Heather in da House!
We had a fool-proof plan. Heather would call when she landed, and I'd either already be on the train or would take the next one in. London's Kings Cross station is about halfway between Cambridge and Heathrow. I should have no problem getting to the station before her. What could go wrong?

The day before I left for Reykjavik, we decided it was time for a new cell phone. Remember that brick that Fox Mulder would use to call Sculley from behind the yellow tape in some random field? That was basically Heather's phone. Big, no texting, no Web...and no international coverage. So, we spent our final few hours together in Best Buy, buying a Razr with European coverage.

I caught an early train and arrived in Kings Cross as Heather's plane was touching down. I gave her 15 minutes and called. Straight to voicemail. So I left a message and set out to find FedEx, about a mile from the station, to ship some books home. By the time I was done, it was 90 minutes after Heather's flight had touched down. Two more voicemails, and still no word.

As I walked out of FedEx, it hit me. I never called Cingular to activate her international service (a ridiculous but necessary step). And I never bothered to tell Heather the address of my bed & breakfast in Cambridge -- so it's not like she could just go there and crash. I wasn't exactly panicking. I mean, I was carrying two mobiles. She'd find a pay phone. But why hadn't she done that already? Halfway back to the station, I started having all kinds of crazy thoughts about what could have happened and broke into a trot. I knew she'd at least remember to find the main station where Cambridge trains depart. I'd get there and plant myself by the door, making sure I had four bars of cell service, and wait.

As I approached the station, my legs were moving as quickly as my mind. I ran into the main entrance with a fleeting thought that maybe she would be there, waiting for me. That hope was crushed when I crossed the threshold of the station into a sea of humanity and luggage. If she was in the station, I would never find her. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a slight jump and a faint wave of a hand. No way.

It was her. I ran to her. We hugged; we kissed, I teared up, and we just stood there and held each other for a long, long time. Eventually, I took her bags and loaded everything onto the train. On the hourlong ride back up to Cambridge, her head on my shoulder, spent, I felt relief and joy and a bit of awe at what just transpired. That moment, that split-second when I flipped from panic to elation, when Heather did a little hop in a nondescript train station halfway around the world and waved at me from the middle of hundreds of random strangers, and we both realized that there was no one else we'd rather be seeing at that moment and nowhere in the world that we'd rather be...that scene, one day, when my life runs before my eyes, could be the kicker on the entire reel.

We spend so much time micro-managing all the special occasions in our lives. And with good reason. We're planners. But isn't it weird how the truly special moments are the ones that catch you completely off-guard, or when that best-laid plan completely falls to shit?

I knew there was a reason I never called Cingular.