The Boarding Pass

I stood in line and pressed my fingers together then bent my hands at the knuckle pulling palms apart, stretching the tight ligaments and muscles around my metacarpals. One by one I stretched each finger, pausing only to grab my suitcase and move forward a step or two each time the queue progressed. I watched the wave of slow but constant movement through the line of people, the perpetual forward motion serpentined in a way that looked almost melodic. I massaged the palm of my hands then rolled my shoulders and neck, sighing with the subtle release of tension. I reached the end of the queue and handed my passport to the TSA agent, who scanned it intently, then said gruffly, “Why Christmas in Pennsylvania?”

“My parents live there,” I answered.

“What? I couldn’t understand that,” He said narrowing his eyes behind a set of thick lensed glasses.

With careful enunciation I tried again, slowing saying, “My PARE-rents liiii-ve there.”

I have full citizenship but travel with my passport ever since the time five years ago at LAX when the TSA agent took forty minutes to assess my Illinois Driver’s License. The agent had called over three other agents and her superior to help with the review, which included inspecting every debit and credit card I had in my wallet. By the time they’d concluded that it was an authentic ID, belonging to me, my plane had stopped boarding. I had to wait four hours for the next flight and then was seated in the back row between between two eight-year old twin brothers who threw goldfish crackers back and forth the entire time.

“Your parents live there? Okay. How long have they lived in Pennsylvania? And which town? Philly?,” asked the agent, holding my passport open and close to his chest.

Slowly, I answered, doing my best to enunciate each syllable, “In Bethlehem. One hour thirty minutes from Philadelphia. Fifteen years.”

When I was sixteen my father had been offered a professorship at Lehigh University in Industrial Engineering and had moved our family from Sarajevo to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

A scarlet flush rose up the agent’s neck. I could tell he wanted to ask me where they’d moved from and why, but the people behind me in line had started to glare. The women directly behind me was sighing audibly and tapping the toe of her leather loafer, and the man behind her had unbuttoned and rolled up his shirtsleeve to point at his wristwatch.

“Yeah, yeah,” the agent said, pushing my passport back across the podium. I grabbed it and went through security.

On the way to the gate, I stopped at Starbucks for a venti americano and impulsively added a bagel with cream cheese to my order. Walking through the terminal I noticed that most of the other travelers had traded their frenetic pre-security energy for something more exhausted and tranquil. I felt the same. It had been non-stop at work for the last five weeks. In November, as the holidays approach and daylight dwindles, many find an outlet for their stress and loneliness in the comfort of the massage table. My bookings were up three-hundred percent from the prior month. It was hard to turn down clients, especially when demand fluctuated so dramatically and there was no guarantee what January would bring. Over the last week alone I’d seen ten clients each day, and been on my feet from 9am to 10pm. Everything ached, my feet, back, hips and arms, but nothing was as sore as my hands. It would be nice to be home, if only to give my fingers a break.

The seats around my gate, A30, were full so I walked to an area nearby with lounge chairs interspersed with small side tables. My parents were texting, asking if the flight was on time, whether I got through security, and if I’d gotten something to eat. Many of the lounge chairs were taken but I found a vacant one next to a slight but thoroughly kempt man with dark hair and dark features. He was leaning back with his eyes closed, his legs crossed at the knee, and his hands clasped in his lap. His phone was plugged into the communal charger and lying on the table next to a paper boarding pass. Sitting down, I plugged my phone in and set my boarding pass beside it. I peeked at his boarding pass; According to the sljp, he had another hour before his flight to TLV would begin boarding. While eating my bagel I wondered why I still used a paper boarding pass when I had a digital pass on my phone. I suppose it feels like a failsafe in case my phone were to die.

In an effort to keep my eyelids open I drank the americano quickly, but the caffeine in my bloodstream was no match for weeks of exhaustion and I found my head bobbing forward. After startling awake twice I picked up my phone and tried to find something interesting to keep my eyes from closing. An alert popped up, “Your flight to PHL has been delayed 40 minutes due to the inbound aircraft. Please remain in the gate area and await further updates.”

A heavy storm system was moving through the midwest, delivering a white Christmas to those fortunate souls who had reached their destination but creating run-of-the-mill Christmas havoc to those still traveling.

The man beside me snored gently. The chill of the airport made napping hard to resist, so I tucked my purse behind my back and set an alarm on my phone for fifteen minutes before folding my arms and shutting my eyes.

“FINAL BOARDING, ALL REMAINING PASSENGERS PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO GATE A30 immediately!,” with a jolt I processed the words emanating from the loudspeaker and sat up. The man who had been sleeping next to me was gone. I grabbed the boarding pass off the table and ran to the gate. The gate agent had her hand on the door and was beginning to pull it shut, so while still a few yards away I yelled out, “Wait!”. She turned to me and waved me forward.

“Close one! I’m glad you made it, there’s nothing worse than missing your flight on Christmas Eve,” she said while taking the paper pass from my hand and scanning it.

“Hurry up, seat 25C, everyone’s waiting on you,” she said while ushering me onto the gate bridge and closing the door behind me.

As the plane pushed away from the gate and began to taxi, I settled into my window seat, preparing to continue my nap. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to text my parents before putting it on airport mode, when an alert popped up, “Your flight to PHL has been delayed 90 minutes due to the inbound aircraft. Please remain in the gate area and await further updates.”

In confusion, I opened the app. It said my flight to PHL was delayed. I looked around, noting the lack of hoodie and jeans clad passengers. The quiet murmur of dialogue around me was speckled with more Hebrew and Arabic than one normally heard in Chicago.

“Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff,” instructed the pilot over the loudspeaker.

My throat started to close in a panic. I pulled the boarding pass from my jacket pocket. It read TLV. I felt the forward thrust of the plane as the throttle was pushed in and we began our ascent.

Shit. My parents. I fumbled my phone out of the seat-back pocket and hurried to send a warning text before we climbed out of service, “Big mistake. Wrong plane. Will call as soon as I can.”

Tears escaped from the corners of my eyes and slid, heavy down my cheeks. How would I explain this to my parents, and how would I pay for the return flight? All the extra money I’d earned this month would be wasted because I’d stupidly gotten my boarding pass mixed up with a strangers. With a cascade of self-loathing thoughts I pulled my jacket over my face and snuggled into the cold, hard embrace of the airplane’s plexiglass window.

Thirteen hours later I made my way to the customer service counter in the Tel Aviv airport. The unsympathetic woman at the counter told me the earliest flight home with a vacant seat was in three days and it would cost fourteen-hundred dollars. After booking my flight she returned my debit card, handed me a brochure, and said, “It’s Christmas, take the bus to Bethlehem, see the Judean Desert. It’ll be better than waiting around the airport.” I didn’t tell her how ironic it was that all I wanted was to be in Bethlehem for Christmas, but not this Bethlehem, no I wanted to be in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

I found the airport exit and boarded a bus for Jerusalem. Between stops I saw billboards for the Nebi Samuel National Park, it looked interesting, so when the bus stopped at the entrance to the park I got out. After passing through the entrance I bypassed the throng of people heading towards the tomb, and followed the signs to the picnic area. I was amused to find that picnic tables are the same throughout the world. I sat down and looked out into the Judean desert. The last remains of daylight illuminated my face, and a small but steady wind pushed my hair back. The air was dry and speckled with crystals. Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.