me and Father Godly

After spending a year in Bogotá, I returned to the states abruptly. My Colombian boyfriend, Rafael, had thrown a cup of hot chocolate at my face. I got up, went to the phone, and made my reservation home for the next day. The story of that hot chocolate is an interesting story but it is not my focus here.

We both knew that leaving in response to his abuse meant we'd never see one another again.  He had asked me to marry him, even pleaded with me to do so.  I considered the proposal but, by the time he threw that hot chocolate at me, I had long since decided I could not marry him. 

So.  He and his brother accompanied me to the airport, with Rafa pleading with me until I passed customs, to change my mind, to stay. I was exhausted before my long flight to Miami. I had been up all night packing, crying and arguing with Rafa. I felt sad to leave him but I knew I would not stay in Colombia, could not have lived out my life there. And I knew I wanted to get back to college that fall. The abruptness of my decision may have given the appearance of impulsivity. His act of throwing that very hot chocolate at my face gave me the motivation I needed. I had been procrastinating about scheduling my return to the States, waffling over our moonie romance.  I don't think I was angry about the attack of the hot cocoa. I think I was grateful for the clarity that hot cocoa allowed me to have. Get out, was the message. Stop dinking around. Call the airlines. Avianca Air.

From Miami, I flew to NY's Kennedy airport, then took a shuttle to LaGuardia for my flight to Pittsburg. My mom and youngest siblings lived near Pittsburg. I wanted to see them before I got to Chicago, my hometown with my dad.

Once I got to LaGuardia, with a long wait for my flight, the only place open was a bar.  I have almost never gone to bars, and virtually never gone to one alone. Bars intimidate me, to this day. An airport bar, however, felt somewhat acceptable.

I sidled up to the bar and ordered a Diet Coke. As soon as I ordered that Code, the drunk man sitting next to me said "Oh, me darling, have a real drink. Let me buy you a real drink."

I was 19. Was the drinking age in NY State under age 21 in 1973?  I had never been able to order alcohol in bars before. I believe I was under the legal drinking age but, apparently, airport bars have looser standards. Plus the man ordering my drink was a priest.

Father Godley. He pulled out his wallet to show me his driver's license. "I am the only Godley in the book in Tacoma, Washington."

He explained to me that he was from Ireland, that he was returning to Tacoma after his annual visit to Ireland to see his family. He kept saying "Me brothers, all doctors, gave me lots of shots before I left. Me brothers, God love them, gave me many shots."

My thoughts snagged