The Case of the Missing Passport

This was supposed to be a post about the flight from the UK to Indianapolis for our home leave trip.  It was also supposed to be primarily a fun way for me to poke fun at narrow British roads.  Kristine and I preferentially drive small cars over here because we feel like the roads are quite small and we don't want to compete for the limited space that's available on them.  Rolls-Royce's policy is that we rent a car to get to the airport, and then they'll pick us up on the return trip since it's after an overnight flight.  Getting all five of us plus our luggage into a vehicle required up-sizing from our trusty Golf to this Citroen.  I picked it up from the Avis office at Rolls-Royce on Friday afternoon and drove it home without hassle.  This is noteworthy because driving home involved crossing the Swarkestone Bridge (known in our household as the Bridge of Doom) in the presence of an oncoming bus without externally panicking.

Saturday morning we got everybody up at 5:30, loaded the car, and were on the road to the Birmingham airport by 6:15.  The car handled our family well.  In fact, if minivans were available in this size in the US, I might feel less hostile towards owning one, and I might also seriously consider swapping the Sienna that's waiting for our return.

The plan was that we would be at the airport by 7 am to drop off the car, check in for our flight, grab some breakfast, and be in the air around 9 am on the United flight to Newark.  It was going smoothly when I dropped Kristine and the girls with luggage to go into the departure area while I returned the car and walked to the terminal to meet them.  It stopped going smoothly when I met them in the departure area, opened my backpack, and saw only four passports.  I knew right away what had happened.  It goes like this:

• Saturday before our flight: I check the shelf in our house where the passports are to make sure we have all of them.
• Thursday before our flight: All five passports are the first items that go into my backpack.
• Friday (the night before our flight): I decide to make copies of the passports because I didn't keep the copies I made for our flight over here in January.  I take four passports out of the backpack, hit copy on the printer, put the copy into my laptop case, put the four passports into my backpack, make a mental note that the copy has Kristine and the girls, take the fifth backpack out of my backpack, hit copy on the printer, and put the copy into my laptop case.

Noticeably absent in that sequence is taking the fifth passport off the printer and putting it back in my backpack.  In fact, that never happened.  Hence being in the Birmingham airport at 7:15 for a 9:00 flight with only 4 passports.  I knew right away that the missing passport was mine.  I also knew right away where it was (see the picture above).

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity as we worked through a series of emotions: shock (mine); shock and disbelief (Kristine's); tears that we might not get to fly (the girls).  I asked the folks at the United service desk if I could get on the plane if I made it home and back to the airport by 8:30.  They said I couldn't.  Kristine asked if they could put us all on a later flight.  They said they couldn't get a party of five on the same flight until the following Wednesday.  Then they said that if Kristine and the girls flew as planned, they could get me on a flight leaving Manchester at 11:00.  I'd have to be at the airport by 10, and I would land in Indianapolis by 6:30.

Kristine and I had about 30 seconds to make up our minds.  I give her a ton of credit every time I think about it (and as I write it down).  She had every right to blow her stack and throw a public fit of anger at my absent-mindedness.  Instead, she told me I needed to go.  Then she turned to the girls and said "Girls, we're going to have an adventure flying without Daddy.  Elise, I'm going to need your help with the luggage.  Charis, I'm going to need your help taking care of Clare."  I quickly moved the snacks, Kindle, and iPad from my backpack to Kristine's.  I grabbed what I thought was my suitcase and gave the other small one to Elise.  I also give the girls a ton of credit.  They were shedding some tears, but they pulled themselves together quickly in response to Kristine.  Elise squared her shoulders and grabbed the suitcase handle.  Charis wiped her eyes, gave me a hug, and held out her hand to Clare.

Here's the route Google says I was supposed to take to get from the Birmingham airport to the Manchester airport.  It was now 7:35.  I needed to get a rental car, make the trip, drop off the rental car, and be at the United ticket counter by 9:55.  2 hours and 20 minutes to make a 2 hour and 6 minute trip.  I figured I could make it if I kept the pedal to the metal, and if nothing went wrong.

I kept the pedal to the metal.  But things started to go wrong almost immediately.  Here's the list.

