So, dear reader, you might be excused for imagining me now seated comfortably in my study in Bolton, coffee cup in hand, quietly composing this final chapter in the saga of our Camino adventure. That was, after all, the plan. But as you may have learned from your own life — and certainly from reading mine — good adventures rarely travel in a straight line to their conclusion. They prefer scenic detours, inexplicable delays, and the occasional complete change of script.
Tuesday night we celebrated in proper pilgrim fashion — one last lovely meal in the oldest quarter of Santiago — then retired for what we hoped would be a refreshing final night’s sleep in Spain. We awoke at six (bags already packed, halos polished) and enjoyed a farewell breakfast, complete with those last precious cups of café con leche.
The cab to the airport was mercifully quick. We checked our bags with only a slight pang of separation anxiety, though I confess it stung a bit when the airline insisted on confiscating my walking stick. My poor, blistered feet would now face the airports unaided, which I considered both unkind and un-Christian. But such was my fate.
The flight to Barcelona was lovely; the connection to New York even lovelier — so much so that we arrived at JFK twenty minutes early, with a generous three-and-a-half hours before our Toronto flight. Enough time, we thought, for customs, baggage claim, re-check, security, and perhaps even a sandwich.
Ah, how innocent we were.
There were two passport control lines: one for U.S. citizens (which vanished faster than the last slice of cheesecake at a parish potluck), and one for “Visitors, Green Card Holders, and Permanent Residents.” This latter queue could have been mistaken for the line to Noah’s Ark: long, winding, and with no visible forward motion.
After an hour, we had just reached the cattle chutes — those winding barriers apparently designed to test a pilgrim’s patience as thoroughly as the Camino itself. And here, David’s particular spiritual gift came into play: striking up conversations with strangers. He began chatting with a sweet, young airport worker who was clearly bored enough to talk to absolutely anyone. After a few moments, she looked around, leaned in, and said, “You two come with me.”
It was like a scene from the Exodus — two weary travellers led out of the wilderness into a shorter line, three or four people from the front. And then, just to confirm David’s standing as Patron Saint of Airport Staff, she went to an opening desk and declared, “My friends, you come over here.” Passport control: conquered.
Our luggage was waiting for us, though mine was alone — David’s walking stick had apparently decided to extend its stay in Santiago. We hauled everything up two storeys to re-check it with the very same airline, then joined the security line, which made the passport queue look like a drive-thru.
Eventually — because even the longest line ends — we were freed into the concourse with a little time for a light supper. A pleasant conversation with the server lifted our spirits… until the emails started arriving. First delay: thirty minutes. Second delay: another forty-five. By the third, I was beginning to suspect the airline was sending these as a form of entertainment.
By now, factoring in time zones, we had been awake for 24 hours, so when the announcement finally came — “Flight to Toronto is cancelled” — we received it with the calm despair of people who have run out of emotional energy.
At the rebooking counter, the agent told us the next available option was a Friday morning flight to Charlotte, with a connection to Toronto later that day. I asked what we were meant to do for the next two days. “You’ll have to work that out yourself,” she replied, handing me a slip of paper with the American Airlines Customer Service number on it, as though this was the golden key to Narnia.
When I mentioned that our luggage — and all our medication — was now in the belly of a plane going precisely nowhere, something clicked in her mind. She tapped away at her keyboard and miraculously produced our bags.
On my phone, I found what I am convinced were the last two affordable hotel rooms in Queens. The Uber to get there cost a mere $90, which I shall attempt to forgive by next Lent.
We slept soundly, our pilgrimage now officially upgraded from Camino de Santiago to Camino de JFK. We were woken several times through the night, not be the peaceful sounds of Bolton waking for the day, but by the screaming sounds of endless sirens in Queens. The coffee was of a decidedly lower grade than we were now accustomed to, but the adventure will, God willing, resume Friday— unless, of course, something remarkable happens here in Queens.
And given the week we’ve had, dear reader… I wouldn’t rule it out.