Feeling Supported, Aware of Angels Amongst Us
It’s been over a month and I’m still radiating, my feet barely touching the ground. In my last blog, I shared the source of this uncontainable, limitless joy; the healing transformation I shared with my daughter in Costa Rica. In the time in-between, I’ve been reflecting, and with the clarity of hindsight, it seems that there were angels disguised as strangers supporting us on our quest to be reunited.
The first obstacle to overcome was the decision to travel, a choice that wasn’t easy to make during the uncertain times of Covid. Neither Mister nor I felt confident that making travel plans while the world battled a pandemic was a good idea. Besides the usual Covid testing and quarantine challenges, Saudi Arabia had a list of fourteen countries banned from entry into the Kingdom. Our rational minds were urging us to stay home, but our hearts were calling us to our home in Panama.
Then, on March 21, my daughter reached out in an email. She shared that she’d experienced a healing transformation in Peru that had her feeling love and compassion and she wanted nothing more than a reconciliation. It was a moment I’d been praying so long for, but I couldn’t see a way for us to be together. When I found out she was travelling in a few weeks from Peru to Costa Rica, which is just next door to Panama, our desire to travel to Panama seemed in alignment. We decided we wanted to give it our best shot and sat down at our computer to google options and create a plan.
We couldn’t travel our usual route through Germany because it was on the list of fourteen forbidden countries. So was Turkey, France, and UK. We felt defeated before we’d started. But then, as luck – or divine grace- would have it, we discovered that KLM had just opened a flight from Riyadh to Amsterdam through Dubai, then direct Amsterdam to Panama City. It wasn’t cheap, but fortunately we had all our savings from not travelling during 2020. We crossed our fingers and booked our tickets.
There were still arrangements to be made, for travel from Panama to Costa Rica and accommodation in Costa Rica, not to mention a car-rental or two. But all the details seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly. We felt in the flow, confident that we were on the right path.
The day of our departure, we walked into a deserted King Khaled airport. There were eighteen other passengers boarding in Riyadh, then 100 more in Dubai; no-where near a full plane. Everything was extremely organized and clean, and I felt safer than I ever thought possible. Our stop-over in Amsterdam was uneventful and even Customs and the Covid-test Check in Panama went smoothly. We’d arrived, safe and sound.
We were gifted with a few fabulous weeks rejuvenating in our home in Panama and reconnecting with our youngest daughter. Then the time had come to begin the next chapter of our journey. We didn’t need a Covid test to enter Costa Rica, only proof in the form of a QR code demonstrating we had medical insurance to cover any possible Covid-related medical costs. We downloaded the documents and soon we were on our way.
Our week in Costa Rica was a gift beyond measure, packed full of miracles and blessings. Half-way into it, our bubble was almost popped when we received a text from our neighbour that the Panamanian President was set to close the border with Costa Rica due to a new variant. We had a briefly-lived panic attack. Mister contacted Copa airlines and the agent assured him our flight was on schedule. We breathed a sigh of relief and toasted our good fortune over a glass of outrageously delicious Purple Angel wine. How appropriate, I thought to myself.
The day of our departure from Costa Rica, back to Panama for our final week of vacation, it was with joyful hearts that we hugged farewell to my daughter, not goodbye, but hasta luego. We dropped her off at her new digs, then started down the highway, the three-and-a- half hour drive to the San Jose airport ahead of us, but with plenty of extra time built in.
Not half an hour later, traffic became congested just after we crossed the crocodile bridge, then came to a total standstill. There were so many cars ahead of us, we couldn’t determine what was causing the hold-up. Mister wanted to turn around to find a new way, but I lamented that there wasn’t any other road to take. We were both feeling anxious that we might miss our flight, when an angel disguised as a stranger approached our vehicle. Mister rolled down the window and the kind-hearted Costa Rican informed us that, yes, sorry, it was a political demonstration. He told us it would be dangerous to proceed, then went about giving directions using Mister’s map App for an alternate route through the jungle.
