Plan C. ... Like a Lion

by Brother Stavros


You don’t hear the expression much about March’s in’s and out’s, but the nor’easter that swooped over the Northeast the first day of March qualified for leonine status.

I had an invitation to give a mini-retreat at our (the OCA) cathedral in Washington, D.C. St. Nicholas has a lovely location on Massachusetts Avenue just above the Naval Observatory and just below the National Cathedral, which crowns the highest hill in the city. 

The Albany to D.C. flight is a straight shot and takes a little over an hour. Since my AA flight was at noon, I thought I might beat the predicted storm, but I took the precaution Thursday of making an Amtrak reservation. After Matins on Friday morning I checked the web and found that my flight was cancelled. Plan B involved driving to Albany and crossing the Hudson to the Rensselaer station. It was just starting to snow more seriously, so I avoided the back roads. 

The train departed on time. It is normally a delightful ride along the west bank of the Hudson. The conductor announced that the weather conditions limited the top speed to 60 mph, so the trip would take a little longer. There is a stretch between Hyde Park and Poughkeepsie where the rails are very close to the riverbank. By this point the winds had picked up considerably, and the Hudson had whitecaps. The wind pushing down the river and the incoming upstream tidal flow made for a very turbulent river, and large waves sent spray very close to the tracks. This was mildly concerning and a harbinger of nastier things to come. 

I remember the old Penn Station, and how the “new” one suffered by comparison. If you ever traveled through it you will remember the gigantic gate posting board in the middle of the concourse; as announcements changed it clattered like some Rube Goldberg invention. It has been replaced with something closer to the digital age, but the effect is the same: it corrals all the passengers like a herd of cattle. When I detrained and reached the concourse there was the usual mob, but all with somber faces fixed on the two new boards at opposite ends above the gates. Every entry read DELAYED. The Pennsylvania announcements declared effectively a halt to all traffic North and South because of strong winds. I overheard some of the armed military guards saying the two long bridges at the Susquehanna and the Delaware were closed to auto and rail traffic. 

Pondering what to do, I considered where I could spend the night. I called both Bill Hood, who lives there in Manhattan, and Christopher Minarich in New Jersey. No responses. Midtown hotels were too expensive. Plan C was Port Authority and the bus. Outside Penn station I discovered the cold driving mix of rain and sleet, which made the walk east unattractive. I was, however, only one subway stop away from Port Authority, where I found the Greyhound desk and bought a seat on an express to Washington, with the caveat about the bridge conditions. 

It’s been over half a century since I was in the terminal. Much looked different, but the lower gates had the same tangerine-tiled walls I remember from high school trips. My fellow passengers were restive, but the young man (a greyhound concierge?) had good PR skills. He explained that “our” bus was preempted when another bus had a minor accident. He would do his best to get us another bus AND another driver. Then he literally ran hither and yon to make it happen. It took the better part of an hour, and because I had a seniors’ ticket I boarded early. 

We got to New Jersey via the Lincoln tunnel. I think someplace I picked up a sandwich and a drink, then I dozed for a while. The driver said something, but with my diminished hearing and the inherent bad audio quality of all public transportation P.A. systems, it sounded like something to do with detouring to avoid the big bridges. It felt a tad eerie not knowing where we were. Since I was near the back of the bus, whenever we passed by a road sign I was too far back for the headlights to light them up. I did manage to see a sign for York. York? Only the next day did I realize that that’s how far west we went to escape the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Finally we reached Baltimore, which I recognized.

I could not remember where the D.C. bus terminal now stands. It used to be in a cruddy downtown location. And, forever and a night since Albany, I welcomed the sight of North Capitol Street, even picked out Gonzaga and St. Aloysius clock tower. To enormous relief we pulled into the rear of Union Station. Taxis were waiting on the south side facing the capital. 

It was a straight shot up Massachusetts Avenue. The driver missed Edmonds Street and started around Observatory Circle. I had him let me out and walked a block and a half to the rectory. 

