children and
insecurity. I have begun distributing donated running shoes and bicycle tires
compliments of the Hagar & Owens families and Spokesman Bicycles of Mandeville,
La. to local kids and aspiring cyclists. In 12 short weeks, I once again will
live in America.
In assessing the cost of my spur of the moment travel to America, the following
conclusions were made:
-Short notice airfare: Way too much.
-Seeing my home region in ruins: Depressing but I was inspired by the resolve to
press on.
-Surprising a friend on his retirement: Makes up for the airfare.
-Getting the Best hug of my entire life: Priceless.
JLH
Luken and Loriana
New Shoes!
Wash Day
