It was a sultry August evening when I set out, about 10 o’clock, to meet a student from the Ukraine, scheduled to arrive at the bus station. I was to take him to the Lorna Sundberg House for his first night’s accommodation and then, the next day, I would take him to Dillard. That was the plan. But it didn’t exactly work out that way.
The bus from Washington arrived pretty much on time. Armed with a sign I had made up bearing the student’s name in large letters, I placed myself in a prominent position, more or less forcing the debarking bus riders to take notice. They all gave it a cursory glance, but nothing more. The bus driver was helping his passengers with their luggage. I asked him if this was the scheduled bus from Dulles International Airport. He assured me that it was. Eventually no more passengers emerged from the bus.
Had the student fallen asleep? I wondered. I quickly entered the bus holding up my sign and calling out the student’s name. I few sleepy looks were all the response this elicited.
Perhaps he had gotten off at the first Charlottesville stop at the bus terminal instead of at the railroad station where we had agreed to meet. I drove down the few blocks and entered the bus terminal, which was nearly deserted. All I encountered were a few disinterested looks.
So I went to check with the Lorna Sundberg House to see if, by some miraculous circumstance, he had arrived there. He hadn’t.
There was nothing to do but to go back home. Since I knew his flight numbers, I called the airlines to find out if he had perhaps missed one of his multiple connections. It turned out that all the planes had arrived on time. The one thing none of the airlines would tell me was whether he had actually been on any of the planes. Ah, security!
Still wondering what had happened I went to bed.
Early the next morning the telephone rang. It was the missing student. Where was he? I asked. At the Lorna Sundberg House, he said. Curious as I was, I decided to forego further questions and, instead, arranged to meet him — pronto.
When, a short time later, I arrived at the Lorna Sundberg House, he told me how he got to be there.
After his arrival at Dulles International Airport in Washington, he had gone to the appointed place to wait for the bus which was to take him to Charlottesville. Three other students were also waiting there – in vain, as it turned out. Eventually, they realized something was amiss and went to the office of the bus company. There they learned to their amazement that the bus had left for Charlottesville on time. Further investigation disclosed that this particular bus had been operated by a new driver who had evidently omitted the bus stop where he was to pick up the students. The bus company decided they owed more than an explanation and ordered up a new bus for our four students, hopefully with a more experienced driver.
They arrived in Charlottesville, around 2 a.m., not a time when Charlottesville is at its most lively. The driver didn’t quite know where to drop the students off, so he picked some corner and left them stranded.
Fortunately, one of the quartet had been given the key to the apartment of a student absent from Charlottesville at that time. So he invited all of them to share his accommodations for the night. The question was how to get there.
While they were considering this, the students were accosted by an obviously very drunk woman who wanted to embrace them and implored them to kiss her. The students shrank from this apparition. While fending her off, they suddenly heard a man’s voice: “What the hell are you doing with my wife?”
Not only was he the husband, but he was also a taxi driver. Not quite as drunk as his wife, he drove the students to the apartment on Ivy Road, where they spent the night.
In the morning, my Ukrainian student made his way – sine luggage – to the Lorna Sundberg House from where he called me.
Our first attempt to collect his belongings failed because we couldn’t locate the student who had the key to the apartment where they had spent the night. After several more failures to reach him by telephone, we drove to Ivy Road and rang the door bell. No answer. Some time later, we tried again. The result was no better. So we began to wonder whether perhaps he had become the victim of some nefarious scheme and in the process lost everything he needed. On our next unsuccessful attempt at recovery we went looking around the outside of the building and were relieved to see his belongings stored on the balcony. In the end, we located the student who had generously shared his abode with the others. He had been busy all day with his own affairs. He turned out to be a particularly pleasant person and I mentally apologized for my unwarranted suspicions.
Of course, he will never know that.
Carl Hull
IHP Host