It’s a modest house in the very exclusive Glover Park neighborhood, quiet and rather dark. Mary Jane Maxwell (a parish member here when she taught in nearly Vermont, now a St. Nicholas’ asset) told me the key would be under the mat. It was close to midnight, there was no porch light, so at first I did not see it and anxiously sized up the porch’s sleeping potential. But there it was, I was in, went up, ran a bath, and finally hit the hay. 

My three days in the city went very well. The weather turned Spring-like. Daffodils were up, across the street from the rectory a plum tree was in bloom, and there was birdsong everywhere. 

Father George Kokhno and Fr. Paul Harrilchak (a friend dating back to 1963) took me to brunch Saturday morning downtown off Pennsylvania Avenue. Afterward I took a walk, then began preparing for the retreat activities I had come to lead. Late that afternoon a medley of services began with a memorial for the dead, common to the Saturdays in Lent. Then came the “All-night” vigil, Всенощная, beautifully led by the cathedral’s second priest, Fr. Valery Shemchuk, and beautifully sung by the cathedral choir in both English and Church Slavonic and a little Georgian. I gave a short sermon from the middle of the nave, where the 30 or so people were gathered. It was momentarily unnerving when the choir left their risers in the west gallery and came to the balcony railing to listen. After the service Fr. Valery came into the nave for a general Confession rite. 

The English Divine Liturgy was at 9 Sunday morning. It was a beautiful day with the sun streaming through the tall narrow windows to light up the amazing mural iconography: a very different effect from the previous night, when the central chandelier lit the church from within, making all the gold-leaf haloes on the hundreds of saints throughout the church (even the large piers or pillars supporting the dome have saints depicted on all four sides) glow with an entrancing radiance. 

Fathers Geroge left, & Valery, right, brothers Christopher and Stavros from a previous visit.

Father George served along with Fr. Dennis, a former Georgetown professor, who knew my mother from her years as receptionist and dean’s assistant at the School of Foreign Service. The late Fr. Dimitri Grigorieff, previous cathedral dean, was also on the Georgetown faculty, where I knew him before he was ordained. The protodeacon was assisted by a couple of subdeacons and four small kids, who knew their routines. 

I preached after the Gospel, helped by a microphone at a lectern on the solea before the Holy Doors. The text was the dramatic healing of the fellow lowered from the hole in the roof by four of his friends, an event I likened to the recovery from the paralysis of addiction, which needs the support of others such as those in twelve-step programs. I observed that in addition to the soaring opioid scourge, our society knows “legions” of others—power, sex, alcohol, guns, shopping, gossip, lying (in that town it’s becoming endemic) we can even be addicted to spiritual materialism, the externals of religion [cf. Mother Maria Skobtsova’s writings]. In my reflections at vigil Saturday night I quoted Metropolitan Tikhon’s letter to President Trump calling us to consider our soul as a nation, and to ask the difficult question as to why such killings…happen here so much more than they do anywhere else. I have strong feelings on this issue of gun violence and even joined a public demonstration supported by our local council of churches on the anniversary of Sandy Hook. I was standing in the Metropolitan’s cathedral so I did not think it inappropriate to broach the subject as part of our Lenten self-examination. 

The slide presentation I prepared was held during coffee hour in the dining room below the church. It was a great relief that a young Russian-born IT gentleman had it all setup, and except for my needing to be reminded to keep the microphone close, it went well. The questions were good, and following the period I was approached by several people wanting to engage on a level of personal problems. One woman thanked me for the reference to gun violence; she had a friend whose son attended the Parkland high school. Another was pleased with my Maya Angelou and G.K. Chesterton quotes. 

I stayed talking and being introduced by Fr. George to various parishioners right through the Slavonic Liturgy, then a new menu was set out for a pot-such Russian meal of kasha, borscht, and good bread. We had a lively meal, and I began to say my good-byes. My return was Monday at 3, and I was looking forward to the free time. First, I took a nap. 

