I particularly like travelling. Some of my friends will know me as the person who enjoys working with timetables and logistics. Getting people from one place to another on time gives me a high. But even more exciting sometimes are the people you meet along the way.

Twice recently I have been subject to the kindness of strangers. This kindness sometimes manifests itself in the form of edible things, but often it includes simply the sharing of fellowship, the strangely intimate sharing of life that often happens between strangers sharing a seat.

The first attack of kindness was at the hands of a middle-aged man on a flight from London to Charlotte. This man had been through a lot; he was on the way back from Afghanistan via Dubai. He had worked in Afghanistan for two years, only returning to see his thirteen-year-old daughter once in that time. That man would have had me drunk by the end of the flight if I had accepted all his offers to buy me drinks. As it was, I ended up with a double-jack and coke, a can of Pringles, and old Afghan and Iraqi currency. But even more, I learned how small my return adjustments would be in comparison with his. Despite such a huge difference in age, history, and prospects for the future, we shared our hopes and fears while crammed into coach seats for nine hours. I have no idea why, but he showered me with food and friendship.

More recently I boarded a midnight train out of Pittsburgh going to Chicago. Across the aisle from myself were two young ladies who were attending Penn State. More interestingly, one was from New Zealand and one was from Australia. Thanks to my experiences in Europe and especially England, we were able to talk about the differences between the cultures and our experiences of the British tutorial system compared with the American college system. Seated next to me was a woman, Peggy, who could possibly be a (young) grandmother. She, the girls, and myself talked about travel and our mutual destination, Chicago.

Amazingly, we also shared a train back from Chicago; this time the girls were in the seat in front of Peggy and me. I had fortified my bag with a Big Lots special: a super multi-pack of peanut butter crackers. A good supper and suitable breakfast, I thought. Plus, I could have some left over for those days this week when I would need something quick in the morning. Peggy had other ideas. She didn’t have much, and I felt a little bit bad eating it, but she shared her bistro sandwich and jalapeño pepper flavoured crisps while we watched the old industrial installations of southern Chicago roll on past. Along the way we talked about what we had seen on our trips in the city.

Peggy did most of the talking, telling me about her grandson and his parents. Much of it was, to me, slightly sad, and I think it was to her too. She worries about his development; apparently he is very bright, but his mother lets him do what he wants in most situations. I could sympathize with her frustration with young children out of control, though it was an odd situation – one is usually wise to not criticize a mother’s children or grandchildren. But she started it. And I didn’t exactly have anything to say. But perhaps that was the point; perhaps it was a time to listen as the train rumbled down the rails.

These incidents refresh a hope in the everyday; a belief in the grace of strangers. They surprise and humour, sadden, and evoke thought. Strangers can be beautiful.