• The Avis counter that was empty when I dropped off the Citroen at 7:10 had two customers when I got back there at 7:40.  Neither one understood the terms and conditions in the additional insurance that Avis offered on their contract.  Rather than simply decide to accept or decline, both independently decided they needed to spend time thinking about this.  One was a rude American who loudly informed his wife and the Avis agent that they were going to sue Visa for breach of contract because the Visa card that claimed to provide accident insurance for rental cars might not be valid in the UK.  He then spent several minutes demanding to see the Avis contract so he could compare the legal terms (presumably so he would know how specifically he was going to sue Visa).  The other fellow was a polite Irishman who asked if he could go talk with his family about the insurance policy.  He went outside for a few minutes before returning and informing the other agent that he would decline the policy.  He took his keys and left the office while the rude American continued to waste everyone's time because he couldn't make up his mind if he was going to accept the additional insurance and then go home to sue Visa, or if he was going to decline the additional insurance and then go home to sue Visa.  If I'd had a different temperament I would have blown my stack at him for both wasting everyone's time and for giving Americans a bad name.
• I finally got to the counter at 7:50.  My statement: I need a one-way rental to the Manchester airport.  Give me the smallest car you have, with no insurance.  I had the keys by 7:55, and I was pulling out of the airport by 8:00.
• I pulled onto the motorway, put the pedal to the metal, and typed our post code into Google Maps on my phone to make sure I was going the right way.  I wasn't.  I was going the opposite direction toward Coventry.  There went 10 minutes while I drove to the next roundabout, reversed my direction, and drove past the airport.
• I made good time once I got going in the right direction, until I was about 2 miles from our house in Melbourne.  Then I had to slow down while someone in front of me took their leisurely Saturday morning drive through the lovely south Derbyshire countryside.  I was at our house by 8:50.  Sure enough, there was my passport.  I grabbed it.  For good measure, I also grabbed the UK passport that I'd left upstairs (Kristine has threatened my life if I ever use my UK passport to go through the quick line while she and the girls wait in the American line, so I don't typically carry it on family trips.  Ironically, I would have been able to leave with them if I'd packed it just for fun because UK passport holders can enter the US for 90 days without a visa).

• I typed Manchester airport into my phone as I left the house.  I swear the phone told me I had 50 miles to go.  At this point it was 8:55, and I thought I might be able to make it.  I got across the Swarkestone Bridge and turned onto the A50 toward Stoke.  My phone updated with a cheerful "75 miles to your destination."  At this point it was 9:00, and my heart started to sink.
• I made a quick mental calculation that if I channeled my brother David and his love for speed, maybe I could still make it.  Despite only having a little bitty Vauxhall Corsa, I did my best BMW imitation and tried to stay as close to 90 mph as possible.  David would have been proud (okay, maybe not - he probably would have expected triple digit speeds).
• Part way through Stoke at around 9:20, my phone updated with a cheerful "Rerouting; please make a legal u-turn."  My heart really started to sink.  My gut told me the phone was wrong and that I should have kept going straight and take the M6 motorway north to Manchester.  But I've also never done this drive before so I decided to obey the phone.  I got off at the next roundabout and got going the opposite direction.  My phone updated with another cheerful "Rerouting; please make a legal u-turn."  

I almost cried.  I knew that I'd exhausted all my margin for error and that I wouldn't make it to the airport (truthfully I was in Stoke at 9:25 with 30 minutes to go 50 more miles - it wasn't going to happen).  I pulled over, turned on my laptop to get my flight confirmation (Kristine had the paper copy as part of our frenzied handoff 2 hours earlier), and called the emergency number for the travel agent.  Bear with the bullet points as I summarize the conversation as the bad situation started to resolve positively.  For the record, it was now after 10 because that's how long it took my laptop with all its lovely security to boot up, and also to get to an agent on the phone because evidently the emergency number gets lots of calls.

