The Power of Shared Moments of Awe

(a rainbow connection)

I was on a train in England in 1995 when I had an unforgettable encounter with a buttoned-up businessman. 

It’s not what you think. There was nothing salacious or offensive about it.

The weather in England was dreadful. I was used to shitty weather, because at that point I’d already spent two years at Penn State, which is located in one of the rainiest parts of one of the grayest, rainiest states in the country.

So when I went to live in England when I was 20, I wasn’t doing it because of the weather. It was gray as hell. It rained most days. I carried an umbrella everywhere.

I went because I was fascinated with the United Kingdom, and because I needed to get over Eric and I couldn’t do that if I stayed at Penn State. I’d been in a toxic relationship with him for over a year, and just couldn’t seem to quit him. Despite the fact that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, despite the fact that absolutely everyone was tired of me bitching and moaning about it, and despite the fact that I felt like my soul was being squeezed out of my chest every time I laid eyes on him, I just couldn’t let him go.

So I joined a work exchange program, filed the paperwork to take the fall semester off school, and got on a plane to London Heathrow.

That fall, I worked at a toy store, arranging action figures and answering questions from English locals about what I was doing there and why an American was running the register before the holiday season. At times, I was so homesick I thought I would die, and this was long before Skype, Zoom, or WhatsApp. I didn’t have a cell phone. Handwritten letters by post were my only connection to my former life.

Despite the homesickness, I loved England. I adored many things about it. The homesickness was because I was young and wholly unprepared for what it would be like to relocate thousands of miles away from my friends and family and then live there for four months. 

One of the things I loved (and still love) about the UK was the incredible train system. I lived in a town called Maidstone, so I could hop on the train anytime I wanted and be in the center of London in an hour for about £5. It was glorious. 

I took my Walkman with the bright orange foam headphones and listened to Everything But the Girl and Bruce Hornsby and Phil Collins during the train ride.

Whenever I had a day off from the toy store, I jumped on the train into the city. Buckingham Palace. Hyde Park. The British Museum. Trafalgar Square. I even saw a fabulous production of Starlight Express in the theater district one night. Robots! On roller skates! Glorious!

On the way back to Maidstone I felt exhausted but quietly thrilled that this was my actual life and I was living it. Because fuck you, Eric.

The other train passengers weren’t as starry-eyed as me. They were traveling home from jobs in the city, and they wore rumpled suits and carried briefcases with important papers.

Most of the seats faced each other, so I spent many a ride awkwardly avoiding eye contact with the tired Brits opposite me.

But on one particular afternoon train ride, the sun peeked through the clouds for just a bit, and I spotted an absolutely enormous rainbow streaming across the rolling English countryside. It took my breath away for a second, it was so unexpectedly beautiful.

And what do you want to do when you’re in the middle of a crowd of people and you spot a rainbow? You want to nudge someone and make sure they see it. Because we’re wired to share beauty. 

But I was traveling alone. It was just me and Bruce Hornsby.

I was in a crowded train car, though. There was a guy facing me — a middle-aged man in a typical suit, who was reading the paper.  So I reached over to him and said, “Hey.”

He looked up at me like, “Hmmm?” and I pointed out the window at the rainbow.

And the man transformed. A huge grin broke across his face, and he just beamed. “Beautiful!” he said, looking me in the eye for the first time. “Thank you.”

And then he went back to his headlines, and I went back to my headphones, and the train wobbled on through the hills on the way back to my temporary home.

There’s beauty to be found in the little moments. The ones that welcome wonder and awe into your world, if only for a minute. Even if you’re homesick or heartsick, and even if you’re not sure what you’re doing in life or where your train is headed, there’s room for rainbows.

Photo by YouSsef NaDram on Unsplash