Well, dear reader, I keep assuring you that this will be the final installment of our ill-fated journey home… but by this point I am beginning to suspect I am writing the Anglican Book of Never-Ending Travelogues.
We rose at the delightful hour of 3:30 a.m. — a time normally reserved for milk deliveries and bad decisions — to catch our Uber to JFK. It was only then that I noticed something that made me a little suspiciour of our bargain hotel. All through the day the place was empty. There was no sign of life. At 3:30 in the morning, it was a beehive of activity. There were scantily-clad young women being picked up and dropped off in the lobby every few minutes. They were all on a first-name basis with the guy on the front desk. Ive never seen a hotel lobby as busy as this at such an hour of the day. I guess some questions are perhaps better not asked. Our uber driver was cheerful and chatty, which, at that hour, is an act of heroic optimism. We arrived early, which was a good sign… until we met the check-in kiosk.
Because the online check-in had refused to cooperate during our Queens exile, we had to do the whole process there. All went smoothly — until the system demanded a fresh $35 USD “hostage fee” to accept our bags. This was particularly galling because we had already paid for them to be checked through from Santiago to Toronto days ago, before American Airlines misplaced both our itinerary and our faith in modern air travel. After two unexpected hotel nights in New York and Uber fares large enough to fund a parish pancake breakfast for a month, the $35 felt like an unnecessary poke in the ribs.
But finally — oh finally! — boarding passes in hand, we joined the security line. Now, for some mysterious reason, JFK’s security system seems to have my name on a rotating “Special Guest” list. I am, with very suspicious regularity, “randomly selected” for extra screening. David now chuckles every time a TSA officer snaps on fresh gloves, as though I am about to star in my own low-budget crime drama. I have been swabbed, patted, and prodded so often that etiquette demands at least a dinner invitation. From now on, I am returning to travelling with my Clerical collar on.
Once cleared, we rewarded ourselves with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Now, many people swear by Dunkin’, but after the rich café con leche of Spain, this particular brew seemed less “coffee” and more “boiled shoe leather.” Still, it was warm and caffeinated, and at this stage, that was enough.
Gate 38 greeted us like an old parish hall you’ve visited too often — familiar, comfortable, and staffed by people who by now greet David like a long-lost cousin. Our flight to Charlotte was filled with fellow exiled Torontonians and a hopeful list of nineteen standbys, making the gate agent’s day less “glamorous airline career” and more “triage nurse at a church picnic brawl.”
The flight south — yes, south to get to Toronto — was smooth. I still find it theologically perplexing that one must head in the opposite direction of one’s destination, but perhaps there’s a parable in there about God’s ways not being our ways.
Charlotte airport, I will say, is beautiful — airy, bright, and filled with rocking chairs, as though to say, “Sit a spell, pilgrim. The journey’s not over yet.” Our next flight, mercifully, would leave from the same gate we had arrived at. No cross-airport trek. No security line déjà vu.
We even discovered a pub directly across from the gate. As it was late enough in the morning, we ordered a light snack and — yes — a drink. The bartender, Courtney (already in David’s growing circle of airport friends in his Christmas card list), asked for my ID. I am sure this is just North Carolina law, but I choose to receive it as a blessing. Perhaps being footsore and a little grumpy takes years off my appearance. And no, dear reader, do not ruin this happy delusion.
Courtney, our new best friend and gate-side publican, was in the thick of it. The morning rush had descended on her like the multitude at the Feeding of the Five Thousand, minus the loaves and fishes but with the same level of urgency. With admirable discernment, she officially designated David and me as her “long-sitters.” This meant we were to remain in our seats, guarding them like the Levites at the temple, thereby preventing any further flood of customers. It was a vocation we embraced with a certain holy resignation. I’m rarely a long-sitter anywhere except my desk at work, but I took to the task as though ordained for it.
Courtney kept us laughing the whole time. When I asked if I could take her photo for this very blog, she paused mid-pour and declared, “Let me fix myself up—I might meet my future husband on there.” (If that’s you, dear reader, please note she has a great sense of humour and an excellent pour.)
In the midst of our laughter, David leaned over and asked, “Check your email. Make sure there’s no alert saying we’ve been rerouted through Anchorage, Alaska.” So far, nothing—no delay, no detour. Keep those prayers rising, dear friends.
After lunch in our new “local”—where David is rapidly becoming the Norm Peterson of Charlotte Airport—we wandered back to the gate. Naturally, it was at that precise moment that the delayed-flight email arrived. A mere nine minutes, they said. Hardly worth mentioning. But moments later, the voice on the loudspeaker summoned us to learn that we’d be getting a different aircraft entirely and—joy of joys—new seats. At this point, I didn’t care if they strapped me into the luggage compartment, as long as it took me northward.
We settled in, and—being who we are—struck up a conversation with a couple nearby. David mentioned our lunch at the pub, and the woman immediately said, “Oh! Did you see the man dancing?” I bowed my head in second-hand embarrassment. Yes, dear reader, the mystery dancer was David. Our new friends, the Millers, turned out to be from a lively Episcopal parish in North Carolina. We passed the time sharing Camino tales, and I said, “Every day on the Way we met new people, and then somehow, every day after, we’d see them again.” The husband grinned and said, “I can’t imagine you two making friends.” Ah, the spiritual gift of sarcasm—best received with humility.
David made an observation worth remembering: one of the greatest joys on our final day in Santiago was welcoming fellow pilgrims and congratulating them on their arrival. We all came in different ways—at different speeds, with different stops, and yes, some of us took “creative detours” (mea culpa). Some had harder days than others. But all reached the goal. It reminded me of the Collect from the Book of Common Prayer after the Eucharist: “Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious favour, and further us with thy continual help, that in all our works begun, continued, and ended in thee…” When the goal begins, continues, and ends in God, how can we go wrong? Even the ill-fated journeys home become part of the pilgrimage.
Before we boarded, David insisted on saying farewell to Courtney. He returned, grinning, and said, “Make sure you say goodbye to my gluten-free babe.” That’s not a title I’ve ever held, but it’s apparently one I now own by association. Our friends the Millers came up behind us in Pearson Airport as we were just our usual selves. The husband, once again in sarcastic splendor said, “You two guys need to lighten up. You are too dour.”
As I write, the plane is aloft, and we are finally headed toward the True North, strong and free. This time, I believe we are truly on our way home. What a journey it has been—full of grace, laughter, and the unmistakable presence of God. Thank you for walking it with me in prayer.