A Stranger in York
St. Xenia, Helper of Wayfarers
In 2007 I went backpacking in England. The first time I was in England was twelve years earlier, with my parents. But now in my late 20s I was eager to get back and see with older eyes—and Orthodox eyes—the places I had loved as an Anglo-Catholic teenager. Part pilgrimage, part sight-seeing, it was to be my last big trip before moving to a monastery later that fall to become a monk. I was traveling cheap, staying in youth hostels that I’d booked online in advance, and I figured I could save some money by including in my itinerary a few nights sleeping in transit—on a long train ride, for example, or a voyage across the Irish Sea.
On Monday, October 1st—the feast of Our Lady’s Protecting Veil—I returned to London after spending a few nights at the Monastery of St. John the Baptist in Essex. That evening I went to Westminster Abbey for Evensong, and then my plan was spend the night sleeping on a train to York. Of all the cathedral cities I’d visited on my first trip to England, none had captured my heart like York and its Minster. I was eager to get off the train early the next morning and begin exploring—after fortifying myself with a hearty Yorkshire breakfast.
But I had miscalculated. It turns out that in England, the other end of the country is a lot closer than in America. And compared to hapless Amtrak, British railway services bedazzle with their efficiency. I searched up and down the timetables at King’s Cross for a slow, local train to York, but all I could find were express trains that would get you there in two hours flat. Not remotely what was needed for serious sleeping! But what was my alternative? At that late hour I had little hope of finding an affordable room in London. So I got on a 9 PM train and sped off northward. There was wifi onboard, so I checked online for vacancies in York youth hostels but found none. And I couldn’t sleep.
I alighted at eleven.
The night was young, but York can’t have been known for its night life. Outside the station I met with chilly air and deserted streets. I roamed around for an hour or so, looking for somewhere to stay. In the dim lighting, I discerned mediaeval architectural wonders and also found some diversion in York’s olde street names: Micklegate, St. Saviourgate, Mad Alice Lane, The Shambles… and a thirty-foot-long stub of a road named “Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate,” surely one of England’s longest street signs for one of her shortest streets. I stood for a few minutes staring at that sign in puzzlement and delight. Only in England!! But it now it was well past midnight and I was tired. Any youth hostels I’d come across were either full or closed. So I made my way back to the train station, looked for a quiet spot with a bench, and lay down with my backpack as a pillow.
The bench in question was on a train platform partially covered but at its far end was open to the night air, and early October in Yorkshire was colder than I expected. My shivering kept waking me up. As did a diesel locomotive a few tracks down that seemed to be undergoing some kind of tests: on and off, on and off, a new roar every fifteen minutes. Around 1:30 I was defeated. It was too cold for me to keep on lying there; I’d have to walk around until morning.
With no other goal than keeping myself warm, I left the station and began plodding through the empty streets. I was now too hungry and too drowsy to resume my earlier appreciation of the quaint mediaevalisms on offer; if my eyes saw anything at all, it was only my feet on the pavement stones.
I don’t know how long I could have gone on. Morning was several hours away. But a thought pushed its way into my head: I must pray to St. Xenia! In 18th-century St. Petersburg there lived a homeless fool for Christ known to spend all night wandering around the city. But unlike my wandering, St. Xenia’s had a purpose. She would pray, make prostrations, bless houses, and take on secret labors to help the daytime workers in, say, the construction of a new bell tower. There’d been several times over the years when her prayers had given me a narrow escape from misfortune, especially while traveling. And now I was having a small taste of her nightly routine in the Russian capital. But I had neither her physical stamina nor her spiritual vigor. I desperately needed her help, and I reproached myself for forgetting her up till then. I stood still right where I was, my eyes still downcast, and, making the sign of the Cross, I said, “Holy blessed Xenia, pray to God for me!”
Then I lifted up my head.
Straight in front of me, about ten paces away, I saw a front stoop leading up to a front door. And on the door a big sign:
Youth Hostel
24-hour access
Beds available
Knock. How had I missed the sign earlier? I’d been down that street before. Somehow, the prayer opened my eyes—the prayer that I was prompted to offer at that precise spot.
I walked the ten paces and climbed the steps. I knocked.
After a short wait, a young man wearing pajamas opened the door. On the floor behind him I saw the mattress and sleeping bag he must have been using while on night duty. He let me in, registered me, gave me a towel and some soap, and showed me to my room. Three minutes later I was lying in a warm bed, amazed and grateful to our Lord Jesus Christ for how promptly and how generously he responds to the prayers of his faithful servant, blessed Xenia.
Three minutes after that I was fast asleep.
Next morning, I did have a hearty breakfast.
