Today is Wednesday

As I sit here, reflecting on the fact that I’ve been in the Newark airport vicinity for almost twenty-four hours, I can’t help but think about how air travel has transformed—from a pleasurable experience into an ordeal.

It all began with a simple reservation: a flight from Newark to Los Angeles, Tuesday at 5 p.m. My driver, Francisco, picked me up from Lakewood, where I had spent the past few days enjoying time with our East Coast grandchildren.

Let me pause for a moment to give you a bit of context about the past few weeks.

I left Los Angeles in mid-July for Vienna, where I cared for my brother, who has special needs, for a week. From there, I went on to Zürich to visit my sister. Jet lag? None. I was in full swing. Next stop: our beloved homeland, Israel. My husband Raphy and I breathed in the unique, glorious air for a week before heading back to the U.S.

Now, let me return to my East Coast stay and the point of my story.

I had successfully boarded and arrived at my destination five times during this trip. Occasionally, I think back to the days when flying was pure joy. Does anyone remember what economy class was like in the 1970s? If not, let me paint the picture for you.

The seats were upholstered in fabric that felt like silk—or the softest leather, like my favorite handbag. My head rested on fine linen, likely imported from Italy, perhaps Frette. The blanket on a Los Angeles–New York flight felt like cashmere. As for seat width? In 1977, when I had two sons under two years old, I could carry them both for free on one economy seat. That should give you an idea.

Kosher meals, ordered in advance, were served with real stainless-steel flatware and cloth napkins—and the food was actually edible.

But enough reminiscing. Back to the last twenty-four hours—before I drift off into lala land and miss my flight.

Francisco dropped me at Terminal C, United Premium. With CLEAR, security took just minutes. My assigned gate was in Terminal A, so a shuttle transferred me there. At 3 p.m., I entered the United Lounge in Terminal A and settled in for lunch: a piece of grilled salmon with a spritz of lemon and slices of avocado.

Content, I made my way to Gate A28. Within minutes, I boarded the plane, settled into my seat, and followed my usual ritual for a long flight. I travel light, only with hand luggage—my “Hundi” (that’s what I call my carry-on)—and a foldable Longchamp or Brics bag. Inside: a large cashmere shawl, two cardigans, my beret, ballerinas, prepared food (always crackers, cheese, and chocolate), my pocket-size siddur and Tehillim, a book, my iPad, and sometimes a newspaper.

I changed into my golden ballerinas, stored my sneakers, arranged my belongings, and waited for takeoff.

Then came the announcement:
“I’m so sorry, but all passengers must disembark for mechanical reasons—something about cabin pressure.”

I stuffed everything back into my bag (not easy when a foldable refuses to zip), planning to reorganize later in the lounge.

I called United’s 1K desk—my frequent-flyer status at work. After a 20-minute call, the operator rebooked me on a 6:30 p.m. flight from Gate 80 in Terminal C. I rushed to the shuttle, jogged to Gate 80, and was greeted with:
“Mrs. Nissel, you have no reserved seat on this flight. Go back to Gate A28—your original flight will leave at 6:10. You can still make it.”

Now I was running. I wished my sneakers were on my feet instead of packed away.

At Gate A28, my boarding pass was rejected.
“Your seat was given to someone else,” the agent said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you called the airline. Once you made that call, your seat was automatically released. You can’t hold two bookings.”

He went on and on, scolding me as if I’d committed a crime.

Meanwhile, all the other passengers boarded. Another agent kindly explained it wasn’t really my fault—but I still had to rebook.

Back on the phone with 1K, I reached Eilat, a kind woman who tried everything. She found me a seat for 6 a.m. tomorrow. Should I grab it? Yes, I whispered. Confirmation email received.

Then Raphy called:
“Ask for a hotel voucher.”

So I called again. After another 20 minutes on hold:
“Sorry, the 8 p.m. seat was just taken. But you’ll get a hotel voucher and two meal vouchers. Your 6 a.m. seat is confirmed.”

I was exhausted—and hungry. Down to crackers, cheese, and chocolate, I went on a mission for kosher food. Finally, a kind young man with bright orange hair pointed me toward a hamburger stand—next to it, kosher sandwiches! Turkey and chicken rolls, expiring August 25. Perfect.

I took my treasure and headed out: shuttle bus, AirTrain, hotel shuttle.

At the Hilton:
“Would you like a room near the elevator?”
The receptionist must have seen exhaustion written all over me.
“Yes, please.”

The room was a delight. I washed my hands, ate my sandwiches, said my prayers, set wake-up calls on my phone and iPad, and fell asleep within minutes.

Ding, ding.

Up I rose at 3:15 a.m., splashed water on my face, donned sneakers, and took the 4 a.m. shuttle back to Terminal C.

At 4:15, I reached the United Lounge—but it didn’t open until 5. So I walked to my gate: C82. The board read:
UA2434 CANCELLED.

I couldn’t believe it. I marched to Gate C82—only to see San Francisco glowing in bright letters.

Another call to United.
“You’re booked to Washington Dulles.”
“WHAT? I’m supposed to fly to L.A.!”

After another hold session (those United tunes will haunt me forever), the operator returned:
“I found you a flight at 10:30.”
“Yes, please.”

Email confirmed.

By then, the lounge was open. I parked my Hundi and Brics by a blue velvet couch, made coffee, and began writing this for you.

The sun rose. I said Shacharit.

It’s 8:10 a.m. Should I check the departure board?