Flying into Israel.

During War.

Enough airport floor grime clung to the light gray wheels that it caused a slowing rotation. The cold metal trolley was difficult to manage. It kept hesitating. Plus my keyboard’s oversized flight case protruded out so much from the cart that it could have caused a bruising knee bend to an unsuspecting fellow passenger.

High pitched doorbell type sounds echoed throughout the terminal. While the ceiling’s flush mounted speakers issued continual warnings to, “not leave luggage unattended. It will be destroyed." The over fluorescented departures hall was too lit up and noisy for my morning ears.

Our counter was at the end of the warehouse sized room where black hatted Orthodox huddled. Exhausted mom’s with young children sitting atop luggage and single men of military age gathered there too. They made up the Tel Aviv departure line that had already formed. We joined it. Our wheels-up was still three hours out but we had been warned to get there early. That turned out to be solid travel advice.

We had just rounded the final turn of the single file, board-your-ride lane. The end of the retractable passenger barrier was a few feet away. El Al’s security officer, dressed in navy blue, was near. I reached into my right jacket pocket. Luckily, the pin was still there. It was time to put it on.