• Me: I missed a flight this morning because I didn't have my passport.  I tried to make it to Manchester but too many things went wrong.  I need help.
• Agent: It's simplest if we keep you on United.  You can fly tomorrow at 7:30 from Heathrow or at 9:00 from Birmingham.  Heathrow gets you in at 2.  Birmingham gets you in at 4:30.
• Me: Heathrow please.
• Agent: Okay, let me call United because they need to authorize this.  I'll call you right back.
• Voice on the phone that rang right as I hung up with the agent: Hello Mr. Collins, this is the United ticket desk at Manchester.  We see that you haven't checked in.
• me: Yes, I was trying to get there from Birmingham but it's not going to happen.
• United: I see.  There's a seat on the 7:30 flight from Heathrow.  I've booked you on it.  Is that all right?
• Me: In fact, you're about to get a phone call from my travel agent asking to do exactly that.  Yes, that would be all right.
• United: Okay, safe travels.
• Agent (who rings back just as I hang up from talking with United): Hi Mr. Collins, I just got off the phone with United.  Evidently they've already booked you on the 7:30 flight from Heathrow, so I don't need to make any changes to your ticket.
• Me: Yes, I they called right after I got off the phone with you.
• Agent: Well, I'm glad they were so proactive.  I wish cases always resolved this simply.  Do you need a car or lodging?
• Me: No thanks.  I've got lodging in Derby and I have a rental car.
• Agent: Okay, safe travels.

I finally made it back to our house a little after 11.  I brought the suitcase inside because I figured since I had time on my hands I would pack the griddle that we brought with us, but for which we don't have a 2 kW transformer to operate in the UK.  I did not find my travel items when I opened the suitcase.  Those were with Kristine and the girls somewhere over the Atlantic.  Our frantic handoff resulted in me having the suitcase with gifts for friends and family in the US.  I had to laugh.

As I drove from Stoke to Melbourne, I considered treating the extra time in England as a rare gift of alone time.  Maybe I could take advantage of that time to do some writing on a long-standing journal article project, or maybe I could get some instrumental music in.  Neither happened. I was functional enough to walk into Melbourne and buy lunch, invite myself to dinner with the Ludwigs (another Rolls-Royce secondee family), and ask my cousin Alex if I could crash at his flat in London.

Here's part of the route I took to get to Alex's flat.  The red icon is roughly the flat.  The first "London" is where the GPS thought I was supposed to go.  Courtesy of that mistake, I got to explore Shepherd's Bush and some other areas of residential west London at 10:30 pm.  I decided that Google Maps on the iPhone leaves a great deal to be desired in situations like that.  I lost count of how many times the time lag with the directions meant that I was already through a roundabout before the voice told me I should have taken a different exit.  In the end, though, making the trip alone had redemptive value.  Now that I know where they are, I can get there via more straightforward routes.  It would have been much more stressful if I was following a GPS and occasionally getting lost with Kristine and the girls in the car as well.  I know how to get there now, and we have hosts for a family trip to London.

My flight from Heathrow was at 7:30.  Daylight into my window woke me up at 4:45 with a panicked fear that I'd missed my flight.  It also set the stage for adrenaline that didn't really subside all day.  I had my car returned to Avis by 5:30, and was off the shuttle ready to check in by 6.  At 6:10 I was at the back of line with about 50 people in front of me.  A United agent came by and asked where I was flying to.  "Indianapolis, through Washington DC."  "On the 7:30 flight?"  "Yes."  "You'll never make it if you stand in line.  Come with me please."  She led me to the business class check-in, took my suitcase, printed my boarding pass, and let me go.  That's when I saw the rolling text on the screen about check-in closing 60 minutes before departure.  She's right.  I was one kind United agent away from missing my flight yet again.

Here's my gate at Heathrow.  The photo was celebrating that I'd actually made it this far.  That said, please withhold snide remarks about photos on antiquated iPhones (yes, Daniel, I'm writing to you).  I think this fuzziness was well over 90% caused by the operator.

The flight boarded without hassle.  I looked at my boarding passes again when I got to my seat and realized that I only had a 60 minute layover in Washington.  The adrenaline that had started to subside after I left the check-in counter began to increase.  60 minutes isn't much time to get through immigration, clear security, and make it to a connecting flight.  I thought I might be okay when the captain told us he anticipated landing about 10 minutes early.  Then we started pulling away from the gate and abruptly halted.  The captain came on over the intercom: "Folks, this is your captain speaking.  You may have noticed that we stopped moving.  That's because the tow-bar that the tug was using to push us away from the gate snapped.  Please bear with us while the ground crew finds another one.  We'll be on our way momentarily."  There went any hope of resting on the flight to try and recover from an exhausting 24 hours.  I continued working my way through Collapse, by Jared Diamond.  I also played a lot of Freecell.

