La Dolce Vita
The morning is an absolute whirlwind. After feeding, watering, shoving a few last-minute items into our bags, including a few smaller Christmas presents—I nearly forgot—then wrangling everyone out the door in time for the car service to drop us off, I don’t get a chance to tell Trey about the weird email.
Honestly, if Trey wasn’t stepping in for Bob at this conference, there’s no way I would have agreed to move heaven and earth the way I have.
But I can’t deny him the opportunity. He supports me so much, it would be churlish to do anything but go along and make things as smooth as possible for a quick departure.
By the time we arrive at the airport, I have barely slept and am beyond frazzled.
And what started as an exciting morning, the first day of our impromptu vacation, is quickly ruined by the dreaded words coming from my husband’s lips: “Babe, I think something’s wrong.”
I follow his pointed finger to the screen where we’re doing our self-check-in.
Sure enough, it won’t let us; it’s saying we need to speak with an agent.
We’re already running behind, and the enormous flight board above the entrance to the TSA security lines is flashing Boarding next to our flight number.
Just our luck. The first overseas trip we’ve ever taken together, the whole family, and boom. This is what happens when you rush.
“What’s happening?” he asks.
“They probably just need to verify our passports. Hang on. I’ll find out.” I hand Trey my carry-on. “Can you . . . ?”
He needs no more instruction and seamlessly juggles my bag, his bag, the kids’ bags, and the kids themselves. He’s such a great dad.
I hurry over; a line is already forming.
We’re flying economy plus, which was the only option available for the four of us together, so I scoot into that queue, three people back.
Close enough to hear someone in front of me talking about their own flight being canceled because the plane they were supposed to fly on had a mechanical issue and the pilots decided it wasn’t safe to attempt a fix.
Best not to mention that to Trey. He is claustrophobic, and flying really does set him off.
Which is reason number 5,709 why his suggestion that we take the kids and jet to Italy is so very out of character. A welcome flight of fancy, but unusual.
I glance at the clock above the desk. 11:11. Angel numbers.
The little voice that always cheers when I see them perks up. My guardian angel is watching over us again.
I believe wholeheartedly in these things.
Not that life is preordained or anything, but those chance situations that avoid tragedy, like forgetting your keys and having to go back inside, losing a few minutes, then driving to the corner only to see a terrible accident has just occurred, knowing deep inside that if you hadn’t forgotten the keys, you’d have been the one T-boned .
. . Yes. I believe someone is looking out for us, and any time I see those numbers by accident, I know deep in my soul I’ve been saved from some horrible fate. My thoughts begin to tumble.
Maybe this is happening to save us. Maybe we’re not meant to catch this flight. Maybe we’re not meant to take this trip at all.
Maybe that email was a genuine mistake. Can you imagine threatening someone only to realize you sent the threat to the wrong person?
In the light of day, with that perspective, the disappearing message almost seems humorous. Almost. I need to tell Trey, but I have to get him away from the kids, so it won’t be until they’re asleep. We’ll figure it out together, like we do everything.
So at 11:13 a.m., when the attendant calls me to the desk, I’m not quite as frothy at the mouth as I might have been, knowing the delay means we’ll probably miss our connection to Milan.
“Where you headed, hon?”
“Milan. Through London. We tried to check in, and it said we needed to see an attendant.” I hand over the passports—including Trey’s, procured yesterday and delivered by courier last night, as promised. “We’re running a bit behind, and I don’t want to miss the flight. Is everything okay?”
“Ah.” The woman looks over my shoulder, and I glance back to see over thirty people queued behind me. “You got here right in time. Another flight was just canceled, and everyone needs to be rebooked.” The woman clacks away on the keyboard. “Four of you?”
“Yes.”
Clackety clackety clack. Whatever could she be typing that takes so many words? She smiles. “Oh! Well, bad news, good news. Bad news first? You’ve been bumped from the Nashville-to-London leg.”
And that’s worth a smile? My shoulders sag. This is what happens when you book at the last second. “That’s a bummer. What are our options?”
“That’s the good news. You’ve already been rebooked on another flight.
” She clacks away a bit more, then smiles again.
“And now you’ve been upgraded. Instead of flying economy to London and then on to Milan, I can get you there by going to Atlanta in comfort plus, then straight overnight to Milan in our new first class.
The pods are amazing. Very swanky. And you’ll be in Milan three hours earlier. How’s that sound?”
“Too good to be true. How much is the difference in fare?”
“None.” She glances over at the kids. “I have two myself. I know how hard it is. And you’ve been a customer for a very long time. Thank you for choosing us. So this one’s on me. Get you there faster and safe, right?”
