By Russell Saray
I savored my steel-cut oatmeal and last sip of water before tightening my N95. We agreed our noses and mouths would stay sealed for our six-hour journey from door-to-door. It had been two years since we hugged, gathered around the kitchen island and drank too much coffee with my Canadian family. Steve, my husband, couldn’t wait for Anne, my sister’s fresh home-baked cookies. Last year she sent a tin we devoured on Christmas day, alone on 12th Street. Our self-isolating pre-travel strategies detailed two weeks before became even more important as Omicron swept in like a bad draft.
Despite the 5am nip in the air, the fresh air blowing from the open car service windows felt good and safe. My mind flashed to the Sam Mendes film, 1917. Jump out of a safe trench, run and duck to avoid being blown up by the Germans and land in another trench unharmed. The car joined a long line at the Air Canada LGA terminal. My hand shook as I handed the gate agent my credit card, negative COVID test results and vaccination proof. I feared the ink would smudge on the fresh PCR results that had left us $400 poorer after a marathon run around the city the day before, but they gave us the green light to travel.
We each carried the same gift; a personalized monogrammed candle and matches packed separately to avoid confiscation as “suspicious plastic explosives.” Steve’s soft-sided bag flipped to the other side of the TSA conveyor belt, like a bad egg in a packing plant and joined the line of luggage to be inspected. Ahead of Steve, a large-framed TSA agent, his blue paper mask below his nose, began his inspection of the one passenger ahead of Steve. He gestured to the Sammy Davis look-alike to step back. The ultimate David Copperfield performance unfolded; a 5lb. bag of apples, containers of vegetables, and the “Piece de resistance”—a fully cooked and dismembered turkey stored in three-quart size Tupperwares. “I hickory smoked it myself.” Wipe after wipe of explosive-checking cotton swabs littered the table. Steve shared a laugh with the stunned women beside him. Another TSA agent went right for Steve’s candle. “This smells just wonderful. Someone’s gonna be lucky.”
We descended three sets of escalators into a sea of waiting passengers. The new food courts woven through waiting areas overflowed with unmasked passengers devouring breakfast. Hungry and thirsty, we couldn’t wait to get on board Air Canada with only vaccinated passengers allowed and triple filtered air.
I teared up when Anne and my brother-in-law Dave pulled up to the terminal. She jumped out and came for a big hug. Still masked, we air kissed. “You can take that off now.”
Fresh coffee brewing filled the air. Dave and Steve eating cookies started lobbying familiar insults at each other. They laughed at their clever ripostes. Dave and Anne’s twins would be over soon with the grandkids.
Open windows almost blew out the Christmas dinner candles. A curious Steve asked Dave if he had ever thought of smoking the turkey. The LGA story made for belly aching laughs around the table. Our niece, Lianna smiled, “I wish we could stay like this. It doesn’t feel like a pandemic.”
A text message popped up asking us to confirm our reserved, required COVID test appointment that would allow us to return to New York. We pulled up to a long line of clamoring people without time slots trying to get in.
Our N95s felt snugger. Maybe it was all the cookies. Scenes of 1917 flashed again. We set out for our safe 12th Street trench, dodged the bullets and landed on time at LGA unscathed.
