First meetings can set a trend for the rest of your life. I met up with Barbados in 1978. I had just been appointed Lecturer in Child Health and my bosses (there were many) wanted me to attend the annual research meeting being held that year in Bridgetown. They flew me over to meet the rest of the half-drunken English expats and loquacious Jamaican experts that constituted the Faculty of Medicine. There was no room at the Holiday Inn where the conference was being held so I was put up at the old Silver Beach hotel run and owned by two elderly Bajan ladies.
My flight was an evening one and I arrived late. At the front desk I asked about dinner and was quietly told that dinner was only served at a certain time but that if I wanted I could go down the street and perhaps get a sandwich from the local pub.
Not feeling like walking I retired to my bedroom, unpacked and had began opening a bag of Crix when the phone rang and a voice said: “Dr Bratt, I am (name called) and I am the owner of this establishment. I am just finishing my dinner and I wonder whether you would be interested in having a bite with me?”
I eagerly agreed and walked over to where she had directed me. It was the private living and dining room of the owners. One of the ladies was sitting down watching television, the other, setting a place with knife and fork and plate, looked up and said sweetly, “Good evening, I hope you don’t mind eating here, the hotel dining room is closed.” Stunned, I did my best to say thanks and sat down. Within minutes she arrived back with a plate of flying fish and coocoo, apologised for having nothing better but that was what they had eaten for their dinner that night, smiled and left to join her sister in front the TV set.
Imagine arriving new in a country and being invited by two old ladies into their private rooms to share their dinner!
That memory, my introduction to old time Bajan manners and courtesy, will remain forever.
Baltimore. Another arrival, a few years before, this time with wife and two year old child. I had graduated six months before in Venezuela and after working 12-hour stretches in health centres for six days a week to make some desperately needed money, we were on our way to Franklyn Square Hospital in Baltimore where I had been matched to do an internship. Franklyn Square was my seventh pick. None of the big university hospitals I had applied for had wanted a recently graduated doctor from an unknown country (apart from the incident where Nixon had been stoned when he came to Caracas, Americans knew nothing about Latin America and really, still don’t.)
So off we flew on the Pan Am flight direct to the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. We were seated at the very back of the plane. We were nervous, going up to who knew what. Even though the pictures and letters from FSH were pleasant, we had heard all sorts of things about Baltimore. Our daughter caught our nervousness and cried incessantly. My wife had to constantly hold her. It didn’t help. The flight attendants came around with food. I began eating. My wife looked on hungrily. I tried to take the child. She cried more. My wife tried eating and holding her. Nothing doing. Suddenly one of the “air hostesses” appeared and said. “Let me have her, honey!” She took Natasa who immediately stopped crying and walked her up and down the aisle until we had completed the meal.
We will never forget the simple kindness of that American woman.
We arrived at the airport, went through immigration with my letter of introduction from the hospital, picked up our battered, old suitcases and timidly walked through the exit almost into the arms of a slender, hugely smiling Afro-American man, dressed in a brown suit, who said to us, “Welcome to the States!”, shook my hand vigorously, almost bowed to my wife, took the heaviest bag and walked us out to the parking lot.
Mr Smith turned out to be the manager of the intern and resident housing complex where we were to spend a year. He was efficiency and kindness personified. In the car he kept up a constant chatter, aimed at settling our nerves and when he found out that I knew a bit about baseball, settled down to instructing me in the finer aspects of the game, all the while repeating to my wife how she was going to enjoy her stay, talking about where the best places to shop were and how he would arrange for us to go to the supermarket and in the meanwhile he had stocked the fridge with bread and butter and cheese and coffee and he had! “You’ll be happy here!” he exclaimed as he opened the door to our flat and left us to rest.
The next day as soon as he realised that our apartment did not have a TV set, he arrived with apologies and one in his arms and then drove us to the supermarket. Memories are made of this. Could there have been a better introduction to the USA?