DEN to TLV
Once onboard, the pilot of the jam packed 777 said, “Folks, this fine aircraft experienced a bird strike upon landing in DIA.”
The first came as a text. ‘Your flight is delayed.’
Another orbit of the hour hand and a desk agent microphoned another round of bad news.
“Sorry folks. We’re now waiting on a final crew member.”
Of elegant Asian descent, she eventually arrived to claps and sarcastic cheers from the travel fatigued sitting on Denver’s blue carpet.
Once onboard, the pilot of the jam packed 777 said, “Folks, this fine aircraft experienced a bird strike upon landing in DIA. Mechanics have climbed up inside and cleaned the engine. We’re cleared for take-off and waiting on paperwork.”
Moans were heard. He continued, “Thanks for your patience. Hold on for another thirty minutes and we’ll get you on your way to O’Hare.”
By then, we knew we had missed our ocean crossing.
Hardship and frustration can bond the moving masses. It can also cause fist fights. But in this case, we travelers were one in our sufferings and post bird strike nerves. My seatmate was already trying to arrange his medical specialist appointment. At the window seat, the teacher who was, “just trying to take a vacation,” had notified Madrid that she was going to be a day late.
Behind Mark was a Jewish man in his mid-thirties. Chicago was his home.
“Sorry, but I eavesdropped on your conversation,” tapping Mark on the shoulder. “FlightAware shows Tel Aviv is also delayed a little.”
His kind knowledge gave us a shred of hope.
We swapped traumatic travel stories and laughed together.
More than two hours late our wheels touched down in ORD.
“Folks, there are 134 of you who will most likely miss your connections.” The head purser informed as we taxied in, “so for those of you calling Chicago your final, let’s give them a chance by staying seated.”
Much to my surprise, they did.
Mark received another tap from our new frequent flyer friend. We had bonded as flying geeks in the same way Star Wars fans do at a Vegas dress-up convention. Donning a now wrinkled white shirt, orthodox black slacks, and topped off with clipped in place kippah - he had more news.
“Dude, your flight shows it; ‘holding for three passengers.’” He leaned forward showing Mark the notice on his cell phone.
The seat belt release gunshot sounded.
Our race had begun.
“Push and shove like a Hebrew!” He instructed Mark with vocal command.
We made our way towards the exit. His voice which was now several aisles behind us and grew louder and he surmised,
“use your elbows…and don’t forget to PRAY!”
A cacophony of panicked passengers disembarked and scattered like roaches exposed to an unexpected kitchen light.
“Don’t let them take off without me.” I yelled to Mark just before I lost sight of him in the psychedelic underground walkway. My eyes were guided by the ceiling mounted curvy florescent tube lighting while I practiced my Lamaze breathing from thirty-eight years ago.
Concourse C at last.
“You a Tel Aviv?” a gate agent yelled from fifty feet away.
Waving my arms in the air and screaming,
“Yes, yes, TEL AVIV. HOLD IT!”
I thought of our helpful Jewish friend. We had indeed pushed and shoved and prayed like a Hebrew in transit from bondage in search of the Holy Land.
The Dreamliner door closed behind me as my sock clad Gentile ankles crossed from the jet bridge and into the safety of the cabin galley.
I bet he prayed for us.
Sure, he did. That’s why we made it!