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I made it to London, about fifteen or twenty minutes later than I expected, but I wasn’t worried because I still had more than an hour and a half to make the flight.  I should learn to worry more.

At the first security checkpoint, I learned that my health and wellness statement for entry into Israel that I filled out online earlier was nowhere to be found.  I had to fill out another one online.  That was the point at which Heathrow Wi-Fi decided it didn’t like my phone.  Time and again,  I tried to authenticate, but it failed.  Finally, I connected.  I quickly filled in my information, showed it to the security person and was on my way.

I was on my way until I reached the second security checkpoint and found I had to do the usual airport screening, which I’d done about 36 hours earlier in Louisville, again.  And there was a line.  A few people graciously let me move in front of them and I began to put all my belongings in the plastic tubs, backpack, carry-on, the contents of my pockets, and my laptop.  I made it through the line through security and then saw one of my tubs, a second, a third, and then tub after tub filled with unfamiliar items.  I asked the attendant about my laptop and he said it would come through when it came through.  Finally it came through I packed it away and found I had 14 minutes to make it down to my concourse and to my gate.

I ran through Heathrow, not gracefully, not with anything resembling good form, but I ran.  Then I came to the double section of escalators.  I did pause for a second, but realized I was too close now, so I did my best to run up two flights of escalators. 

Once I reached the too, bent over and already gasping for air, I determined that my gate was one of the three to the left.  I starting running as best I could toward the gate and my heart sank, the gate area was empty.

I asked the attendants if the flight had left, she said no, that I could make it, but that I should stop and catch my breath first.  After thanking her, and pausing to take a few deep breaths, I headed down the passage to the jet lift where I found a few confused passengers who couldn’t figure out where the plane was.

We found the right hallway and made it on board.  About two minutes later, they closed the door and we began to taxi down the runway.

The flight was uneventful.  We even made it to Israel a few minutes early.  I made it through the various checkpoints without incident and went to the baggage carousel and waited.   I waited and waited a while longer.  By the time I had seen the same pieces of luggage 4 or 5 times and memorized the order of the bags,  I began to suspect that my bag might still be in Charlotte or New York or London or possibly it was already fed up with my trip and was taking its own vacation elsewhere.

I found the lost baggage desk and was directed to the company  that handles American Airlines and  British Airways.  I was struck by the universal laissez-faire attitude held by lost baggage departments, generally expressed by, “if it shows up, we’ll let you know, probably within a week.”  Their attitude might be different if were their stuff that was missing.  I left them with all of my information and moved on to the  Covid-testing line.

The line moved efficiently and soon I was swabbed and released.    I spent a few minutes updating family on the luggage situation and then fiddled around with one of the apps I’d downloaded to call for a cab. 

The cab arrived and almost immediately slid into traffic resembling a giant molasses spill.  We crept and crawled until we eventually reached my airbnb.  It was just after 5 pm and graduation was scheduled to begin at 7:15.

Part of me saw this coming.   Covid lockdowns and travel bans, last minute decisions made by school administrators, missiles clogging the airspace, and bureaucratic complications should have been subtle hints.  Flight cancelations and rebooking  travails should have served as confirmations. 

After 8 hours on the ground at JFK, I’ve spent more than an hour waiting on the plane, on the tarmac, at the gate.  It seems that even secondary and tertiary plans are elusive and little more than an illusion.  Life is much less predictable than we desire, far less stable than we dream.

I’ve had a lot of time to notice the wide range of differences with how we react to the stresses  and strains of uncertainty.  Some look for an individual  or group on which they can focus their incessant blame, proclaiming loudly to anyone willing to listen or at least within earshot.   Others get angry, now snapping at an exhausted and whining child or hapless fast food worker.  Some just shut down completely, while others assemble plans and alternatives.  And some find humor, joking that in the endlessly looping welcome by Charlotte’s mayor in which she notes how rapidly -growing the city is, the reason for the growth is that no one can ever leave the airport or that in another hour, we’ll have to pay taxes.

But the waiting also gives  us the chance to learn a little more about each other’s stories:  the man who couldn’t take a business flight in the late afternoon because he was flying to Denver the following day to see his daughter for the first time since COVID struck, or the couple who just needed to make sure their luggage would follow them as they found a later flight or the woman who was inconsolable because missed her uncle’s funeral due to weather and cancelations.

It’s easy to be angry, to be bitter, to rage against a capricious cosmos. It’s normal to be disappointed when our plans fall through due to acts of nature or failures of technology. But we also have to see that we aren’t the only ones being singled out; that others are just as discomfited and discouraged.