We wound up landing right on time.  I made my way through an immigration line that contained many passengers who were nervous about making their connection, and who hoped each time a flight delay was announced that it was theirs.  I got through security and checked the flight status for Indianapolis from the screen at one end of Terminal C.  It was on time.  Which my boarding pass said was an 11:55 departure from the other end of Terminal D.  I looked at my phone.  It said 11:40.  I huffed, puffed, (sort of) ran, and walked as quickly as I could to my gate.  When I got there, the screen said the flight was on time to depart at 12:20.  But for the record, I was there before 11:50.

"Can I help you sir?"
"Yes, I was wondering what time the Indianapolis flight will land since it's taking off at 12:20?"
"It's right on time to land at 2 pm."

I started to breathe a little easier.  I'd told Kristine I would land at 1:55, so I thought she wouldn't have to change her plans.  But the story wasn't over yet.  A few minutes later the gate attendant came on over the intercom: "Folks, I know you're anxious to get on your flight to Indianapolis.  Unfortunately the plane has a punctured tire.  Please bear with us while the ground crew replaces it."  As the flight attendant would later explain it, the incoming crew ran over a nail.  Of all the things that could create delays on a flight, mine were caused by a snapped tow-bar and a nail.  Go figure.

Once we got in the air, the flight to Indianapolis went smoothly.  I had my luggage by 2:40.  Kristine and the girls were there by 2:45.  Here' the photo of the reunion (once again, I plead operator exhaustion for the fuzziness).

Here's my last bullet list.  It's the things I'm thankful for now that the experience is over.

• Consensus from sympathetic listeners to our story is that if we had to forget a passport, mine was the best one.  The story would have been much different if I was traveling with the girls and Kristine stayed an extra day, or if we'd had to find two spots on a later flight because one of us needed to stay with whichever daughter's passport was still in Melbourne.
• Dormant muscle memory about driving manual transmission vehicles that resurrected and switched to the other side of the road.
• An amazing wife who kept calm and created a sense of adventure when she had every right to fall apart and chew me out in public.
• Three young daughters who embraced the adventure and handled the long day of travel remarkably well.
• An anonymous man who sat next to Elise and Charis on the flight from Birmingham to Newark.  He channeled missing his family into caring for them: helping them with meals, navigating the entertainment system, chatting and generally engaging with them on the flight.
• An in-flight entertainment system that included Frozen in its list of family films.  Clare watched it three (that's right; three) times on the flight to Newark.
• The hospitality of the Ludwigs who cut short their afternoon hike when I invited myself to their place for dinner.
• The hospitality of Alex and Hannah, who let me stay in their flat so that I didn't have to make the 3 hour drive from Derby to Heathrow Sunday morning.  They greeted me with toast and Marmite.
• The proactive staff from United.  Specifically the woman in Manchester who booked me on the Heathrow flight, and the woman at Heathrow who let me jump the check-in queue.
• Friends in Indianapolis who rearranged their Sunday after church to spend time with Kristine and the girls until it was time to pick me up at the airport. 

Hammered Dulcimer Musings about Patterns and Perfectionism

I'll confess up front that this isn't a blog post about travels in the UK.  It is a blog post about the chances I've had since moving here to share my hammered dulcimer with Elise and Charis.

The hammered dulcimer has been much more present in our home in England.  It sits in the front living room instead of the guest bedroom in the basement (where I had to move it a couple years ago when Clare got mobile).  I've been able to play it more frequently as a result; both in the evenings after the girls go to bed, and during the day when they are around.  Because I've been playing more, I've also spent more time looking for dulcimer music.  I made a playlist on YouTube a couple months ago.  Part of my morning routine for a while included listening to it, which meant that the girls would get to (have to) listen to it as well when they joined me downstairs.  A few weeks ago, Elise and Charis both started asking if I would teach them to play the dulcimer.  

The chance to teach them was interesting for me on several different levels.  When I talk with people about the hammered dulcimer, it's not uncommon for them to interpret from my description that the dulcimer is a difficult instrument to play.  The notes go from low to high on all three bridges, but the low and high notes vary depending on the bridge.  Some notes are available on all three bridges (e.g., the A above middle C), and some notes are only available on one bridge (e.g., middle C, F-natural above middle C, or B-flat above middle C).  You can play the same note in 2, sometimes 3 different locations depending on which bridge you use.  So you have to choose which location you choose to play the note based on the other notes in the tune.  It's my fault for articulating this in an intimidating way, because people have said "Oh, I don't think I could memorize so many different locations."  

