Long day's journey

An early trip to the airport on Wednesday, a heart stopping sprint at O’Hare to make our connecting flight to Champaign, a joyful reunion with our four-legged family member, and thus we arrived home late that night.  I fully expected to blog about our travels all day Thursday and Friday as I unpacked and did laundry and reacquainted myself with house and home. My biggest worry was trying to get over the leftover bit of tourista from our trip. I first hit Facebook on Thursday to see what was going on with the world, or at least my world.

And then…the wind was taken out of my sails.

My longtime long-distance friend Glenn Thomas had posted a status update “Long day's journey into night... Thursday morning departure - Friday night arrival. — traveling to Melbourne, Victoria, Australia from Air France KLM Lounge - GVA Geneva Airport.”  Strange, I thought, usually Glenn loves traveling.  He seems to dread this flight.  Wonder what’s up.

As I continued reading through the comments—some joking that he would finally get to Australia and it would be Monday, some querying whether the trip was for work or play, as Glenn traveled a great deal for both—my eyes came to a post from his nephew Jordan.  I couldn’t absorb the words.  Glenn was on that fateful flight to Kuala Lumpur.  What were they talking about?  I quickly Googled the flight number, MH17.  I looked at photos and reports in horror.  I felt sick.  Someone had mentioned terrorism, and I was instantly reminded of learning that my former student had been in the World Trade Center the morning of September 11, 2001.  

But this was a friend, someone I had hung out with more than 25 years ago at the Centre International des Etudes Françaises in Dijon with other international students studying French.  Glenn had managed to maintain several of those friendships ever since.  I had had long talks with him.  I had had many drinks with him.  I had sat in cafes with him, among friends, discussing the world, language, politics.

This was a guy who had been a successful journalist and producer for the BBC World News, but had funny stories about what a terrible anchor he’d been on the local news near his home in Blackpool.  He had a successful career for the World Health Organization, and lived in Geneva, Switzerland, but swore he “still had terrible French.”

This was a guy that after reconnecting on Facebook many years ago had come to visit me out of the blue in Champaign in 2010; he enjoyed touring the campus after having been an exchange student here in the late 80s.  I made dinner, and he made it a point to get to know my family; later we went to a local beer pub.  We took photos and he met some friends of mine.

This was a guy who offered me his fabulous apartment in Geneva last summer; we were to meet up before his trip, then I could stay while he was traveling.  I was welcome to invite friends, the ever-generous Glenn insisted.  I ultimately missed the opportunity, however, by over-scheduling myself in other locations.  A regret.

This was a guy who had the sunniest disposition of anyone I’ve ever met.  He knew a lot about the world, but was never jaded by his experiences.  His sense of wonder, his sense of humor, and his throaty laugh, were contagious.  The sparkle never left his eye.  He had a suitcase full of stories, but was also a good listener.  He was a consummate professional in journalism and media, but knew how to really enjoy himself outside of work.

And, in the middle of a long day’s journey into night, his light went out.  I grieve for his family—a twin sister and niece and nephew who were extremely close with him—and I grieve for his partner Claudio. (I hope to one day meet them all and tell them in person.)  I grieve for our mutual friend York who introduced us, who maintained a long-distance friendship with him steadily for 30 years.  I grieve for his colleagues, friends, and professional contacts; tributes have been made in the media showing how respected he was and how missed he will be.  I selfishly grieve for myself, for not taking advantage of the opportunity to meet up with him one more time.

There are lessons for me, though, that I’m sure Glenn would want us all to learn:  grab life.  Eat life with gusto.  Learn, love, listen, explore.  Enjoy what you do, and if you don’t enjoy it, change.  Live with passion.  Treasure your family.  Keep your sense of humor.  Travel everywhere on your bucket list as soon as you can, and sell your car if you have to.  Have fun.  Squeeze every bit of happiness you can from every single day, whether it’s your first, your ten-thousandth, or your last.