“I have always relied on the kindness of strangers,” breathed Vivien Leigh in the most famous adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire. Her delivery is that of a woman to whom life has thrown a few curveballs. At the risk of overidentifying with fictional characters, after a recent experience at Heathrow, I felt Blanche and I had a couple of things in common. We were both just fate’s playthings.
I travelled to Nigeria last month, to attend a literary festival. To get to the ancient city of Abeokuta, I had to go from New York to London and then on to Lagos. I was in the air for more than 12 hours, and I felt each one in my back. (Side note: I miss when I lived in Europe and everything felt no more than five hours away.) I glided through JFK but hit a speedbump in London: I was over-liquided, the man at security told me. I’d have to chuck some of my 100ml bottles of lotions and potions. Look, I have dry skin – I need these, I told the man with the gloves. Puppy-dog eyes meant nothing to him, nor did muted grumbles.
Deflated, I prepared to kill some darlings when… A Man. “Can I help?” a voice said. In hindsight, I feel that a celestial choir heralded his arrival, but I may be wrong. He asked if he could take the bag on my behalf. The gloved official asked some questions and acquiesced.
Here’s the thing: I was braced for some kind of inappropriateness thereafter. I felt myself preparing casual but pointed references to my boyfriend, but no need. A pure good deed! In the terrible year of 2017! Reader, I married him. (I didn’t. But what a meet-cute it would have been.)