My response is that you don't have to memorize every string to note relationship, which would be 66 notes on my dulcimer.  All you have to do is learn the patterns that the strings are laid out on.  For instance, you play a do-re-mi scale by starting on a black pair of strings, playing each pair of string to the next higher black pair, come back to your starting point but on the left side of the bridge, and play each pair of white strings up the left side of the bridge to the black ones again.  My dulcimer has 8 black pairs of strings.  So to play it, you need to learn which note each black pair of strings corresponds with.  That reduces your memorization load from 66 notes to 8.  Once you know the pattern, it becomes really easy to figure out where on the dulcimer you want to be.  

This approach to learning an instrument has worked well for me.  Now I get a chance to try it out on my daughters.  I was also interested to see how the girls approached an instrument they've seen me play, but which they haven't done much on.  Charis, in particular, likes to be sure that she knows something solid before she'll do it in front of another person (this kid steadfastly refused to mimic words when I read to her at bedtime, and then suddenly started talking over the span of a few days).  It takes work for our family to internalize the whole concept of practicing so you learn something instead of doing it perfectly right away.  I sympathize with her as both a recovering perfectionist and as someone who works in an industry that's permeated with the "do it right the first time or you're a buffoon" ideology.

So my experiment was to find out whether (a) I could give the girls a pattern to follow from which they'd be able to play music they're familiar with from playing it on piano, listening to me play, or singing it as a family; and (b) could the learning curve be something we enjoyed climbing together instead of a barrier symbolizing imperfection.

I started by explaining how to play the octave scale from black string to black strings across a bridge. Being a good systems engineer, I drew something that almost looked like a block diagram.  Then I showed them the do-re-mi scale.

No luck.  To their credit, they didn't freeze, nor did they throw the diagram back in my face with accompanying words about what a bad idea it was (remember my ideological brainwashing about getting it right the first time).  But it was clear that the approach didn't work with either daughter.  So for round 2, I kept the octave relationship.  Instead of putting the diagram on a piece of paper on the music stand, I put it on a paper that went under the strings at the top of the treble bridge.  Then instead of giving them music to play, I just asked them to find numbers.  Play the 1.  Now play the 4.  Play the 8.  You get the idea.

Somewhat to my surprise, and much to my delight, the concept clicked.  We moved on to Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.  They both know this song on the piano, so the learning task was to translate the sound they know should be there onto the dulcimer.  Here's what the instructions look like.

Part of the reason for using numbers instead of notes goes back to the idea of patterns.  We started on the C above middle C because that's where I could fit the paper around the bridge.  But nothing about the song requires playing it there.  So they can learn the song, and then play it from any black pair of strings at the beginning of an octave.  Some day I might tell them that this is called transposing.  And maybe on a different day I'll tell them that doing this can help them be comfortable playing music from memory instead of from sheet music.  But those are meta-learning objectives they don't need to know about until they read this blog and find out I had an ulterior motive.

Once again, to my delight, the approach clicked for both girls.  Charis was able to the song with appropriate rhythm using a hammer in her right hand.  Elise took it a step further by playing the notes on the left side of the bridge (anything 5 through 8) with her left hammer.  They were both able to move on and begin playing other songs that are more complicated.  Here's a clip of Charis playing Jump Up, which is a Dan Zanes song that is staple of our family singing times.

And here's Clare accompanying me on Amazing Grace.

I enjoyed going through this with the girls.  I've grown to love the sound of the dulcimer.  It was a treat to hear them making music on it.  I'm thrilled that the apparent complexity didn't turn into a frozen sense of "It's too hard; I can't do it!"  It was fun to watch them climb the learning curve from educational music (Twinkle, Twinkle) to personally selected music (Jump Up and Kesh Jig).  And it gave me an excuse to further explore a couple different lines of thought I've been pondering for a while now.  As a instrumentalist, I'm terrible at improvising because I freeze when someone says "Here's a chord chart.  Play and have fun."  I've circled around this notion of patterns as an entry point to improvising for a while.  I also see it in the systems engineering discipline world of my day job, which is grappling with the problem of how to discipline and repeatability (patterns) while still encouraging innovation and new ways of thinking (transposing and improvisation).  Some day I might pull those thoughts together coherently enough for a conference paper.  Until then, I'll enjoy playing hammered dulcimer with my girls.