My Kindness of Strangers Experience

By Robin Weaver

During my years as a military dependent, I had the extreme good fortune to attend graduate classes with a group of pilots in Okinawa, Japan. Don’t get too excited—it wasn’t really like “Top Gun.”  Sigh. But the guys were officers and gentlemen and our country can be proud.

However, I was really fortunate because these classmates piloted aircraft that permitted dependents to get “hops” on said-aircraft when space was available. Sadly, I didn’t get to zip into the wild blue yonder in a F16 or SR-71 (probably just as well given my motion sickness), but the Air Force has all sorts of planes, including a T-Something-or-Other and another T-Thingee type plane that has room for four, six, and sometimes 8 passengers. A few of my fellow collegians piloted these planes to places like the Phillipines, Korea, and Hong Kong. Since only the pilot and co-pilot occupied these sorties, civilians with advance warning could tagalong on these flights (hence my extreme good fortune).

I was an excited passenger on one such trip to the Philippines (the shopping was stellar), when mid-flight, the pilot got a call and the flight was diverted on another mission. Sadly, my pilot buddy couldn’t tell me about the mission, but non-Air Force personnel were strictly forbidden.

So they threw me out of the plane.

Just kidding.  After much apologizing and shoulder shrugging (by the pilots), I was unceremonious dumped in Korea. After they landed, of course.  And that was South Korea, in case you’ve run for your heart pills thinking they’d left me in the other K-Country.

Anyway, I was told to take a train to Seoul where a hop back to Okinawa had been arranged.  I thought I was being punked until the plane didn’t return.  I watched the sky for a good half hour.

That diverted mission must have been very important, because the guys didn’t even have time to tell me how to get to the train station; either that, or they didn’t know. 

Keep in mind, this is happening in the days before cellphones, and long before the internet. And I’m at a tiny airport in Ulsan—not a place used to Americans. Or the English language. And all the signage was in Korean. Can you believe it? I got lots of bows, and smiles. Koreans are very friendly folk, but I didn’t encounter one person who knew more English than “Misskey Mouse.”

But I was not deterred.  Even, then, I was honing my detective novel skills and figured out how to get to train station. I got on a bus with a picture of a train amid all the Korea Hangul. And prayed.

Suprisingly, the train depot in tiny Ulsan was like Grand Central Station. Thousands of people, all Asian, all in a hurry, and none speaking English. Not even at the ticket counter.  I finally got one agent to nod politely and repeat, “Ahh, Seoul.”

After a lot more nodding and pointing, I realized they wanted me to pay for the ticket. “Ah, Sugar.” (That was me, in case you’re wondering).  I was headed to the Philippines—I didn’t have one Korean won . And they didn’t take American Express—not that I had a card back then.

I placed my head in my hands, wondering what in the Ah-Sugar I was going to do, when someone tapped on my shoulder.

“May I be of assistance?”

I turned, thinking I’d hallucinated.  In a vast array of Asisan people, there was an American missionary, probably the only other English-speaking person in the city. The kind stranger purchased the ticket for me and refused to accept any dollars in exchange.

Spoiler Alert: I made it back to Okinawa. Maybe I’ll tell you about my Korean Train Ride in my March Blog. Suffice it to say, I’m grateful for the kindness of an unexpected stranger—and for the group of fellow train riders who sacrificed their magazines for me—more on that in March.

Happy End-of-Winter,

Robin

P.S.  The aircraft was actually a T-1.  😊