My heart leaps. “Well, yes. Of course. Thank you. That’s fabulous.”
“One little catch.” Clackety clackety clack. “The Atlanta leg leaves here in forty-five minutes, so you need to get a move on.” There are a few more clicks on the keyboard. “Are you checking bags?”
I wave frantically to Trey, who hurries over with the kids and the bags.
Four is manfully dragging my large suitcase behind him, packed to the gills with our warm coats and boots and mittens and sweaters.
It’s a temperate December day in Nashville, but a check of the Italy forecast yesterday showed snow falling across the northern half of the country.
I grab the handle before it knocks him over. “Thanks, sweetie.” And to the desk attendant: “Just this one. We have carry-ons for the rest.”
“Great.” Clackety. A red slip comes out––transfer––and a pink one for first class. She attaches them both to the bag’s handle, then throws it behind her onto the moving luggage feeder.
“Here you go,” the woman says, handing over four boarding passes and a luggage slip. “You need to hurry, the flight starts boarding in fifteen minutes. I’ll call the gate agent and tell them you’re on your way. They’ll hold the plane for you. Have a blessed day. Next!”
I turn to Trey. “I’ll tell you the whole story in a minute. We got bumped, but she was able to get us on another flight. It’s leaving soon, so we have to go now. Hurry, kids. Let’s run!”
How we make the flight is a miracle. I used to have a Global Entry account, but when I stopped traveling, I let it lapse.
I looked at getting a Clear membership late last night so we could bypass all the lines, but there just wasn’t enough time.
Trey had been adamant when he sprang the trip on me that we must travel right away so he could make the meeting he was being asked to attend by my uncle.
Probably for the best, no sense wasting the money on something we would only use once.
Getting Trey on a plane took an act of God.
I never thought a financial conference in Milan was that particular god, but I’m not going to quibble with the universe anymore.
Nashville’s airport has grown exponentially since the last time I was here.
I don’t even recognize the lobby. It’s huge, crystalline, bristling with cops with automatic weapons and whooping groups of twentysomething girls in cowboy boots.
There is a large Christmas tree on the other side of security, so big I can see it from the line we’re in.
Security is insane, but goes relatively quickly, considering.
We burst out of the TSA checkpoint like quail flushed from the brush and run pell-mell, Trey carrying Neve, me holding Four’s hand, toward the gate.
We arrive, out of breath and without a chance to stop for bathrooms or water, just as the flight is having its last call.
Trey pulls up short when he sees the city name over the gate.
“Atlanta?”
“Yes. The Atlanta flight goes straight to Milan. That attendant was amazing. We were upgraded and everything. Hurry, we have to get on.”
“No. I don’t want to fly through Atlanta. I want to fly through London.”
“Trey, we don’t have a choice. We got bumped from that flight. This is great—we’ll get there sooner, in better seats.”
I smile reassuringly—he really does hate to fly, so I can’t blame him for being reluctant to change plans at the last second—but it quickly fades. His whole body has gone stiff. The happy-go-lucky husband of the past several hours is gone, replaced by a tense and terse stranger.
I rarely see this side of my husband. He keeps it hidden away so well.
He grabs my arm, just a little too roughly. “Did you do this, Brooklyn? Did you call ahead and change the flights?”
“No. When would I have had time for that? Babe, I’ve been bumped a million times. This happens. That they upgraded us and moved things around instead of making us wait for six hours on standby for a different flight is very cool. New first-class cabin. Swanky. Five stars. Would highly recommend.”
“I am not joking.” He enunciates the words in a hiss. “I don’t want to fly through Atlanta.”
The gate agent makes the last call.
“Does it matter? We’re all set now. Personally, I’m excited to be in their fancy first class.
It’s going to be awesome.” The pained look he gives me almost makes me laugh, but that would be a mistake.
“Seriously, babe. It’s all good. My travel karma has kicked in. But we gotta get on the plane. Now.”
“Daddy?” Neve’s voice is all aquiver. Our sensitive girl. Four is watching us, too.
Trey swallows, shuts his eyes for a heartbeat. He really is upset about this. More than simply nerves. I put a hand on his arm and speak quietly.
“Hey, it’s okay. We can push this whole trip back. We’ve rushed every part of it. I can rebook us. It’s no big deal.” It’s a huge deal, I’ve rearranged our whole lives in the past twenty-four hours, but his reaction is so visceral that I don’t care.
He shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“I have to be at that conference.” He’s thinking, calculating.
His shoulders finally drop, and I recognize the decision has been made.
I hand over the boarding passes. Shooting daggers at me, Trey stalks onto the jet bridge, leaving me with the kids and bags.
With a sigh, I follow.