I was ridiculously excited about this trip. It was a tour arranged by the great Jewish food writer Joan Nathan and it was designed for American food writers. Everything but the airfare was paid for by an Israeli agency. Sometimes when I was stressed this winter, which was often, I would lie down on the sofa and reread the itinerary and think, well, this may be sad and hard, but soon I will be touring a Tel Aviv spice market.
The trip just wasn't meant to be. There were signs all along, and after pouting for 12 hours, I've accepted this. I have a nice place to stay in NYC until I can retrieve my suitcase and get a flight back to California. Today, I'm going to buy a toothbrush, see Inglorious Basterds, finish The Help, and take the train to Brooklyn to finally eat some Di Fara pizza. Just typing that last sentence, I'm all cheered up.