The Patron Saint of Impossible Causes
It was the last day of the tour. Just cool enough outside to make you shiver and zip up your jacket. June in the Bay Area was like that, warm sunny days preceded by heavy coat mornings. I hadn’t put mine on, because I knew I’d only take it off later and have to lug it around. I’d folded it into my suitcase, and put an extra sweater in my backpack for the flight home. I kept warm in the lobby, by the door. My passengers were trickling out of the hotel and onto the bus.
“Be careful, you’re boarding street-side,” I reminded them, “and drivers in Oakland are in a hurry to get to work.”
I’d gotten tips from almost everyone already, and they were generous. I had suspected they would be. Sometimes you intuitively know that you’ve pulled off a special one, a great vacation with deep human connection, not only between you and them but also between them and the others. The deeper that connection was, the more emotional everyone felt on the last day. The eye contact was sustained, the intention behind it sort of forceful. Acknowledge me, it said. I want your eyes to show me that your heart hurts a little, too.
The tall cheesemonger from Toulouse and his Parisian lady wheeled their bags out of the elevator. Outside, when Stacy reached for his suitcase to load it, he gave her a big kiss on one cheek, and then the other.
