A week ago, FedEx delivered a tube with a roll of paper inside. Once unfurled, the taut, stiff sheet measuring roughly 30 x 48 inch revealed a labyrinth, constructed in ink with crisscrossing patterns and looping motifs. It was a work of extraordinary skill and precision, a secret garden that gave a glimpse of the artist's imagination.
It belonged to Sarah H, a stranger I once met on a delayed flight home from Vegas.
A month ago, I was slouching in a chair at McCarran Airport, waiting to board a plane that was 45 minutes behind schedule. (By the way, I'm convinced all airport chairs are designed to be uncomfortable to discourage us from falling asleep in them.)
Next to me sat a girl, quietly scribbling on a blank card the size of a cocktail napkin. She was in her early 20s, I figured. She had large round eyes, like pools overflowing with soul. Her arm was adorned with a string of tattoos, lilies and vines weaving in and out of her skin.
Actually, she wasn't writing; she was drawing a complicated pattern, filling up the page one stroke at a time.
"That looks incredible!" I exclaimed. "What is that, by the way?"
She removed the iPod headphones and shrugged.
"I like drawing these," she said. "It's like meditation."
"Did you study art?" I asked.
"Art history," she said.
"Well, you certainly have a knack for art," I said.
"Stick around," she said. "If I finish it before we board, I'll give this to you."
"No," I protested. "I can't take that. It's so beautiful."
"No, I usually give these away to people who appreciate them," she said.
"I'd be thrilled if you decide to give it to me," I said.
After exchanging names and a few pleasantries, I discovered she was going to San Francisco for a visit.
"Do you know anybody there?" I asked.
"A friend of mine just moved there," she said.
"I've lived there for 20 years," I said. "If you need someone to show you around, let me know," I said.
"I have a boyfriend," she blurted out.
There was an awkward silence.
"I didn't mean it like that," I said. "I meant, if your friend has to work some day, I'd be gladly to keep you company."
"Thanks," she replied, without looking.
She's not going to give me that sketch now, I thought. But I was wrong.
When we landed, as I was exiting, she dangled the sketch before me. On the back, she signed it with her name (Sarah H) and her email.
"Here you go," she said. "Hope you like it."
I mumbled some words of gratitude, clutching her gift in my hand.
One afternoon, out of curiosity, I did a search for Sarah on Facebook using her email. I recognized her bunny eyes in the search results. So I added her to my circle, with a message reminding her of our "friendship forged in an airport terminal."
A few weeks later, I received a message from her: what's your mailing address?
For reasons that are still not clear to me, she had decided to send me what she called "a mega doodle" via FedEx.
Once I got over the amazement, I noticed the faint vanilla scent coming from the paper.
"Did you use scented paper?" I asked her via Facebook.
"[I work on] my large, beat-up, multifunctional coffee table," she replied. "I've never been the best cook in the world (which is to say, I've never been able to do anything but throw a hot pocket in the microwave and retrieve it three minutes later), but I've been attempting to make some of my mom's desserts, and, well, that is where the vanilla scent comes in."
Sarah H's drawing now hangs on the wall above my bed, like a mandala of someone's inner universe. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I trace her ink outlines, one by one. Sometimes, her seraphic eyes emerge from the geometric clusters, like a pair of moons over a magical forest.
Then I fall into a rabbit hole, through the looking glass, into Sarah H's vanilla-sprinkled Wonderland.
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