The weather being so gorgeous, I set out up the hill to stop at St. Sophia’s Greek cathedral. I took a few photos then crossed the street to the campus of the National Cathedral, where St. Alban’s School is located. I had tried to get into the cathedral Saturday, but it was closed because of to the high winds. The central tower is under repair from last year’s earthquake, and they feared parts of the scaffolding becoming air-borne. I took lots of photos and noticed lots of cars, so I thought maybe there was Evensong. 

Turned out there was a concert by the Cathedral Choral Society choir. My pocket cash was down to less than ten bucks, but they accepted credit cards, so I got a ticket and took a seat in the north transept. The program had twelve works including a Trisagion by John Tavener in Church Slavonic, Arvo Pärt’s Salve Regina, and Duruflé’s Notre Père. The other pieces were all contemporary, including a Latvian Baptist composition that featured a cello. The organist was Scott Dettra. Not only was the music superb, but watching the light-play as we neared sunset was a very uplifting experience. Assuming the cathedral ushers to be a tolerant lot, after the intermission I moved up to the transept loft and was able to get some great photographs. Exiting the exalted building concurred with sunset, which bathed all the western planes of the Gothic masterpiece in an orange light that
lasted less than ten minutes.

I headed down Wisconsin Avenue past the massive Russian Embassy to a drugstore to get the Sunday paper and treated myself to some Hagan Däas.  I proceeded to enjoy both ensconced in the comfortable back bedroom. About nine-thirty the doorbell rang. It gave me pause. I was expecting no one. There is almost no foot traffic in the neighborhood. Who might it possibly be? I thumped down in my bare feet, peeked through the little slit window edging the door, and saw a hunched, non-threatening male figure. I opened the door and saw dimly a gentleman of sixtysomething with a briefcase over his shoulder and a small rollalong bag. I could not see his face, and he did not identify himself. He asked for Fr. George. I informed him that unfortunately his residence was in Virginia. The fellow told me he was looking for a room to rent and had been on the metro system from Virginia to D.C. for hours.

My heart said invite him in; it was cold out. However, the house was not mine, and I had no right to offer hospitality. I explained that I was only a brief guest but offered to give him Fr. George’s phone number. The only hotels were up on Wisconsin Avenue and were all pricey places. I had no cash to offer him and had no idea where any shelters might be. He did not persist nor ask to come in, but I felt contrite. Friday night after the arduous trip from Albany, when for a minute or two I did not see the key and entertained the prospect of being out in the cold, was a miserable feeling. But my empathy was tempered by the reality of not being simplistic. We had a friend years ago, a Methodist pastor in a town nearby, who invited a homeless man inside and prepared lunch for him. His guest grabbed a knife off the kitchen cabinet and killed the pastor. Our local Church Council subsequently established a protocol for helping homeless or hapless wayfarers that involves a police check and paying for a couple of nights in a motel. None of those options were at my disposal. The man went away, and I had trouble getting to sleep.

Monday was another brilliant day. I was having breakfast with two other old friends, Fr. Vladimir Danylevitch and his wife, Anna, an accomplished iconographer. I cleaned up my room, stripped the bed, and awaited my ride sitting on the front steps enjoying the sun and the birds. We went to a lovely French place just across the District Line in Maryland. It was near Fr. Vladimir’s work, and I had lots of time before my flight, so we had a most enjoyable catching up on their four children, all grown up, one of them a nun-veterinarian in Greece. For a number of years they all spent Holy Week with us, and the kids once helped carry a large cross up to the top of the mountain where we erected it fastened to a tree stump. For years you could see it driving up the road far below.

