It might be groundhog day but it is also my anniversary for coming to America.
A little girl of three, flew for the first time with an adult stranger who was her guardian for the trip. I still remember the lady’s name, it was Betty Poll. I remember the engines were loud. I had no idea what was going on. All I remember is I was coming from the summer (southern hemisphere) and for some reason I had a coat and I hadn’t seen my mom since before Christmas (two months to be exact) and I didn’t even remember I had a father. I missed my aunt ( whom I stayed with back in Argentina ) and I knew I was to behave. That was the extent of it. I am sure I tried to make the best of it and I probably acted as brave as I could.
The reunion at the airport (which wasn’t yet named Kennedy in NY) is a story to be told another time.
And here we are, over a half century later. I still hate to fly. Could this be why? I wonder.