Accidental Tourist
I had an experience yesterday that left me with a sour taste in my mouth. One of my coworker's noticed a gentleman standing outside my workplace ringing the doorbell. "Who's that?" she asked, commenting, "He looks weird," before she retreated without answering the door. My boss ignored the ringing bell and kept on with her task at hand. So I went to answer the door.
Sure enough, there was a man, oddly dressed in a striped polo shirt and overalls, carrying a huge duffel bag and a pastel multicolored child's backpack, both stuffed to such a dangerous degree that I expected the contents to spontaneously erupt. "Can you help me?" he asked, pointing to a crumpled copied map. "I have address..."
I let him in and looked at his map and paper and quickly ascertained that he'd been dropped off on the wrong street. After a 2 day bus ride from New Orleans, Paolo, an Italian tourist, had hitched a ride to Windfern Rd. and not Windfern Forest, a mistake which landed him in my office with all his earthly possessions, and not 6 miles away at the house of his aunt, for whom he'd come to Texas, "just for a kiss on the cheek." A sentiment so sweet, it could make you cry.
Try as I might, though, I couldn't get his aunt on the phone and internet searches weren't fruitful either. As I racked my brain looking for a way to get him to his destination, he kept asking me questions.
"Where is the bus or subway?" Houston, inside the city limits, does have bus service. But my school is in the suburbs outside the city limits. We can Park & Ride from certain destinations and go downtown, but Metro bus was not an option to help a stranded tourist.
"Where is a police department?" Good question, Paolo. There used to be a "storefront" location in a nearby shopping center, but not anymore. After much pondering, I realize the closest Sheriff's department is over 5 miles away, probably closer to 10.
"They wrong me! They wrong me!" Paolo kept saying in reference to the people who gave him his ride from the bus station. "The bus driver told me keep going straight," he told me as he pointed to his map.
Houston, the nations 5th largest city, is not tourist or walker friendly. You must have a car in this city or live close to your work, unlike New York, where a car is optional and the subway can get you anywhere, and unlike European cities and countries that have buses and trains available for citizens and tourists alike. I felt embarassed that this poor man landed in Houston with the expectation of being able to navigate the city on his own. Instead he was stranded, lost and afraid, not knowing where to go or who to turn to for help.
I tried calling the sheriff's department but couldn't get through. I tried calling a Houston police officer who is next door to my school but noone was home. I tried calling my uncle, who used to work for the Refugee Alliance but he had no sympathy, telling me to marry Paolo and make him a citizen so he could stay here. Paolo and I both pleaded with my boss and coworkers but despite it being lunch hour for most of them, noone would give the man a ride. I carpool to work each day and didn't have a vehicle at my disposal and was unable to help either.
It was quite a shock to see so many "Christian" people unwilling to help this man, so far from home and with noone to call for help. It put an ugly end to the vacation of a lifetime for Paolo. He got to see San Francisco, Las Vegas, Phoenix and New Orleans, all without a hitch. But his last 48 hours in America were spent wandering the streets of Houston treated like an undesirable.
When he left my school, which he'd turned to for help because his sister teaches in an elementary in Italy, he was on his way "to the King Burger. Maybe they will help me call the police." I know he had money and plans to stay at a hotel before flying home Saturday morning, but I've worried about this man who briefly came into my world. I hope he got his kiss from his aunt and I hope his good memories of the US out weigh his experiences here in Houston.
A city who is unable to provide transportation for one Italian tourist certainly has no right bidding for the Olympics, which will bring an influx of thousands of tourists and athletes, all of whom will expect to get from point A to point B.
To those who turned away from Paolo, Christian is as Christian does. In turning away from this lost soul, they turned away from Christ, and in refusing him aid, they refused Christ. I know that at some time, they too will find themselves lost and helpless. Maybe at that time, they'll remember Paolo and beg his forgiveness.
And to Paolo and the Monteleore family, in the US and Italy, on behalf of the city of Houston, I apologize for Paolo's exasperating and frightening time here. I hope and pray that he not only reached his aunt but made his flight and returned home safely. Paolo, if you're reading, I hope you'll keep in touch.
