The Road Less Traveled: A steward of Aspen

I was slumped on my backpack in an Indian train station, head buried in my hands, marinating in a cocktail of sweat, cow dung, and poor decision-making. After two years of travel through Southeast Asia — eating street food with questionable hygiene, sleeping in hammocks slung between palm trees, and negotiating with taxi drivers like my life depended on it (because sometimes, it did) — I thought I had this whole “world traveler” thing figured out.

Then I got to India.

A friend in Thailand had told me, “I could help you get your train ticket to Darjeeling, but I wouldn’t want to rob you of the experience of trying to buy a train ticket in India.”

I laughed, full of youthful arrogance and naive optimism. How hard could it be?

Oh, sweet summer child.

That “experience” was an eight-hour bureaucratic odyssey through the world of Indian train stations. I stood in lines that led to other lines. I filled out forms to get permission to fill out other forms. I copied a date from a stranger’s ticket because I didn’t know the actual date.

After a full day of trying, I had secured a train ticket. I approached the train platform proudly displaying my hard earned ticket, where the conductor glanced at my ticket and promptly informed me that I was 24 hours early. My ticket was for the next day. I now understood what my friend meant when he said “I wouldn’t want to rob you of the experience,” as it was an experience I’d tell stories about years later (That’s a call-back joke).

So there I was: No ticket, no train, no plan. But I wasn’t about to give up. I found a guy who agreed to help me bribe my way onto the train. He said he’d help me get an “Indian” ticket, which meant no A/C, no seat, standing in back, with the locals. No stranger to riding with the locals, I handed him some rupees, and watched him disappear into the crowd forever. I never saw him again.

Robbed, emotionally bankrupt, and physically melting into the stone floor of the station, my face in my hands, I wondered how the hell I’d gotten here.

Picture a foreign white guy, amidst the bustle of an Indian train station with thousands of people milling past. While I sat on my backpack, head in hands.

Then there was a tap on my shoulder …

It was a young boy. He was maybe 22. I later learned his name was Dillon. 

He looked at me the way you look at a cat stuck in a tree — mildly concerned, mostly curious, wondering how I’d gotten there. He asked if I was okay. I gave him the whole sad rundown. From the hours in line to the more recent blunder of being stolen from. Dillon listened patiently and then said, “That’s too bad” and simply walked off. Stunned, I laughed at his response.

But thirty minutes later, he came back.

He said, “While I was waiting for my train, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I want to help you get to where you are going.”

A little shocked, I asked him, “You missed your train to help me?”

“There will be another train,” he said smiling, extending a hand to help me up.

At this point, I literally had nothing to lose, so I followed him. He called his dad. Together, they tried everything — looking for other trains, calling friends, possibly contacting a guy who “knew a guy.” Eventually, they found a bus to Darjeeling that left at 11 p.m. Dillon escorted me to the bus station to make sure I didn’t get scammed again.

Then, he turned to me and said, “Hey, my father wants to know — do you want to come stay with us tonight?”

Now, I’d already bought a ticket for this bus, and I was broke enough that the cost actually mattered. So I told him, “No, thanks, I’ll just take the bus.”

But as soon as he stepped away to take a call from his dad, I went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and said, “You absolute idiot. What are you doing?”

In all my travels, some of my best memories were made staying at the houses of friendly locals. I walked back out and told him I’d changed my mind: “Let’s go meet your dad.”

He smiled excitedly. “What about the cost of your ticket?” he asked, concerned.

“I’d happily pay that to stay with you and your family,” I replied, the smile on his face broadening at my reply.

That night, we sat at his family’s table eating tikka masala and roti, laughing about the absurdity of my day. At one point, I asked Dillon why he went so far out of his way for a sweaty, sunburned foreigner who’d clearly made a mess of things.

He didn’t hesitate: “It is my duty. You are a guest in my country. I am a steward of India,” he said in his thick, Indian accent, only adding to the charm of the profound concept. 

A steward of India? Not a citizen. Not a host. A steward.

It wasn’t about pride or ego or even hospitality. It was a responsibility. Deeply affected, I thought about that. It was a duty. A duty to help those visiting, enjoy your home. 

I decided then and there, that whenever I returned to the United States, wherever I settled or even anywhere I was, I’d make it my duty to be a steward of my country. It wasn’t just a nice thing to do; it wasn’t me being a good host. It was my duty, as a steward of America, to ensure that visitors and guests had a good time in my home, if I had anything to do with it. 

I now call Aspen home. And I? Her enthusiastic steward. It’s not just my responsibility, it is my duty, as a steward of Aspen, to ensure that any guests visiting my home have a good experience so long as I have anything to do with it … even if it means missing my train.

And THAT is how I became a steward of Aspen. Maybe you’ll join me in accepting the duty of being a steward of Aspen? You can ensure that anyone visiting — be it family, friend, or tourist — has a better time here because you take your duty seriously. Try it! If it’s not a good fit, you can always go back to being the local curmudgeon …

Tune in next Sunday for the conclusion of this series. Thanks for reading my stories and paying with your attention. I hope they make you smile and think.