I found two things in a parking lot the other day. Both were out of place, lost, and lonely.
The first thing I found was a Belizean quarter. That’s worth about 12 US cents. No idea how it got in the parking lot of a Pleasanton Home Depot, but it was. Finding the coin struck me in a reflective way, and I began wondering what this little coin was doing here. It was lost. It would be scared in this big strange land. Certainly it would be lonely. All the other hot shot American coins were probably teasing it.
So I put it in my pocket and brought it home. Then I snuck it into my small travel portfolio with some other random Belizean coins that I take back and forth. It’s not home for the lost quarter, but at least it is now among friends. And perhaps it will get home the next time I visit Belize.
You think that’s an odd way to think of an inanimate object? Yes, it probably is. It just seemed so random that I would find a Belizean coin. Me, of all people. Not a Canadian coin, not a Mexican coin … it was a Belizean coin. Somehow it just struck me.
Then the other day I found another lost treasure. She was in her 60’s, walking randomly through the parking lot where I work. She was dressed poorly, like a woman who has given up on fashion. Or perhaps who never knew fashion at all. Her face showed confusion. She’d walk a few steps, stop and look at all the buildings around her, take a few more steps, and look around again. It was before the mid-day rush around my office, so there was minimal traffic, and she stood out in the emptiness.
I walked toward my car while watching her. She caught my eye and it was obvious that she wanted to ask me something. I smiled, took a few steps toward her, and she said something in an accent that I didn’t recognize. Perhaps Eastern European, I thought. Seeing that I didn’t understand, she repeated her question. A third time and I understood she was asking, “Traffic school?”
There’s a drivers education school down the hall from my office. They cater to teenagers who dress in the typical wardrobe of suburban teens these days, quickly forming short-term cliques who help them socially get through the ordeal of actually having to learn silly things like DMV rules. Apparently this elderly woman in her Eastern European style wanted to join them.
Like the coin, she seemed lost. Lonely. Confused. Nervous about what she was getting into. Intimidated by the others she’d be joining.
I couldn’t blame her. And I felt for her.
I smiled and pointed up the stairs, telling her that’s the way to the “traffic school”. She still seemed confused so I made an expression to follow me. We walked up together, only to find the school closed. I gave her the brochures they keep by the front door and encouraged her to call them. She seemed to trust me after that brief exchange.
So we talked for a bit — not long, perhaps 5 minutes. But long enough to learn that she was from Romania. Her son-in-law had a “good job” at a local company. Probably an engineer at a local high tech firm, I thought. She was happy to be in America but found herself stuck at home most of the time. In a suburban town where driving is a must, she needed a license.
Well, I think that’s what she said. It’s what I could piece together.
Not really knowing what to say, I listened and smiled. What bravery, I thought. Thousands of miles from home, most likely a widow, trying to learn a new language, a new culture, a new way of life, new everything. It would terrify me, to be honest. My esteem for her grew the more I thought about it.
We walked past my office on the way out of the building. I told her this was where I worked. She was unimpressed, but I figured she might want to know somebody during those traffic school breaks when all the 15-year olds run over to the pizza place. Perhaps, in this small way, I was putting her in my pocket like I did that Belizean quarter. Giving her a temporary home.
We parted with a simple good-bye and a smile. I’ve not seen her since, but I find myself looking for her. Just as I look for coins. They are little pieces of treasure, waiting to be found, wanting a safe place to call home.