We were sleeping when the telephone rang. Who's calling at this hour? Delta. In a wisely automated (unassailable) voice, they told us our 8 a.m. flight to Boston had been canceled.

This never seems to happen when I travel alone. I grabbed a recent Travel section and found an 800 number for Delta. A real person answered but spoke in strange English. The flight, he said, had been canceled due to "equipment failure."

"You mean there's no plane," I said sleepily.

"Yes," he said sheepishly.

I asked about our options. He said he could put us on an evening flight (awfully late, even for vacation), or a noon flight out of West Palm Beach, Fla. My wife, Hania, said to take the second. He gave us seats 1A and B.

We couldn't get back to sleep.

We got back to sleep.

The alarm went off about the time we had originally set it for. Our kind neighbor Larry gave us a ride to the Fort Lauderdale Tri-Rail station. (He's not that kind.) I'd never begun a vacation at the Tri-Rail station before.

An hour or so later we carried our bags off the train and looked for a taxi. There was a pleasant commotion outside the station that made me think for a minute that we could just stay in West Palm Beach. Holiday at CityPlace. But I'd never been to Palm Beach International Airport before. So many new experiences, and vacation had barely begun.

The man at the check-in counter stared at his screen for a disconcertingly long time, then went to consult with a colleague. More staring, then some studious tapping, finally some speaking. The flight, the colleague said, was completely booked. It had been booked since yesterday afternoon. He had no idea why we were told we could have seats 1A and B. I got the feeling he suspected we were trying to bluff our way on.

He put us on standby for the noon flight, and then gave us boarding passes for an afternoon flight to Atlanta, and a connecting flight to Boston.

ATLANTA!!!!

I told him, once again, that we had gotten up at 5:30 and come all the way by Tri-Rail because we had been given seats on a direct flight to Boston. I was livid. Hania too, but with much more charm. It occurred to me that I am a mild-mannered man who loves to see the world, and the only times I get really angry are when I travel. (Apologies to the breakfast waitress who, a few minutes later, got caught up in some friendly fire.)

Something resembling an encampment surrounded the noon flight gate. A handful of people hunched in wheelchairs. We stood watching for the first three initials of our last names on the overhead screen. It was easy to spot them as they were the only ones appearing in the "unapproved for boarding" category. The feeling of exclusion was tremendous. It was like being the only two people not chosen for a pickup game, and then having your rank undesirability broadcast around the neighborhood.

In defeat and humiliation, we slogged over to the Atlanta flight. Slowly, our self-esteem returned. Boarding passes in hand, we were no longer gate-crashers. (Even though we had been told that we had seats for the Boston flight.) We were welcomed aboard, part of the team. My window seat was in front of the wing, and Hania's, two rows back, was next to what looked like a man at peace with himself.

In Atlanta we tried unsuccessfully to catch an earlier flight to Boston. A minor disappointment, as we had already sensed that this wasn't our day. So down we went again to the underground train. We were moving, we were out of Florida, we were on vacation!

The flight up the eastern seaboard was uneventful. Our bags were waiting for us at Logan. Outside we caught a trolley bus — with students, backpacks, summer-abroad suitcases — that quickly dropped down into a grim, concrete tunnel. Not the Big Dig, this was older, narrower, creepier. It was a kind of transportation dungeon. It was our welcome to Boston.

And it had taken us only 12 hours to arrive.