Pause and Wander

There are days on this sabbatical when everything clicks into place, when the timing works out, when our improvisation feels effortless, and when we think—quietly, smugly—that we’ve become pretty good at this whole long-term travel thing. And then there are days like November 25th, when the universe gently pats us on the head and says, “Oh honey… no.”

Our last morning in Istanbul began with all the confidence of people who believed they had nothing left to remember. We sat down to a Turkish breakfast at Casius Antioch Kitchen Restaurant—nineteen tiny dishes arranged like edible confetti, a carbohydrate parade of pide and baguette slices, sweet and savory toppings that made us briefly forget that life contains responsibilities. We ate like travelers who had completed their checklist, wrapped their loose ends, and were simply savoring the moment. We devoured everything; Missi enjoyed nearly all of it; the girls tolerated about 50% but loved the novelty.

We waddled home in that post-breakfast haze, full and content. And then we realized we had forgotten something. Not something small—like toothpaste or a water bottle—but something devastatingly fundamental: we had completely forgotten to get our visas for Vietnam.

The house erupted. Not with noise, exactly, but with energy. The kind of frantic, silent-screaming chaos that only happens when two adults realize they have monumentally failed and are trying very hard not to scare their children or each other. We found the e-visa portal, blasted through the application, hit submit, and watched as the gentle bureaucratic text informed us that approval would take three to five days.

We had a flight in seven hours.

Max’s stomach dropped somewhere near his ankles. Shaina remained calm out of sheer willpower, saying things like “It might still work out,” which, in retrospect, was a bold interpretation of the phrase work out. The girls watched us with widening eyes, quietly absorbing the fact that their parents—those rule-setting, consequence-issuing authorities—might have just broken a very important rule and were now scrambling for a way out. It was like watching their worldview crack in real time.

We debated emergency visa services. They were all sketchy, unofficial, and priced like haute couture visas. Nothing we could trust. We eventually decided to go to the airport early and try our luck in person. If we were going to get turned away, at least let it be by an actual human being.

The shuttle drive was slowed by the massive police presence preparing for the Pope’s visit, so we crawled through Istanbul traffic. The girls cheered up at the long tunnels, delighted that for the first time in their lives, they couldn’t hold their breath from one end to the other. For a brief moment, that silly little challenge cut through the tension.

We arrived at the airport around 8:20pm and headed straight to the automated kiosks, where we made the single worst decision of the entire trip. One of the screens clearly asked, “This destination requires a visa. Do you have an entry visa?” We looked at each other—sleep-deprived, anxious, hopeful—and we pressed YES.

This decision deserves its own plaque in the Hall of Bad Travel Choices.

At the time, it felt like we had pulled off a daring act of international cunning. We sailed into the airport lounge and ate snacks like victorious rebels who had cleverly sidestepped a problem. Max’s optimism was held together with a frayed string; Shaina genuinely believed good vibes might be enough; the girls were just excited about free hot chocolate.

We stayed there until it was time to board our early morning flight, walked briskly to our gate, and stood in line—trying, desperately, to act like people who definitely had visas. When it was our turn, the gate attendant took one look at our American passports and asked to see them.

We handed over our visa application confirmations. Which are approximately as convincing as handing someone a recipe when they ask for the actual cake.

She was not fooled for even half a second.

We were denied boarding with a swift decisiveness that made our stomachs fall through the floor. The girls looked utterly baffled. It was the first time they had ever witnessed their parents told “No” by someone who meant it. You could almost see their assumptions about adulthood recalibrating. These two people who declared bedtime, banned too much sugar, and commanded daily chores… could not talk their way onto a plane. A rule existed, and mom and dad had broken it—and no amount of pleading, charm, or parental authority could undo it.

The attendant sent us to customer service. Customer service informed us—with true pity in their eyes—that because we had “checked in” (thank you, kiosk lie), we were considered a no-show and our tickets were effectively dead. If we had come sooner, they might have been able to help. Now we had to go to the ticket sales office.

We trudged over like defeated soldiers. It was after 3am at this point, and we were functioning on adrenaline and regret. The agent listened to our story with concern that bordered on sympathy, and then gave us our options: we could wait for visa approval and buy new flights later, or we could try to reroute entirely. If we booked new tickets that night, he could apply the credit from our original flights. If we waited, the credit would vanish.

That decided things instantly. We needed somewhere cheap to get to Hanoi from once our visas came through, and Bangkok popped up like a shining beacon of affordable connections. Unfortunately, the last flight had left half an hour earlier. The next one would leave twelve hours from now, and the change fee would be around $1500.

At this point, that number hit hard but felt like an appropriate punishment for our bad decisions. 

And then—at nearly 4am, standing there exhausted and punch-drunk—the girls suddenly began to dance. A silly, delirious dance, chanting, “Yay! We’re going to eat Pad Thai!” Their resilience was overwhelming. They had just watched their parents be humbled, watched our plans collapse, and instead of spiraling, they leaned into joy. They danced us into acceptance.

We found a cute Airbnb in Bangkok’s Chinatown. We rescheduled Hanoi for December 4th. We acknowledged the 48-hour gauntlet of travel exhaustion awaiting us. But for the first time all night, we felt relief.

Because here’s the thing we learned as we settled into uncomfortable airport seats to steal a few minutes of sleep: optimism is wonderful for many things—family, travel, life, adventure—but it is not a substitute for a visa. Airlines know. Immigration knows. The border always wins.

And yet, even in our most disastrous travel moment so far, we found ourselves laughing, adjusting, pivoting, and making room for joy. We landed not where we intended but somewhere unexpected, with a new adventure ready to begin and a very enthusiastic promise of Pad Thai guiding us forward.

If this year has a motto, it might simply be:

When life says “no,” we can pivot, laugh, and follow the kids toward whatever’s next.