We never would have found this route if it weren’t for the kind stranger. Even with his help, it wasn’t easy. The road was barely a road. More of a clearing. We had to traverse rickety bridges that looked more like haphazardly laid logs. At one point, Mister wasn’t sure if he should cut back or continue on, when wouldn’t you know it, another angel, this time disguised as a Firefighter, was pulled over just ahead of us, speaking to the driver of the car in front of us. Soon he was leading a convoy of desperate tourists safely back, through the jungle, to the highway, several kilometres ahead of the barrier. Along the way we saw police dressed in full Swat gear, sorting through black duffel bags by the side of the road, the contents of which I didn’t want to know. My stomach lurched, acid in my throat. I heard my father-in-law’s words of wisdom; “worry or pray, but don’t do both,” and prayed.
We made it to the airport, through check-in and security, with only ten minutes until our boarding time; just enough time to grab a quick snack to-go. When we were finally back in our cozy casa, we toasted again, grateful for the good luck that materialized in the eleventh hour. Little did we know our challenges weren’t over yet.
The day before we were return to Riyadh on our KLM flight, we were hanging out at our hotel in the city when Mister received an email from the airline cancelling our flight due to a Central American Covid variant. The possibility of getting stuck-out that we’d worried about seemed like it was about to be realized.
Mister got on the phone and spoke with an operator who happily rebooked us on an Air France ticket departing Panama City only a few hours later than our original time, with a stop-over in Paris and then onto Riyadh on Saudia Air. It sounded all well and good, but, Mister inquired, is France not closed for entry to Saudi Arabia, one of the banned countries? The operator assured him the flight showed as scheduled, so despite our misgivings, we crossed our fingers again and prepared for the journey home.
The nine-hour Air France flight from Panama City to Paris proceeded with the same organization and cleanliness we were becoming accustomed to. We had four hours to wait for our connecting flight. Exhausted and beginning to feel the effects of jetlag, we were waiting by our gate when we heard our names called over the intercom.
At the ticket counter, the check-in employee was clearly distressed. He informed us our flight was for diplomats and health professionals only. Were we either? The stomach butterflies flew back. My heart palpations seemed to jump into my throat. No, we were not. Mister told them he worked for the Saudi Air Force. The manager was brought in. Did we have papers? A letter, perhaps, from his employer? No, sorry, KLM cancelled our flight through Amsterdam and booked us on this flight. He hummed, he hawed. But apparently, he was another angel too, because he told us he would risk it and allowed us to board.
We had one last hurdle to overcome, our re-entry into Saudi Arabia. Our negative Covid test results were approved. We proceeded to Customs. The woman behind the counter looked at our boarding ticket. “You came from France?” she said with a frown. “Yes, we did, but only transiting,” Mister replied. She called over a colleague, who turned out to be another angel.
We were escorted to a back room where a group of perhaps ten travellers were waiting for entry approval from the Saudi Lieutenant in charge. Our Customs Angel presented our case. He showed our boarding ticket and explained, it was a connection only. We did not enter France, only the Charles De Gaul airport. Only four hours. The Lieutenant looked at the slip of paper. He scowled and walked away, to address other waiting patrons. He returned and scanned our passes again. He questioned the timings. Our angel explained the time difference, the ten-hour flight. The Lieutenant left us again. On the third attempt, he gave our paperwork one last look-over, then said merely “Go,” with a wave of his hand. Full of elation and relief, we thanked him, “Shakran,” and hurried away before he could change his mind.
On the drive home, we marveled at our many near-disasters. We decided perhaps it was best we didn’t push our luck. Our next holiday is the last two weeks of July, over the holy time of Hajj, and we’re staying the blazes home. Still, I have no regrets. I relax into the discomfort and embrace the uncertainty, challenge, and magic of life.
So yeah, I’m feeling supported, aware of angels amongst us.