Guardian angels (part 1): Dustin
Here’s to me, Mrs Robinson
They’re not even always people. They can be animals, or songs, or coincidences. They’re not the same as the kind souls who return your keys when they’re lost, or cook you a lasagne when you have a baby, or help start your car by the side of the road. Although they’re great too.
No, guardian angels are the ones who choose to see you, and let you see yourself, even for a fleeting moment. They’re a flashlight on your face in the long tunnel of life. You never forget them.
I went to Fiji on a press trip about twenty years ago. A marquee twinkling with fairylights, dinner with a table of ten strangers, supposed to be networking but feeling like I always did at these events. Out of place. Appreciative of the food, the fancy hotel room, but probably heartbroken, unfulfilled, frustrated. It was my early 30s after all. I’d been to hundreds of events like this, not always as glamorous, in Sydney where I was living, or London where I started my writing career.
But at this dinner, on this night, I found myself seated next to a funny freckled boy called Dustin.
He was the son of one of the delegates. Rather than making small talk about the conference, or whatever “groundbreaking” tech product was being launched at the event, we giggled for a couple of happy hours about the strange squid on our plates, about TV, about music, about the beach.
When I returned to Sydney, to my desk, Dustin emailed me to ask how I was, to tell me about he’d been parasailing (“Do you know what that is?”) after I’d left Fiji, and to discuss the latest series of Family Guy.
He remarked how happy he was that I replied straight away rather than taking weeks, like his friends. He signed off with things like “I miss you already, I probably won’t ever see you again. JUST BOUGHT THE WHOLE FAMILY GUY SERIES AND MOVIE ON DVD, Bula” and “If you don’t reply I’ll h8 you for the rest of my or your life, just kidding — if you’re ever in my home town please pop in, Bula.”
We didn’t stay in touch for long. We weren’t meant to. I was a woman in my early 30s, he was 12. But we made a boring dinner in Fiji more bearable. He probably didn’t want to be there and neither did I. A serendipitous seating plan.
The silliness of a 12 year old boy, not yet encumbered by the bullshit and blah blah blah, in a sea of suits, was exactly what I needed on that night. More than anything, he made me feel less alone, 16,000 km from my real home and 3,000 km from my temporary one.
Bula, Dustin.
