Seems many a story here on Ricochet revolve around travel and doing my fair share of traveling I am compelled to share. I was on my way back home recently and traveling through Charlotte airport. It was a normal Friday mid-afternoon flight returning to Ronald Reagan International Airport. I had a short layover and moved quickly to my gate.

Once there the incoming plane has just landed and folks were getting off allowing me time to survey my world or turn on the oh so entertaining people watching system. We had the usual array of folks around the gate: recreational travelers, traveling pilots and flight attendants, military folks, families needing some assistance, disabled needing assistance and of course businessmen talking on their phones via Bluetooth (life and death decisions, I am sure) making those around them glance sideways ensuring the businessmen weren’t talking to them.

This is when I first noticed him, he appeared to be talking on an unseen Bluetooth hidden amongst his shoulder-length unkempt wavy blond hair. Upon further inspection, though he was having a full-blown very out-loud conversation with himself about the travails of travel, much of which I agreed with (using my inside voice of course). He was wearing a Beatles t-shirt, plaid shorts, athletic socks pulled up over his calves, sneakers, and had two backpacks one of which was pink and had childish Japanese anime cartoon characters on it. He looked a little like Roger Daltrey of The Who rode hard and hung up wet. I estimate he was anywhere between 50-60 and life had taken its toll. As folks became aware that his cupboards weren’t completely closed they averted their eyes and tried to shuffle away without being outwardly appalled.

The boarding process started and as I was mentally dissecting why they let a couple of military folks on in civilian clothes first with some backpacks (I’m thinking weapons), our friend approached the desk and proffered his ticket. I assume not wanting what quickly could be assessed as a scene they let him on. And surprisingly he clearly and sincerely said “thank you” to the attendants.

As we boarded the plane, he was near the back, on the left side (as you board), window seat. He had a proper looking young lady sitting in the aisle seat clearly under duress and fretting of her fate. And our man was now belaboring airplane noise and never getting any rest. And again I have to say, amen, brother. I took my seat two rows back, same side, aisle seat near the effervescent bathrooms (said no one ever). Moments later our proper young lady came back and told the male flight attendant that we had a passenger that was touched. My translation, not her words. The flight attendant made a visual mental note and started keeping watch. As boarding finished no one sat in the middle between my friend and Ms. Proper and she was moved to another seat.

For the record I was planning to relieve her should she not find another seat thus taking one for the team. I assessed he was not dangerous and for purely selfish reasons I was going to make sure he did nothing to get our flight delayed or redirected. Once she moved I felt relatively comfortable with my position to move if I had to. And I felt I could verbally disarm this guy – again not believing him to be dangerous. I was actually concerned that someone might thump first talk later without the benefit of the doubt should something arise. It is also notable he had a cough that would rival Doc Holliday and that covering one’s mouth was not on the menu adding to the angst all around. He maintained without a hitch throughout the flight with the flight attendants giving him some extra attention – in a good way. As I watched him exit the jetway, I muttered to myself, “But for the grace of God go I.” And headed out.

I exited the airport and readied myself to get a Lyft. Reagan is doing some construction making an oh-so-smooth airport even smoother. I would say picture ants but they are way more organized than Reagan International. Enter Battulga, my Lyft driver. I got in and we exited the airport.

I ask him where he is from.

“Mongolia.”

“I have always wanted to go there.”

He snorts as if I have lost my ever-loving mind. It’s a true statement.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“A year and a half.”

“Your English is excellent,” I say.

“Thank you, I try hard,” he says.

“Is your family here?”

“My daughter.”

I let that lie not trying to be too pushy.

We drove south through Old Town Alexandria.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Nevada.” I say “next to California,” trying to orient him.

It’s quiet.

“Speesastasn?” he asks.

“What?”

“Speesastasn?” again.

I am working hard to decipher.

“Ah — Space Station!” I say back to him.

“Yes!”

“In Nevada?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Nope. Just some military bases, space stations are Cape Canaveral, Florida, and Houston, Texas.”

He nods and makes some noises that point to remembering.

It’s quiet again.

“Nuclear bombs…?” he asks inquisitively.

I almost laugh out loud and say yep, we tested nukes there underground impressed at his knowledge of the USA.

I ask him if he will return to Mongolia.

He says yes — in a few years. “My daughter is in medical school in George Washington University. Father’s job to be here,” he says.

He will return to Mongolia to a wife and son when she graduates bringing a doctor to his country, his home.

Suddenly, I am humbled. A man living out the greater good. “How many are there out there doing this?” I ask myself. We get to my house and he says it’s a nice neighborhood. I get out, shake his hand, tell him he is a good man and give him a huge tip. I turn and head for the house somehow better for meeting Battulga.