The love of Family

(my soundtrack for this piece, here, here and here. I have long loved these songs, but somehow they fit perfectly today)

I sit, cold and alone, in mildly smelly basement apartment. It is not mine. There is little heat, and no phone. Last night 5 people slept here, possessions strewn, damp and dirty between tired second-hand couches. I’m not certain what of my possessions are destroyed and what are left. This is how my Christmas begins.

I left Addis Ababa, Ethiopia several days ago. Fueled by a filling and rambunctious dinner of doro wat (chicken stew), Tibbes (goat stew) and Kitfo (raw beef mince) with friends, I boarded a plane to begin a journey home to Vancouver for Christmas. I’m twenty eight. That means twenty eight Christmases with family. It is not questioned, thankfully, that Christmas should be spent with family. It just is. Twenty eight Christmases, traveling from Australia and Ontario, Senegal and Cambridge. It was a condition of me accepting this latest job in Ethiopia that I could come home for Christmas. We are not a particularly religious family, nor do we share many presents each year. But the act of coming together, at least once a year, is nearly sacred.

And so I boarded a plane in Ethiopia. As I would be returning to the Horn of Africa in January, I did not have much luggage. I had debated whether to check my small backpack and decided that exiting Vancouver International Airport quickly was worth hauling it from flight to flight. So I had clutched it and answered the bored check-in agent at Bole International Airport, Ethiopia that no, I had nothing to check, I’d carry it all on. I had passed four security checks and was comfortably in my seat when Catherine Evans spotted me, and politely let me know that I was in her spot. Confused, I looked down at my boarding pass. 21J. Nope, I was in the right seat. Then my eyes slid left and I saw the name: Catherine Evans. Somehow I had managed to be checked in, pass security and board the plane as Catherine Evans. For the first of many times, I silently thanked myself for not checking my luggage, assuming it would have ended up wherever Catherine was headed. We found two seats and settled in for a long flight of bad movies and intermittent, miniature refreshments.

Amsterdam arrived without calamity. I wandered Schipol, floating among food joints and newstands slightly short of full wakefulness, updated cashewman and shuffled towards the next departure gate. Another flight of slightly worse refreshments, slightly worse films and accumulated discomfort. but no issues, until somewhere over Baffin Bay, when I noticed a change in the flight monitor map. Now, although our plane was still headed to Portland, its destination, the tracker had taken an abrupt left turn to ‘MSP’, a location in the centre of America. I assumed this to be a glitch in the program, until the captain confirmed over the loudspeaker. “Folks, you may have noticed a change in plans. Portland airport is closed. They have run out of de-icing fluid, and the inclement weather prevents us from making it in. We’ll be stopping in Minneapolis-St. Paul for the night, and try again in the morning.”

We landed in MSP, sifted through customs and collected vouchers for meals and hotels. I tried to jump on a direct flight to Vancouver, Seattle, Calgary. No luck. People in line had been trying for four days, victims of long since canceled flights, reduced now to battling their own way home. But the mood was oddly upbeat. People were tired, but shared hurdles seemed to bring stranded passengers together. After smiles, stories and humour at the expense of airlines helped kill a few hours, I left for my hotel.

Seven am the next morning, and we were back, ready to take another shot at Portland. I felt fortunate. At least I had a plane. A seat with my (or Catherine’s?) name on it was ready to get me home, whatever the challenge. I didn’t have to scramble from departure gate to departure gate, hoping to score a scarce seat on a flight like so many around me. Encouragingly, we took off and settled in to another flight. Tired single-serving food. Discomfort. No movies though - the system had broken. Somewhere over Idaho our map took another turn. Suddenly we were headed to Seattle. I was intrigued, and considered that this might be a good way home. The captain confirmed that we were now heading for Sea-Tac airport, and we touched down 30 minutes later. We were there to refuel, wait for Portland to reopen, and take off again, doors closed. After about 40 minutes, the staff announced that only those with a final destination of Seattle would be allowed to leave the plane. This, of course, did not include me.  I maneuvered myself into place next to the door and security agent, and struck up a conversation with Larissa, an interesting 22 year old Vancouverite. We decided that we would disembark in Seattle, preferring to find our way home across the border than chance Portland, its flights backed up for 5 days amid foul weather and cancellations. But still we were not allowed, and so we waited. As the security agent walked forward to the cabin, a flight attendant looked at us deliberately. “I’m not going to say anything here, but this might be your chance…go!” she said quietly, sharing some pleasure in the idea. Larissa and I shared a glance, a quick decision, and slipped past the security agent, escaping from the plane down the long hallway, and towards the doors to the airport, a little surprised at our brazenness. The doors were locked. We quickly searched, and found a switch, green in colour with a red light above it. It clearly unlocked the doors, that much was clear. But would it trip an alarm? We stopped and looked at each other, minor adrenaline pumping my heart a little faster. No, we decided. Escaping the plane was fine, but tripping an alarm in the airport would be a little much.

