There is a huge store in Baku, Azerbaijan. It has several sections, very confusing and maze-ish.
We (my team and I) went with a list on the day we arrived into town (right after the overnight train) on, you guessed it, Valentine’s Day. We broke up into sections: supplies, breakfast, lunch, and ownership meals. (“Ownership meal” is when you volunteer to cook a meal for the whole team. I picked Tacos. (Porque, me gusta asi… And Mexican is tasty, no matter where you are.)
Eventually, we exited the store, ingredients in hand, hungry, tired, and accomplished.
It was too far to walk to the apartment with all of our spoils, so we hailed a taxi, or two. (Fun fact – hailing taxis & bargaining with foreign taxi drivers are two of my new favorite hobbies.) I finished bargaining, gave my teammates the thumbs-up to hop in, and turned to face the grocery store. My intent was to assess the giant we had just conquered.
Then I saw him.
And by “saw him”, I mean he got all up in my bubble. You know the personal space bubble? Yeah, that is not a thing in other countries. My initial reaction, NORMALLY, would have been one of safety. One of wisdom. My personal reaction would vary, depending on the degree of “danger” that I felt in my spirit. But with this guy, I felt nada. Nothing.
I looked in his hands. Flowers. A man of about 30 years old, with a face worn and haggard from life, was carrying a bouquet of small, yellow flowers. I felt a voice inside of me, “Buy one.” I looked in his eyes and asked, “How much?”
His Azerbaijani chatter hadn’t stopped since he approached me, and he couldn’t understand my question in English. Using hand signals, we eventually agreed on a price. I pulled out my personal budget from a pocket and received a small yellow bouquet in exchange.
Two minutes later we were in a taxi on the way to our housing for the month. We talked and laughed, trying to keep the mood light. We were all exhausted, but we had an abundance of joy.
We arrived at the apartment, and the Voice spoke to me again. “Give a bud to him.” Our taxi driver. Who knows his story. I picked off a yellow flower from the bouquet and as my team unloaded the trunk, I turned to him and smiled, with the flower in hand. His face exploded into a childish grin. He accepted the gift with a nod, got into his taxi, and drove away, still smiling.
Who knows his story, where he comes from, or where he will be one day.
My only responsibility is to love the person in front of me, and love them well.
