K and the kids are now somewhere over the Atlantic, on their way to Munich, where they’ll have ninety minutes to make a connection to Krakow, where K’s godfather will pick them up and drive them two hours south almost into Slovakia, where Babcia is waiting with chicken broth and homemade egg noodles. The ninety-minute ride to the airport went fine, the check-in process was flawless, and we even had time to sit and share an over-priced bottle of orange juice before they entered the terminal area restricted to those of us who lack a ticket. I wound through the line with them, ducking out at the last minute just before K and the kids had to take off shoes, belts, etc. The Boy came back over to the rope barrier and gave me another hug and kiss. The Girl followed, on the brink of tears, reminding me for the thousandth time to…