We flew separately to San Domingo. ( I am not sure why. Maybe it was the royalty thing – we were two important to share the same plane or maybe there wasn’t one big enough for the three of us -you take your pick) . I had forgotten (not deliberately) my regulation tee shirt and just hoped I would spot Pastor Poisson (I had seen him on video). The arrival hall was packed as it always is in these occasions with family and friends eagerly awaiting their loved ones retun and screeching and cheering with children running wildly as the exiles came through the door. One couple met half way down the ramp and embraced and quite lost themselves in the unbounded joy of the union. They seemed quite oblivious to the throngs watching till they were finally brought back to reality with the spontaneous applause they provoked. One group was met with a little band accordion, drum, shaker and clapping that surrounded them and followed them out of the building into the balmy night. But I couldn’t find the pastor. I asked two look likely suspects but neither were him. By a miracle, going back and forward through the crowd, I spotted a small piece of ripped-off paper in someone’s hand with the word “Crawford” on it and I smiled.