by Donna Easto
The departure board flickered once: Taipei 28437 DELAYED. Everyone at the gate knew what it meant—their connecting flight to Vancouver was already in the air. Thomas, Lila, and Marcy became immobile, as if standing still would change the board. Gathering their bags, they joined a slow-moving flow of passengers being redirected, rebooked, and reassured.
By the time they landed in Taipei, the night had deepened into that strange airport hour—neither late nor early…suspended. With tired smiles, Airline staff handed out food vouchers, though most stores were closed, except for one.
“Of course,” Marcy said, spotting the glowing red sign. “Tim Hortons.”
“Feels like home already,” Lila laughed softly.
They found a small table tucked beneath a staircase in the food court—out of the way, half-hidden. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was theirs. They arranged carry-ons like makeshift walls and settled into chairs that didn’t quite fit their bodies.
“To Adventure!” Thomas said, raising his paper cup.
“And a long night ahead,” Marcy added.
Then, a familiar voice called out. “Well, if it isn’t our Bali crew!”
Murray appeared first—tall, rumpled, with a natural friendliness that made strangers feel like old friends. Behind him came Patrick, steady and observant, and then the three sisters—Mary, Jean, and Alma—who arrived like a burst of light into the dim corner.
“You found the VIP lounge,” Jean teased, eyeing the cramped space.
“Exclusive seating,” Marcy replied. “Limited capacity.”
They pulled up chairs, dragged over a small table, and the tucked-away corner wasn’t lonely anymore.
Introductions were unnecessary. They’d had brief encounters at the Bali airport. The type of chatter that travellers share. Tonight, they had time to spare.
Murray, a young teacher from an inner-city school in Vancouver, spoke first. He told how his students challenged him, astonished him, and showed him that education flows in both directions. Patrick followed, describing his years in the civil service in Edmonton and the satisfaction of work that rarely made headlines but kept things running.
The sisters filled the space with laughter. Mary, Jean, and Alma—owners of a bakery in Montreal—spoke over each other in quick bursts, finishing sentences, correcting details, dissolving into giggles.
“You must taste our butter tarts,” Alma said.
“They’re famous,” Mary added.
“In our family,” Jean clarified, laughing.
Lila leaned forward. “What brought you here?”
“Our mom,” Mary said, her voice softening. “We go back home as often as we can.”
“And you?” Murray asked, turning to Thomas.
“Vacation, something we’ve talked about for years.”
“And now,” Marcy added, “we’re getting the extended version.”
The conversation drifted, deepening as the hours passed. Stories surfaced—childhoods in different countries, first winters in Canada, the shock of first snow, the comfort of finding familiar foods in unfamiliar places.
Each story, unique, each ending, somehow, in the same place. Canada.
They spoke of what it meant—not in grand, sweeping terms, but in the small things: neighbours who help shovel driveways, teachers who learn how to pronounce unfamiliar names, the quiet pride of belonging without needing to explain why.
Someone brought more coffee; another shared snacks from a carry-on. Aside from the group, the food court was empty, the hum of cleaning machines echoing in the distance.
Under the stairs, the group grew bigger, warmer, louder, and more at ease.
An unlikely gathering—black, brown, white; teachers, civil servants, business owners, cleaners. Strangers, only hours before. And yet, there it was,—that unmistakable thread of connectedness.
They listened to each story, chuckled, and made space for each newcomer.
Around 3 a.m., conversations softened. Chairs creaked as people shifted, finding rest. Heads leaned back, arms folded, eyes closed.
No one was comfortable. But no one was alone.
As the morning light crept into the airport, flights confirmed, paths diverged.
Mary stretched and smiled. “Well,” she said, “best overnight ever?”
“Not for the seating,” Patrick replied.
“But for the company,” Murray added.
Thomas looked around the small, makeshift circle—the crumpled cups, the tired faces, the sense of shared experience. “Yeah,” he said. “For the company.”
They gathered their things, exchanged hugs that felt natural, and promised the “keep in touch” that sometimes, just sometimes, people mean. Then they walked toward their gates, back into the flow of departures.
The table under the stairs was empty again. But for one long night, it had hosted something rare — a small, vivid reflection of what it means to belong. To be Canadian.
