What's the Worst that Could Happen?

We’d invited Mom and Dad to come to Egypt with us, thinking that it was time they traveled again. They’d been all over the world but the difficulties of caring for aging parents and then COVID had brought their thrill seeking to a halt.

“What’s the worst that can happen Dad?” I said, coming over to the house to make my case in person. “We’ve all been vaccinated–the biggest worry is that you’d get COVID and have to deal with an Egyptian hospital, but you’ve got the shot. That’s off the table. You haven’t got any more risk now than you would in a normal year.”

“But there are so many travel restrictions. We’ve got to get tested to get back home. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I puzzled at the strangeness of this. Dad had raised six kids and been a leading businessman in the community since the 1970s. He’d always understood calculated risks and was an imposing figure to most people. In any room he was the dominant persona and I’ve often joked that he’d preside at his own funeral. Something about COVID had made a dent in that armor. He needed this trip.

“There are places all over Cairo for speed testing, tailored for travel. You can get your test and be ready to go. And let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you can’t get your test results in time–it would be no different than if you missed a flight. People miss flights all the time and seem to survive. What’s the worst that could happen? You have to push your flight back a day and end up spending another night on the Nile at a 5-star hotel? I can think of worse fates.”

There was a pause as he pondered this. “I’ll think about it tonight and get back to you.”

The next day he called back and with the same tone as if he’d been holding a press conference to announce a new trade policy or a presidential pardon he said, “Your mother and I have decided to join you in Egypt.”

My elation lasted until it was time to leave. With all my cockiness about how easy it would be, I was now all nerves as Andrew and I boarded the plane for Seattle. Eating had been a little iffy that morning and I tried to convince myself that international travel always has its unknowns, and Egypt would just be another unknown until we knew it. Take a deep breath, when you’re back home again after a great trip you’ll be living on these memories. It’ll all be fine.

It was 5:15pm when Andrew and I landed in Chicago to connect to Frankfurt, while Mom and Dad would be coming from Virginia and going through Paris. We took our time during our layover, working out a few issues with our bags being checked through and making sure we had all our boarding passes before heading toward the Lufthansa gate. Andrew ran to the nearby bathroom, taking his time to freshen up in between legs and I stopped to grab some hamburgers. With about 45 minutes to departure and knowing that they’d soon be boarding, I decided to wait for Andrew in the boarding area and handed the gate attendant my papers. She took one look at my negative COVID test printout and said, “I’m sorry, you cannot board with this test. It’s too old” and handed the paper back.

She was so calm about it, as if that was all there was to be said. I wasn’t sure I’d actually heard her right. What? I’d been meticulous in every detail, had checked everything. 

“But no!” I protested, thinking she couldn’t read, “Look, it’s negative. Egypt requires a negative test within 96 hours of entry–this works!”

“I’m sorry, but Germany requires a test within 48 hours.”

“But we’re not going to Germany, we’re going to Egypt! Germany is just a layover!”

“It doesn’t matter, even if you’re only in the airport a test is required.”

The horror sank throughout my body. I’d researched everything, looked at every website, every embassy, checked up and down, had jumped through every hoop, and no one told me this! 

“Well,” she said nonchalantly, looking at her watch, “If you hurry, you can leave the airport, go across the street, go to the rapid test station there and then come back. You can still make the flight.”

I looked at my own watch and I did not believe her for a second. It was my first time at O’Hare and I had no idea where “just across the street” was and if it’s like any other airport there was absolutely no hope. No hope. Lost. Gone. Dead.

She handed me a sheet of paper with a huge QRC code on it and some vague writing about a testing center “just across the street” from the terminal near the bus station. Andrew returned from the restrooms in time to see me snatch the paper and turn, launching into a sprint down the terminal.

“Where are you going??” he yelled, running after me.

“Come on!” I shouted over my shoulder, “Follow me! We’ve got to get a COVID test!”

It’s to his credit that he followed–what faith to run after an obviously insane person–and soon we were both sweating in streams as our bags jostled up and down against our backs. We wove between people with an “I’m sorry!” or “Excuse me!” worthy of an episode of The Amazing Race and it was lucky in a way that we had a long run ahead of us because it gave me time to collect my thoughts.

There was no way we were going to get the test and make the flight. No way. But we were going to have to get a test if we wanted to make any kind of a flight later on. If they were able to rebook us we’d still need that test so we might as well give it everything we could.

Every once in a while I’d hear Andrew protest with “We’re never going to make it!” though said more to himself than to me. It was obvious that I wasn’t stopping to reason things out, he was carried along by the momentum of my panic. I was angry, I was shocked, and I was terrified, but I was also praying hard something like, “I know I’ve done a lot of dumb things, and I know this is somehow my fault. You’ve helped me out of scrapes before when I didn’t deserve it, if you can find it in your heart to reach down one more time . . . .”

