I’m on my way to NYC, for errands, fun, meetings and to attend a debate.
UPDATE:
Next leg… running a little behind, but I see that my bag is with me! These text notifications are helpful.
There is a new UBER Protocol in place at LGA now. Because of the nightmarish construction, all “rides”, black cars, etc., can’t pick us up at the arrival/baggage claim. We must take a shuttle bus to a lot somewhere else. Taxis, however, are still at baggage level. We shall see.
UPDATE
And see we have.
UPDATE
And the room gets blessed, first thing.
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Hope you are not flying in that Citabria, lol. My brother had one and I made the mistake of going flying with him. I had no idea it was a trick plane. When we landed they had to pry my fingers from the little side bars and my finger nails had made deep impressions in my palms. Never again!
I have deeply seated expectations of pictures of pastrami sandwiches, Chinese food, and ‘guess which drink is mine’ opportunities.
Hopefully you find a picture of a holy finch to share too!
Clearly I’ve been following your blog for a while…
Father, you’re always commenting on the location of your bag. Have you ever considered flying with only one carryon, especially on shorter trips? When I discovered OneBag.com, it literally changed the way I travel.
[Sometimes I can. Sometimes I can’t.]
I can see it now – The Father Z overlay for the Delta travel app:
“The day of the Lord is at hand…
.
…your checked bag, however, is not!”
After a resent retreat, my roommate introduced me to the practice of blessing our hotel room as you suggested at the end of this post. I’m totally on-board with that and now carry a small vial of holy water with me when I travel. Can you give us some instruction on how to do this (beyond ‘winging it’)? Thanks Father.
[I suppose you can just sprinkle it, and blessed salt, around asking God’s holy angels to come and put to flight anything of the enemy that might linger there.]
Happy travels Fr. Z. Great pictures- with your permission, a tale of today and 1940.
____
Dawn at an aerodrome near Lake Michigan, the eastern horizon glowing purple and orange. A fog hovered over the runway. A twin-engine Lockheed Electra 12A propeller plane was parked just outside a hangar, the pilot slowly moving around it looking for fuel leaks and removing the wheel chocks.
A man clad in fedora and trenchcoat waited patiently at the open hangar door. He recited the Rosary to himself in the raw morning air. The valise he carried was stuffed with medieval manuscripts, old maps, artwork, business cards of New York art dealers, auction house brochures, tourist maps, museum guides, and restaurant menus. Slipped in among this collection were Daniel Mitsui prints and altar cards.
Someone tapped his shoulder. “Father, you have a phone call.”
The priest thanked the mechanic and headed into the hangar toward a wooden desk beneath a ceiling light. The priest set down his fedora and picked up the receiver lying on the desk.
“Hello.”
“Yeh, uh…” The caller must have had a long night and sounded drunk. “…hey, uh, room service, lemme’ have a bottle of Poppy von Winkles, and, um, Creme de Menthe.”
The priest recognized the New York caller and shook his head slightly in disbelief. “Ok,” the priest replied, “but which drink is mine?”
The caller paused as if pondering this, then blurted out, “Hey!” The caller muttered, “…crackin’ wise…” and finally slurred out, “the dog! It barks at midnight!”
The priest replied curtly, “Then call Animal Control”, and hung up the phone.
He stood there for a moment. So, the dog barks at midnight. His driver at LaGuardia will not meet him at baggage claim but in the shuttle lot. Wily and mysterious were the ways of Uber. Time for Plan B.
The sound of footsteps on concrete echoed across the hangar and the priest turned to see a man approaching. He was also wearing a fedora, but his trenchcoat was stained, and he carried a small paper bag.
“Morning Tracer, we’re going with Plan B.”
Tracer nodded once in acknowledgement. “I heard. No problem Faddah. Here,” holding out the bag.
“What’s this?” asked the priest.
“Plan B.”
The priest looked in the bag. “A bacon and egg biscuit?”
“Huh? No Faddah that’s mine.” Tracer pulled the biscuit out of the bag and took a large bite.
The priest stared into the bottom of the bag at a piece of paper.
Tracer leaned over, looked in, and with a mouthful of biscuit said, “Yep that’s it.” He took out the paper and held it up.
“This receipt, Faddah, will be your Virgil…” Tracer produced a bottle of water from inside his trenchcoat, took a long drink, and tucked it away. “This receipt will guide you through the endless underworld of the damned that is New York City.”
The priest rolled his eyes. “Alright Tracer, you really should give New York a second chance.”
Tracer’s eyes widened and he slowly shook his head. “Oh no Faddah, they ain’t forgettin’ me anytime soon.”
Outside the hangar the pilot completed his checks and climbed into the cockpit. The engine coughed, spewed blue smoke, and as the engine roared the propellers began turning.
Tracer gave the receipt to the priest. “Ok Faddah, see the receipt number, four digits in the upper right hand corner. Now that price there, three digits. Take those three digits and plop them one at a time, left to right, between those four digits. That’s your phone number of our man in New York.”
Tracer looked up, the priest nodded, Tracer continued.
“Faddah if you get a wrong number call from a woman asking for Patrick O’Shaugnessy or a guy on the street mistakes you for Patrick O’Shaugnessy then that means it’s time to get out of Dodge. Find an iron or a bare light bulb and heat the back of the receipt. Shouldn’t take long for the ink to activate. Then follow those instructions precisely Faddah.”
“Got it,” said the priest.
Tracer took a CD from his pocket, removed the receipt wedged in the plastic case, and handed it to the priest. “Vera Lynn. I think you have friends in New York who would like this.” Tracer ripped up the receipt and jammed the scraps in his shirt pocket. “This receipt stays here with me. If those Red Guard libs in New York get their mitts on it they could figure something out.”
“Thanks Tracer,” said the priest, “my friends appreciate this CD.”
Tracer took out his bottle of water, finished it, and tossed it into a trashcan. Outside the hangar the engines idled smoothly. The two men shook hands.
Tracer looked at the priest and said, “Father, God bless you. May I have your blessing?”
Tracer bowed his head and the priest blessed Tracer.
Tracer looked at the priest and said, “It’s a hell of a war Father.”
The priest looked at Tracer. “Yes Tracer, it’s a hell of a war.”
The priest put on his fedora and strode out to the plane.
[Tourist maps. Heh. Nice cover.]
Glennonite,
I am also a lay person. I attempt to bless any hotel/hospital room I am in with Holy Water. I pray the prayer to St. Michael several times and liberally sprinkle Holy water all over the room.
I find this helpful and the room always seems to feel different when I have finished.
Glennonite: “Can you give us some instruction on how to do this (beyond ‘winging it’)?”
Like beelady, for years now any time I’ve blessed the house I’ve just recited the “St. Michael” prayer while sprinkling the Holy Water. When said slowly, I’ve found that it just fits into the total time to bless the house – inside, anyway. If I’m blessing outside (I don’t always, probably should) I just recite it again.