After our adieu’s they left me at a Metro stop on the Red line, which makes a loop through the heart of downtown. I switched to the Yellow line at Gallery Place and continued on to National/Reagan Airport. I was early, the security line was short, and I didn’t have to remove my shoes or take out my laptop. I was in the AA terminal, Gate 35X, a puzzling designation, which means you have to take a shuttle out to the American Eagle planes on the tarmac. The flight was delayed from 3 pm to 4:15. I got a nice panino and a beer, and opened my computer to pass the time.

My I-surfing unexpectedly led me to a YouTube video of the funeral of King Michael I of Romania. It was a state affair, much spit-and-polish. He had a very eminent life; he defied the Nazis when the country had a virulent pro-fascist party, and he also bravely opposed the Communists. After Ceausescu’s elimination he made several attempts to return to Romania. When he finally succeeded he became very popular. The mourners included Prince Charles (I think they were cousins, with an Orthodox connection as well). I caught the Panychida, our traditional memorial service, held out in the street in front of the old royal palace. The crowd was vast, a bishop or maybe the patriarch presided, and a large choir of seminarians sang. The honor guards looked very Hapsburgian, and four deacons censed and circled the bier in stately rhythm.

Finally boarding was called. We went downstairs and got on the shuttle, perhaps thirty or forty passengers, trundled out to the runway and stopped at a zig-zag ramp, easier to negotiate than the old stairs. The “Eagle” is small (specs: Bombardier CRJ700) and takes a limited number of passenger and crew as they make short flights. I ended up near the back. The plane looked pretty spiffy. I have flown in a small plane over Cambridge before and enjoyed it. I appreciated the clear weather enabling me to pick out all the D.C. landmarks and follow our course northeast above the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and on to the coast.                

The attendant had started her progress with the drinks’ cart when the aircraft started to vibrate seriously then dipped up and down. She had to cling to someone’s seatback in order to avoid hitting the ceiling. Her face was unprofessionally panicked. The plane settled for a few moments, then repeated the bouncing and shaking. I looked out to see if we still had wings. And at the same time the plane tipped steeply starboard and just dropped: perhaps 1,000 feet. I said the Jesus Prayer most fervently, made the sign of the cross hoping the impact would not be messy and hit the ocean instead of a population center. 

A few weeks ago I read a novel called Birds in Fall by Brad Kessler, a nice guy and gifted writer who raises Nubian goats in Vermont. He stood next to me in the Battenkill Chorale’s recent performance of Verdi’s Requiem. The novel dealt with a crash off Nova Scotia. It hit the ocean.  No survivors. A practical thought cut through my terror: I might need the vomit bag in the seatback pocket any second now. 

Nobody screamed, and we were finally climbing and not shaking. I could not understand whatever the pilot said, and I was still gripping the armrest on the right and the back of the seat in front with my left hand. Snacks were canceled. About a half an hour remained for the flight, and every time there was the slightest rattle or vibration my heart raced. I could make out snow on the ground as we began our approach to Albany, and the landing was smooth. The pilot and stewardess were standing by the door as we exited. I looked at the pilot and said dryly “That was interesting” and asked the woman if she was OK. She said yes—and how was I? Shaken, in a word.


The only other time I felt so close to death was in my little shanty on the side of our mountain during a particularly violent electrical storm when I expected to be zapped to a crisp. I am almost 75, have had a full life, have faith in the hereafter and the utter benevolence of God, so I can be excused a little fatalism.


A minor coda. Since I had driven to the Amtrak station and left the car, I needed to get a taxi to get to the opposite side of the city, across the Hudson in Rensselaer. It was expensive. The driver was a Turk who moments before I and a lady fellow passenger climbed in, was off by the left fender on a prayer rug doing one of the five daily rituals of a devout Muslim. He told me after we dropped her off that once a woman saw him at prayer, took her cell phone, and hit 911 to report a terrorist. Police swiftly converged with guns and rifles. His fellow cabbies vouched for him, but the woman had disappeared.

Never a dull moment.

Never indeed.