We returned to the plane bashfully, but were rewarded a few minutes later, informed we would be allowed to disembark, with the following message:

“You should know, before you leave, that Sea-Tac has been closed for four days. Flights now going out are beyond overbooked. People have been sleeping by the thousands in the airport, and many vendors are reporting food shortages. Roads to Canada are closed, and the trains have been canceled. If you choose to leave the plane, you will have to find your own way home.”

Larissa and I again looked at each other. “Whaddaya think?” I asked, “worth the gamble?” “What do you think?” she replied. “I think it’s worth it.” “Me too” was the instant reply, and we left, the only Canadians of dozens to try our luck off the plane. We entered the airport, a little exhilarated to have taken matters into our own hands. In Sea-Tac, we found a prevailing calm, barely concealing bursts of chaos and desperation among stranded passengers. Most had accepted their predicament, but also still fought, like Emily, trying to get a bus to Vancouver for a flight to Alaska:”This is the first Christmas I get to spend with my husband in many years. I’ve been flying for four days trying to get to him. I have a flight from Vancouver in four hours, and need to get there.” Tears streaming down her face, eyes projecting despair, but still some battle, she tried in vain to get on a bus to Vancouver. Larissa and I tried the bus. Incompetence from the drivers, numbers far beyond the capacity. Wouldn’t work. We tried renting a car. Rental places were all out of BC plates, meaning we couldn’t cross the border. We called friends, Derek and Ali, who agreed to pick us up and take us to their place in Seattle. Then Larissa spotted an opportunity. “There’s a bus leaving for Vancouver from downtown Seattle in 30 minutes,” she said. For the third time, we looked at each other, and almost instantly decided to go for it. We raced down to the cabs, and waited impatiently in line. A man behind us shared: “my daughter is giving birth. Contractions are 7 minutes apart,” he said with a smile. “Well, you’d better go ahead of us,” I said. Birth trumps bus. Finally in the cab, with a few minutes to reflect, I asked Larissa if we were going to make it to the bus. “If there’s one thing I’m positive about in this effort, it’s that we’re not going to make this bus.” Arriving, we spotted the bus about to pull out. we dashed inside to get tickets (the agent asking Larissa “are you sure you should be traveling with this stranger” when she didn’t know my last name to book…) and hopped on the bus, scoring some of the last seats. We passed the time by chatting about her travels (Morocco) and mine, and the odd fact that she was heading to Wollongong, Australia for school next year (an obscure place which embarrasses even Australians. I studied there once. It was just fine). We arrived in Vancouver as the sun was setting, that time at dusk where the blue remnants of the sky’s light broadcasts a mildly energizing glow. I jumped in a cab to my parent’s condo, hoping to surprise my family, who still thought I was battling my way through North America.

I arrived at the condo to find a burly restoration employee tearing up the hardwood floor I had laid two years ago. My family was nowhere. Water pooled under the floating wood, dripped from the fixtures and dampened the walls. A pipe had burst a few hours ago, showering our home and leaving half a foot of water on the ground. My family had reacted instantly, snatching the quilts and art from the walls, the computers and musical instruments, and throwing everything into the icy front yard in a panic. As water cascaded down they had collected books, clothes and some food. It would be months before anyone could live here again.

My family had headed to my sister’s rented suite a few blocks away, where I found them a few minutes later. Possessions lay strewn in the tiny flat, a few opened beers as evidence of a tried and tested technique to calm my mother down. I walked in and into her arms, only a few seconds before she burst into relieved tears. After establishing that everyone was fine, and more than two days after leaving Ethiopia, we went out for Thai dinner. Our table piled with food and beers, dad composing rude haikus and balancing spoons on his nose, mom just trying to talk and everyone continuously in raucous laughter, we celebrated. Later, in a haze of fatigue and Canadian beer, I would do the same with friends, many of whom I hadn’t seen in months.

So now I sit in my sister’s mildly smelly basement apartment. I have now been warmed by breakfast and tea. My family has left for Vancouver Island, where we’ve rented a cabin over Christmas, and taken what possessions are available. We’ve decided that this year’s Christmas keg budget will be distributed among various alcoholic beverages, and the planning of intoxicated debate topics has begun. Any need for presents to be ready (we select one member and make a present for them at Christmas) has been dropped, replaced with the happiness of just being together. I’ll join them later tonight, accompanied by my grandparents.

For twenty eight years, I have not missed a Christmas. I have at times traveled days, changed plans, fought weather and crowds and once arrived belatedly on Christmas morning. This year has been no different. Throughout, we’ve had vivid reminders that challenges breed strength, our stuff is just stuff, and that the most important thing is to be together. This year exemplifies this. In two weeks I’ll return to Ethiopia to continue to build my organization’s capacity to help farmers increase their livelihoods. But for now, for this brief period, my family and friends are everything.

I hope everyone has a safe, happy and rewarding next few days.

Merry Christmas,

Brendan

       

Tagged as: christmas, Family, home, love, Travel