Sure enough, there was a man, oddly dressed in a striped polo shirt and overalls, carrying a huge duffel bag and a pastel multicolored child's backpack, both stuffed to such a dangerous degree that I expected the contents to spontaneously erupt. "Can you help me?" he asked, pointing to a crumpled copied map. "I have address..."
I let him in and looked at his map and paper and quickly ascertained that he'd been dropped off on the wrong street. After a 2 day bus ride from New Orleans, Paolo, an Italian tourist, had hitched a ride to Windfern Rd. and not Windfern Forest, a mistake which landed him in my office with all his earthly possessions, and not 6 miles away at the house of his aunt, for whom he'd come to Texas, "just for a kiss on the cheek." A sentiment so sweet, it could make you cry.
Try as I might, though, I couldn't get his aunt on the phone and internet searches weren't fruitful either. As I racked my brain looking for a way to get him to his destination, he kept asking me questions.
"Where is the bus or subway?" Houston, inside the city limits, does have bus service. But my school is in the suburbs outside the city limits. We can Park & Ride from certain destinations and go downtown, but Metro bus was not an option to help a stranded tourist.
"Where is a police department?" Good question, Paolo. There used to be a "storefront" location in a nearby shopping center, but not anymore. After much pondering, I realize the closest Sheriff's department is over 5 miles away, probably closer to 10.
"They wrong me! They wrong me!" Paolo kept saying in reference to the people who gave him his ride from the bus station. "The bus driver told me keep going straight," he told me as he pointed to his map.
Houston, the nations 5th largest city, is not tourist or walker friendly. You must have a car in this city or live close to your work, unlike New York, where a car is optional and the subway can get you anywhere, and unlike European cities and countries that have buses and trains available for citizens and tourists alike. I felt embarassed that this poor man landed in Houston with the expectation of being able to navigate the city on his own. Instead he was stranded, lost and afraid, not knowing where to go or who to turn to for help.
I tried calling the sheriff's department but couldn't get through. I tried calling a Houston police officer who is next door to my school but noone was home. I tried calling my uncle, who used to work for the Refugee Alliance but he had no sympathy, telling me to marry Paolo and make him a citizen so he could stay here. Paolo and I both pleaded with my boss and coworkers but despite it being lunch hour for most of them, noone would give the man a ride. I carpool to work each day and didn't have a vehicle at my disposal and was unable to help either.
It was quite a shock to see so many "Christian" people unwilling to help this man, so far from home and with noone to call for help. It put an ugly end to the vacation of a lifetime for Paolo. He got to see San Francisco, Las Vegas, Phoenix and New Orleans, all without a hitch. But his last 48 hours in America were spent wandering the streets of Houston treated like an undesirable.
When he left my school, which he'd turned to for help because his sister teaches in an elementary in Italy, he was on his way "to the King Burger. Maybe they will help me call the police." I know he had money and plans to stay at a hotel before flying home Saturday morning, but I've worried about this man who briefly came into my world. I hope he got his kiss from his aunt and I hope his good memories of the US out weigh his experiences here in Houston.
A city who is unable to provide transportation for one Italian tourist certainly has no right bidding for the Olympics, which will bring an influx of thousands of tourists and athletes, all of whom will expect to get from point A to point B.
To those who turned away from Paolo, Christian is as Christian does. In turning away from this lost soul, they turned away from Christ, and in refusing him aid, they refused Christ. I know that at some time, they too will find themselves lost and helpless. Maybe at that time, they'll remember Paolo and beg his forgiveness.
And to Paolo and the Monteleore family, in the US and Italy, on behalf of the city of Houston, I apologize for Paolo's exasperating and frightening time here. I hope and pray that he not only reached his aunt but made his flight and returned home safely. Paolo, if you're reading, I hope you'll keep in touch.
posted by TrisaTx at
3:12 PM
1 Comments:
ugh... you're right I am afraid. I love Texas, and love houston. But I must admit after touring large cities elsewhere, we really SUCK for public transportation.
-Nuckles
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Anonymous, at 1:41 AM
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