The Zojourn, Day One

The day started calmly enough. Helga had been hard at work packing her bags, doing laundry, making a list and checking it 18 times to make sure everything was in place for her trip. Gven and I were doing what we could to help, but there wasn't much we could do because by design or by the nature of things she was more or less on her own.

We ate a light breakfast, packed the car, and were on the road by 10:30 with a full tank of gas. Weather mild, no precipitation to speak of, we reached Cleveland Hopkins International Airport around 1:00. By the time I'd parked Olive the white Honda (level 2 row A), Helga was all checked in at Continental with baggage checked and nothing more to do except go through security, convert her dollars into pounds, and proceed to gate 4D.

We had allowed ourselves a couple of hours for long lines, traffic, and changing money, better safe than sorry. While standing around, Helga ran into a couple of other girls in the Northeast Swingstate University group with their parents. Is your flight going through New York or Boston? Arriving at Heathrow or Gatwick? Okay, see you there! We took in the demographic sideshow of Cleveland culture, a more colorful ethnic mix than we are used to in whitebread Columbus.

Like doting old birds Gven and I stood behind the barrier watching the shining red hair of our tall daughter bob and weave through the security inspection gates, put everything back in her bags, and turn left out of our sight. A minute ago we were telling her it was time to go, now I had a desire to send an extra eye or an angel or a surveillance device to hover over her as she found the gate, changed her money, and boarded the plane, changed planes at Kennedy, and found her way in the world, but it doesn't work that way. We got in the car and drove home through light snow, ate lunch, and found things to do until she called from New York.

Turns out the packed little plane departed on time but was delayed en route to New York, and by the time Helga got to the correct gate at Kennedy, Virgin Atlantic 2727 for London had completed boarding, sorry. Inexperienced travellers beware, getting to the gate at 7:15 for a 7:30 flight doesn't get you on the plane. Go back to the ticketing desk and change your ticket for the next flight an hour later. Do not pass GO, give them more money, and proceed to worry about meeting the rest of the group at the appointed time in London.

At home in Methodistville, father bird is sitting by the fire with a cat on his lap reading a book about the biopsychology of depression, in particular the chapter about heritable "personality" traits (temperament) and learned "personality" traits (character). It's interesting how the neurological wiring you're born with appears to change during maturation in response to either stressors or pharmaceuticals. People born "at risk" for anxiety in all its forms increase their risk of depression, inhibition, isolation, and other problems when hit by life events such as loss or abuse. Rational person that I am, I take none of this personally. Uh-huh.

About that time Helga called from her upgraded business-class seat on the later flight to London, asking us to leave a message at the hotel informing Prof. Smith that she would arrive at Heathrow an hour late. I was reading Dr. Kramer's description of how people who inherit an irritable temperament are more "reactive" when blind-sided by stress. Bingo. Guilty as charged. And my lucky children, too. No Prozac for me, I decide to self-medicate with a second rum and tonic while mother bird calmly talks to the helpful hotel clerk at Sussex Gardens, London W2.

As of this morning, she was checked into the hotel and we assume all is well. Nothing's ever easy, and I'm still pissed at the airline for not letting her board the right plane, or at myself for not preparing her for that contingency.