READING
Thank you for missing your flight
Every couple has an origin story. Ours needed a broken alarm clock, a volcano, and a stranger's sandwich.
In April 2010, I was flying home to Lagos via Amsterdam after a conference. Except I wasn't — because my alarm didn't go off, and I arrived at the gate eleven minutes late. Eleven minutes. If I'd set a second alarm, like a functioning adult, I would have caught that flight, and none of the rest would have happened.
While I was queuing to rebook, the departure boards started turning red. A volcano in Iceland — you may remember it — had thrown a cloud of ash across Europe, and within hours every plane on the continent was grounded. My missed flight suddenly meant nothing: nobody was flying anywhere. If I'd caught it, I would have been one of the last planes out. Instead, I was stranded with thousands of others in a terminal that was rapidly running out of everything.
By the second day, the airport had run out of food. I had one sandwich, bought at triple price, and I was looking for somewhere to sit when a woman with a laptop and an impressive collection of empty coffee cups moved her bag and said, "You look like you're about to faint. Sit. I'll trade you half that sandwich for a phone charger."
That was Clara. We were stranded together for four days. If the ash cloud had cleared earlier, we might have exchanged emails and forgotten each other — four days is exactly long enough to fall for someone's worst travel personality, which is the real one. She later admitted she wouldn't have spoken to me at all if she hadn't been desperate for a charger. Romantic, I know.
We got married in 2013. Our daughter is named Aska — we tell people it's Scandinavian; it's really for the ash. If my alarm had worked that morning, I would have landed in Lagos on time, Clara would have flown to Madrid the next day, and Aska wouldn't exist. Somewhere in Iceland, there is a volcano that owes us nothing and gave us everything.