Photo credit: Marion Ettlinger
The plan was, if my brother and sister-in-law had a girl, to fly just after the birth. If they had a boy, I’d fly the next week, just after the bris. They had a boy. The boy had a bris. Between the birth and the bris I bought a ticket (expensive). At the bris, my brother announced that he was naming his son after his, and so my, paternal grandfather, Benjamin (nickname: Benjy? Benji? Not Bibi).
I ate, I drank, I stopped by my apartment for my bag, and got to Newark still tipsy-ish about three hours before my flight. Check in and security sobered me up. About an hour before the scheduled departure, the screens reddened: Delayed.
Nearing midnight, the flight was cancelled and rescheduled for the next morning.
Flights to Israel are the worst flights to cancel — the worst for airline employees, that is....