When I flew back to Gone West last month, I took the train into town with my two suitcases and my bookshelf-in-a-box. I sat in front of a wheelchair space, because that's where there was room to prop up my two suitcases and my long, skinny box. All the way home, I leaned forward and held the box into place, so it wouldn't fall across the aisle or on my head.
A man in a wheelchair got on the train and I looked about frantically for a place to move all my stuff (there are, after all, announcements made at every stop telling you that you must give up those seats for seniors and people with disabilities) . "Oh, no," he said, "it's fine. You don't have to move. I'm fine right here." He put himself on the opposite side, next to the door.
One stop before mine, I got up and laboriously moved each piece of luggage in front of the door. When the train stopped at my stop, I jumped out and pulled everything out, one piece at a time. The man in the wheelchair spun one of the suitcases and pushed it out the door for me.
Grace.
(P.S. Happy birthday, Oma!)
A man in a wheelchair got on the train and I looked about frantically for a place to move all my stuff (there are, after all, announcements made at every stop telling you that you must give up those seats for seniors and people with disabilities) . "Oh, no," he said, "it's fine. You don't have to move. I'm fine right here." He put himself on the opposite side, next to the door.
One stop before mine, I got up and laboriously moved each piece of luggage in front of the door. When the train stopped at my stop, I jumped out and pulled everything out, one piece at a time. The man in the wheelchair spun one of the suitcases and pushed it out the door for me.
Grace.
(P.S. Happy birthday, Oma!)
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