Unaccompanied minors

Out of sight is not out of mind when you’re a parent.

When your children are toddlers, you develop a sixth sense. You instinctively know that if you don’t see them and it’s quiet, trouble is afoot.

I learned this summer that sense stays with you the rest of your life. It is especially acute when you put your child on an airplane and send them half-way around the world for five weeks of study in western Asia.

Harris, our middle son, is hardly an unaccompanied minor, as the airlines like to call them (and charge extra for them). At 19 he has already traveled out of the country without us, making the trip to London with the Parkview Marching Band for the New Year’s Day parade in 2020.

But studying abroad in the Republic of Georgia was as different an experience for his parents as it was for him.

Harris tried to comfort us back when he hatched this plan by letting us know that Tbilisi, the capital of the “other” Georgia, was actually closer to Iran than Ukraine. He also said that the widespread Georgian protests against their Russian neighbors could easily be avoided, like the protests here in America. Neither of his arguments were convincing.

As it turned out, though, Harris was fine. The public demonstrations were not a factor, except for the night Georgia beat Portugal 2-nil in the UEFA Euro Cup soccer tournament and the country went crazy. And even though he and his fellow Mercerians worked with Ukrainian refugee kids, the war in that country never touched them from 1,700 km (yes, kilometers, because that’s how they do things over there) away.

Thanks to the ubiquitous mobile phone technology and relatively inexpensive temporary international package we added to his phone, Harris was able to keep us up to date on his adventures through texts. The steady stream of photos and updates let us know he was OK, and not, in fact, being trampled in a protest, conscripted into the Russian army, or starving to death.

Instead, he was frustrated by trying to sleep in a hostel with 15 other guys, many of whom snored, wrangle refugee kids in day camp activities and withstand a blazing hot summer while hiking and engaging in outdoor sightseeing. Sipping pear sodas and eating lots of meat and cheese dishes served in bread bowls seemed to ease his pain.

Even with all of that going on, the biggest stress point for us was literally the last leg of his journey. His return to the U.S. missed the start of our beach vacation by two days, and he was determined to get the most of his beach time as well. After many hours of plotting, we concocted a plan for him to return with his group as scheduled on June 30, get a room at Tru by Hilton Hotel at the Atlanta Airport, and catch a flight to Panama City July 1 where we would be joyfully reunited.

No big deal when you’ve been savvy traveling abroad, right?

Well, for him, yes. For us, no. We spent more energy worrying about him the last 24 hours of travel than we had all summer. I can’t for the life of me understand why.

It all worked out just fine. He made his connections from Tbilisi to Paris. Going through customs in Atlanta was a breeze. His girlfriend and her parents dropped him off at the hotel rather than having to plane-train-it all the way from E Concourse to the main terminal and then taking the new rail line to the hotels.

Because his body was still eight hours ahead of Eastern Daylight Time, he had no trouble waking up in time to catch his flight to Northwest Florida Beaches International Airport (that’s what they call the airport in Panama City for some reason). That final flight arrived 21 minutes early, so we were denied the tearful reunion in the terminal like you see in the movies.

Instead, we drove around the terminal and almost missed him out by the curb. At that moment, our anxiety was replaced by gratitude and relief. We enjoyed our pear soda’s while listening to Harris regale us with his overseas adventure for the rest of our week at the beach.

Since returning home, he has filled his days with leisure and a few side excursions. I think the biggest takeaway for me is that not only was all that worry for nothing, I can relax and let him live his life while he’s away at college even here in the good ol’ USA.

I mean, if he can survive rowdy soccer fans celebrating a victory over the Portuguese, navigate the Atlanta airport coming and going, and successfully smuggle pear sodas through customs, he’ll be just fine when he’s out of our sight.