Somehow, we will muddle through, the straight path will give way to the long and winding road, and we will get where we need to be. Life happens while we make plans and the journey continues.

God might be laughing, but my sense of humor is definitely being tested.  As if there weren’t enough challenges prior to boarding my first flight, I learned that the flight itinerary was more of a suggestion.  I arrived at the Louisville Airport without incident.  My 5:15 take-off was delayed half an hour, then 45 minutes, then an hour.  I wasn’t too worried because I started out with a two hour layover in Charlotte.  And even if it took off on time, I’d still have 45 minutes to make the flight.

It didn’t take off on time.  At first it was a 45 minute delay.  That gave me enough time to take care of printing my entry permit for Israel.   After an hour and a half in line, I was told that they couldn’t print anything from there and that I’d have to try the Admiral’s Club.  A woman at the front desk escorted me to the business center, a printer and a fax machine, and I proceeded to try and print one document.  After some fiddling around, I eventually was able to send the pdf from my phone to the printer, but the printer would only print in landscape mode and I needed portrait.

A few helpful people and a different printer sent me on my way back to my gate where I learned the flights status had morphed from delayed to canceled.  I joined the line to the customer service desk and a mere 4 hours later, it was finally my turn to see what they could do to help me.

The first option was to spend another day and a half in Charlotte and arrive in Israel 27 hours after graduation.  Rejecting that option, we explored almost every possible flight, eventually deciding on an 8 am flight to New York, with an 8 hour layover there, followed by a flight to London.  Once there, I could catch a British Airways flight and land in Israel at 3 pm, 4 hours prior to graduation.

And so here I sit on a near empty JFK terminal, waiting to see what will transpire with this round of plans.

Mann tracht und Gott lacht – man plans and God laughs.  It’s been the motto of the Covid years.  How many times have we had plans disrupted, changed, and frustrated by the ubiquitous virus?  This trip would prove to be no exception to the rule that reigned over 2020 and early 2021. 

Over the last eighteen months, my wife had  to cancel a trip to visit our children  and my son’s school locked down completely, preventing him from visiting us, while my daughter’s school contacted us in a virtual panic in the spring of 2020, trying to send all students home.  As  vaccination rates rose, we thought that we would actually be able to celebrate their graduations in person.

Life is rarely that straightforward.  First, we found out that our daughter’s boarding school was holding  its graduation on June 9.  After repeated inquiries, we found that our son’s school wouldn’t hold its ceremony until July 1.  We had planned on a two week stay, but God laughed and said rearrange your lives for about a month.

Then, there was the issue of Gaza and thousands of missiles raining down over Israel.  Would the schools cancel ceremonies?   Would airlines refuse to fly?  Would changes in the lives of everyday Israelis impact the availability  of Airbnb locations.  We did have one Airbnb cancelation due to changed plans, but otherwise, the other issues turned out to be non-factors.

And then, there was a significant bump in the road, health.  My wife’s lower body ballooned outward with severe edema, so severe that her doctor sent her directly to the hospital.  While there, she lost 30 pounds of fluid overnight, but learned that she had compression fractures in her spine.  We adjusted our plans for a less vigorous trip.  Less than a week later, she was back in the hospital.  The diuretics had worked too well and decimated her potassium and phosphorus levels, leaving her very weak, but the trip was still possible.  Unrelenting back pain revealed more compression fractures and she realized that she simply couldn’t make the trip.

On a separate track, there was yet another plan that could potentially disrupt my now soli trip, an entry permit from the Israeli government.  I had sent in the application with all the appropriate documentation – birth certificates with apostilles, wedding license, my passport information, my children’s passport information and proof of Covid vaccination.  A week passed.  I sent a follow-up email which generated an automatic response informing me that they wouldn’t respond to emails.  I called the consulate and the voice-mail let me know that they wouldn’t be responding to phone calls.  I did learn from an email, that a first degree relative in Israel could go to a Population and Immigration Authority office and receive the appropriate document.  We had my daughter try and call.  Day after day, she called and couldn’t get through.  Finally on the day before I was due to leave, at 11 pm her time, we called her and asked her to just show up at the office. It turned out someone in her school administration knew someone at the office and made sure my daughter could go in and get the permission slip. At three am, my time, I got the call from her that she was texting my the permit as an attachment. I finally had the last roadblock lifted. At least I would be able to go.

This isn’t the trip I planned. This isn’t even the second, third, or fourth variation of that trip. But it is my trip now. Welcome to the journey I’m taking, exploring what was once familiar, what us completely new, and what I will be able to see and understand through the eyes and experiences of my children.