Well, dear reader, if being stranded for 36 hours in a city you never planned to visit can, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a blessing, then this was exactly that sort of blessing—albeit one with a surprisingly high price tag.
Our hotel in Queens was the only place with a vacancy anywhere near the airport. The booking site described it as “economy.” I am now convinced that “economy” in this instance referred not to the price, but to the sheer number of amenities one could economize out of existence. There was no soap. No shampoo. No television — though David did ask about one, and the desk clerk cheerfully announced, “Oh, those don’t work.” It was clean, the beds were comfortable, and, I reminded myself, the Apostle Paul made do with worse.
By morning we were hungry, so we ventured out into the streets of Queens in search of breakfast. Just around the corner we found a gem: Mama’s Café, proudly advertising “Mexican and American Food.” I opted for the Mexican side—eggs, coffee, and extra plátanos instead of toast. Mama herself cooked everything fresh, and I was as content as a pilgrim with dry socks.
Next to our hotel was a laundromat. Since I had the time, I decided to do something rare in my travels — return home with laundry so clean it could pass for new. Inside, a young woman was selling fresh empanadas at the door, which I mentally bookmarked for later. I bought a small bottle of Tide for the wash, used a single capful, and then realized I’d be leaving the rest behind.
It was then that another woman came in — her clothes told a story of someone with little to spare. I offered her the almost-full bottle, and she lit up like I’d given her gold. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said. Friends, it reminded me that grace doesn’t always arrive in the grand gestures; sometimes it comes in the form of laundry soap, offered without condition.
The rest of the day was spent in quiet — an unhurried nap, which in my life is about as rare as hen’s teeth. Come evening, we set out for supper. Most of the promising restaurants on our list turned out to be take-out only. So, back we went to the empanada stand.
The woman running it spoke no English. A young friend — very pregnant and very patient — stepped in as translator until she suddenly accused me (in Spanish) of understanding far more than I let on. Caught out, I switched to Spanish, and we managed to place an order. without any problem. What we carried back to the hotel was nothing short of heavenly.
After supper, with no baseball for David (and no functioning TV anyway), we packed up for our next installment of the “Getting Home to Toronto” saga. Tomorrow’s goal: fly to Charlotte and make the connection home. If all goes well, I’ll make it to my family reunion on Saturday. If not… well, tune in tomorrow. On pilgrimage or off, the journey always has its surprises.