I had  a little bit of travel drama yesterday when I found myself sitting in traffic thirty miles outside of Phoenix, in the middle of nowhere.  There was some sort of an accident, and traffic came to a standstill.  I had allowed plenty of extra time to get to the airport, because I always do, because I am compulsively punctual and cannot stand the stress of rushing. My kids actually make fun of me because I am early for everything.  However, this little compulsion of mine paid off yesterday as we crawled through the desert at 4 mph for 45 minutes, and then the rental car shuttle bus broke down and we had to change buses, and yet we still arrived at the airport in time for a sit-down dinner before our flight.

We ate at Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Cafe, the finest dining establishment in the older terminal at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport.  You are treated to old American Bandstand clips of has-been singers and teenyboppers doing the twist as you eat your rather disgusting chicken fajita wrap.  They do make a mean margarita, which I thought I deserved after my traffic hassles.  And I had a lovely conversation with the charming busboy, a 26 year old Ethiopian immigrant who is looking for a “very nice woman” whom he plans to love and respect.  “Getting drunk, hitting your wife — no good!  Not for me!”  When I was a kid, my mom used to strike up conversations with complete strangers, which inspired much eyerolling on my part, but now I find myself doing the same thing and quite enjoying it.

After an intricate diplomatic negotiation over which child would get the window seat on our flight (still the most desirable position, apparently, even though it was dark), the rest of the trip was uneventful.  And even though my heart is still with my mom and dad, it is very, very good to be home.  Yes, the good-byes were very difficult — but as my wise son said yesterday, “Everything happens as it is supposed to happen.”  Things are easier when you can believe that.