When we stepped onto the pavement outside the airport there were three lanes of traffic directed by an airport worker. We stood, waiting with all the other pedestrians, impatient for the uppity pseudo-cop to notice us and stop the flow for us to pass, but he didn’t even glance at us as he slouched, hands in pockets. A minute went by and then I’d waited long enough. I stepped out into the slow-moving cars with my hand up as if I were one of the Avengers and could control objects with my mind. I worked my way through the three lanes before he really noticed me and then I was off, sprinting once again to my unknown destination with him shouting after me, “I’m gonna have to report you!”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” I thought, betting that he’d rather not have to move, as I rounded the corner of the parking garage and headed for what I hoped was the mysterious bus terminal referenced on the paper I still clutched. Andrew had watched this all go down, certain that I was going to die or be arrested or shot, and had worked his way along the curb until he’d found the crosswalk and made it through the break in traffic that my jaywalking had created to join me. The paper said something about a Hilton and I could see a hotel sticking up 100 yards further down.

I saw a folding standup sign advertising a walk-in COVID test center and I jerked open the doors in relief. Far down the terminal was a small group of people and I made for them.

“We need to get our COVID test right away!” I panted, “Is there any chance we could cut in line and do it now? Our flight leaves in . . .” I glanced at my watch, “Twenty minutes!”

They were remarkably nice about it; in hindsight I’m impressed at their willingness to move aside and let two very sweaty people jump in line.

“You’ll need to scan this QRC,” the man in charge drawled, “Then fill out the forms.” Why was he talking so slowly? It was nightmarish how slow he seemed to be moving.

I fumbled with my phone, trying to scan a huge wall poster that refused to be scanned, before giving up and heading straight to the url.

“My phone battery died!” Andrew moaned, remembering that his phone had gone dead just as we’d landed.

As I worked my way through the awkward six signature pages, filling out fields, then going back to fill out more fields that I’d accidentally skipped or filled out incorrectly, then having to redo it all when the page refused to load, I was sure that I was going to have an aneurysm. No one could live through pressure like that and live. But I finally got my application submitted and then went back to work on Andrew’s.

Five minutes later they were calling us up and swabbing our brains with a lot less compassion than they might have had, and with a nod and a thanks we grabbed our bags and dashed to the doors.

Once outside it was even more confusion as I faced what I’d known was going to happen: how do you get back into an airport quickly, let alone through security and to the gate? We weren’t at the main entrance, there were no signs, and you know how security is. If we didn’t choose the right way in, we’d get dead-ended and have to return outside.

We started running toward the terminal, retracing our steps but avoiding the angry fake traffic cop, and stopping every so often to grab a stranger and scream, “Which way to the terminal??”

We made our way up escalators, down corridors, past the checkpoints and down to security where I knew we were going to lose the whole game. No way could we get through O’Hare’s security, even with our PRE passes, in time. But remarkably there were few people going through and the ones who were there let us blaze ahead and we got through–luckily without TSA thinking that we had to be dangerous with the crazed look and freak-out panic we were displaying. 

I kept checking the countdown on my watch. Twenty minutes, fifteen, ten–everyone knows they close the gate on international flights well before a departure–how soon would it be closed? Would they hold it for us? There was no hope. But there we were, back at the Lufthansa gate with the same German woman who looked up and smiled at us as we streaked in, reentering the atmosphere in flames.

“You made it,” she said calmly, smiling. “I told you you could.” 

Though I did detect a note of surprise in the subtext.

I wanted to point out that she’d said we might make it, but I didn’t care. 

“Have you got your test results?” 

“They haven’t come through the email yet.”

“They will. Just wait over here please,” and she directed us to stand to the side. Not that anyone else was coming, the flight was scheduled to leave in five minutes.

Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. Why wouldn’t it come through? Then it was there, bold and beautiful in my inbox. I jumped up to show her.

“Did you get them?”

“Right here,” I said, extending the phone toward her.

She didn’t even look at it but took our passports and put a light blue dot sticker on the back. “You’re fine to board. And that was it. I still had the bag of hamburgers, clutched in my hand without realizing it and soaked through with grease on the bottom. 

When we dropped into our seats I thought about Mom and Dad. They were connecting through Paris–did France have the same rules? I’d guided Mom and Dad through the bureaucratic process of getting their papers and tests but had obviously overlooked some important things. Would they get stuck too? They were coming from the east coast, maybe their tests were within that window.

I couldn’t worry about it. 

When we met up the next morning in Cairo, the four of us sat together for breakfast on the terrace of the Sofitel Cairo el Gezirah with fresh squeezed orange juice and pastries. 

“How did your flight go?” I asked them, taking it as a good sign that they were actually there with us.

“Oh it was wonderful! It all went so well, just like a charm,” Dad said. “How was yours?”