Houston, we have a problem.
And that problem is weather.
And no one can control the weather.
Friday, May 2nd, we left home at 5:30 a.m. It was clear and crisp and calm as we drove to Eli’s house. He volunteered to drive us to the airport, partly because he loves us, and partly so Amanda could use my van for the two weeks. They only have one car, so she uses mine on Wednesdays to take Jane to dance class. This way, she could have it the whole time I was gone. Eli dropped us at the United entrance, where we boarded a flight to Houston, landed without incident, and grabbed some Panda Express. I thought of my favorite Seth. I rarely eat Panda, but Seth loves it there.
In no time, we were boarding the second leg of our journey, this time a 10-hour flight to Munich. Those who know me, know that I’ve never been to Germany and that my biggest regret in life is giving up a year-long study abroad experience at the University of Munich my junior year of college. I had the funding in place and was all set to go. Then, just as I was making the final arrangements for the study abroad, my dad died. And I didn’t go. I didn’t have the bandwidth to proceed. I didn’t have the bandwidth to do much of anything right then. I should have, though. I should have pushed through the pain and made it happen, because that opportunity would never present itself again. “No man ever steps into the same river twice, for it's not the same river, and he's not the same man" (Heraclitus).
So it’s a twisted bit of irony that my first time in Germany would be an hour and a half in the Munich airport.
As we boarded the plane, an older lady just in front of me in the crowed aisle, stepped back abruptly and bumped in to me. "Entschuldigung," she said. Without hesitation, I responded, “Kein Problem, alles ist gut.” As it turned out, that brief conversation in German would be the happiest part of my entire day.
We found our seats and settled in for the long flight. I had my travel blanket ready, along with AirPods, Kindle, and snacks. I was going to the Holy Land, on a tour I’d planned for over two years! I remember very little about what happened next. It was the typical message from the flight deck, welcoming us to the flight, the safety announcement, where they demo how to fasten and unfasten a seatbelt. Flight attendants scurried around doing pre-flight stuff, which I ignored, and soon we were taxiing out to the runway.
After that.....nothing.
We sat on that tarmac.
In the plane.
Not moving.
For seven hours.
Yes, you read that right: seven hours! Because of weather. Thunderstorms, specifically. During those seven hours, we did many of the things we would have done had we been in the air. I bought internet and logged into my spring classes. I was still grading final writing projects from 150 students. We received frequent updates from the flight deck. We couldn’t take off because of the thunderstorm. The airport closed, and no flights were taking off or landing. The airport reopened because the storm passed, but we were 54th in line to take off. Then another thunderstorm. Rinse and repeat.
As time passed, passengers began to wander the aisles, chatting with each other and with flight attendants, doing stretching exercises and calisthenics. I sat in my seat and graded essays. Until that one moment. That one moment when it became clear that regardless of what happened, I would not make it to Israel in time to join the start of the tour Sunday morning at 7:45. There were simply not enough hours left.
I maintained a stoic facade, but I was crying deep and ugly on the inside. I had planned this trip for over two years, and right there on that airplane, on the tarmac in Houston, it was all falling apart. Those who know me, also know that I am never late. Never. If I’m going to be late (which rarely, rarely happens), I don’t go at all. In this case, I was either going to buy a return flight to Salt Lake City, or I was going to arrive late to my tour, and neither option was acceptable. My anxiety raged. My support network at home (Shulamith, Eli, and Amanda) frantically tried to come up with a solution. There was no solution.
I need to stop here and give a huge shoutout to the United in-flight crew, They were fabulous. They didn't like the circumstances any more than we passengers did, and they were equally powerless to change them. But they tried to help in every way possible with snacks, drinks, and as much information as they had (which wasn't a lot). Also, kudos to the captain of the fight, who offered frequent, transparent updates. I didn't like the information he was providing, but I trusted that it was accurate.
In the end, after seven hours on that plane, the regretful captain announced that we would be taxiing back to the gate. The flight was canceled, though he was told that a new flight, with a fresh crew, would depart later that night, and we could take that one.
Didn't happen. We exited the plane to a ground crew who knew nothing about a later flight, and we were left on our own to make new plans. Gerald booked us on flights to Tel Aviv through Newark, leaving the following morning. With so many canceled and delayed flights, there were no available hotel rooms nearby, so we were stuck at the airport overnight.
I wrapped myself up in my soft, cuddly travel blanket, sat under a table in the Houston airport, and sobbed. My dream trip, the one I'd been planning for over two years, was ruined.
Have you ever read "Jude the Obscure" by Thomas Hardy? it's one of my favorite novels, but dang it's dark. When I read it for the first time, at one point, I literally threw the paperback across the room. Seriously, Tom? What the actual hell? I remember thinking to myself, "The only thing worse that could happen is _____________________." Then I turned the page, and it did.
That's kinda how this experience was. So if you want to know what worse thing happened next, stay tuned for tomorrow's installment of "The trip that goes wrong."
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