An 18-year-old that needs help in the airport— honestly!
Iam going to Boston. Miriam and her family are sitting shivah. By some sort of dark luck, I just finished the bulk of everything yesterday, so really all that’s left is to hang the posters around the school — and that was going to be Nechami’s job anyway; I can barely tell left from right.
As my father hands me the ticket, I stare at the mumbo jumbo of little, black, ant-like letters on it, and I start to panic.
“Daddy — I can’t travel!” I remind him, feeling my heartbeat quicken.
My father starts, and then gives a long sigh. I am right — I won’t get past check-in, with the most of luck. I can’t read; I do not have good spatial orientation — I get lost in unfamiliar places. I am so bad at directions. I will have no idea where to go, what gate to take, where my flight is, where my seat is — it’s funny how the world is so unhelpful for people like me sometimes.
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