The security line at JFK was already a war zone by the time the sisters arrived, wheeling their overstuffed luggage behind them and dragging their already tired feet. The air smelled like Cinnabon and impatience.

“Relax,” Bindi said, adjusting her bag strap. “Just smile and look like you belong here.”

“I do belong here,” Mindi protested, tugging at her floral scarf, which had somehow transformed from Victorian botany professor to Victorian straitjacket. “This long line is just giving me hives.”

“Could be the polyester in that scarf,” Bindi said.

“This scarf is European!” Mindi snapped.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize polyester was American. Europeans wear linen blessed by mountain goats and stitched by candlelight in Provence.”

Windi, ever the enigma, was already ten paces ahead, as the crowds had a way of parting for her. She floated through the throng like a mystic in sneakers.
“Don’t worry,” she tossed back breezily. “I brought extra essential oils in case we have to bribe anyone.”

“Right,” Bindi muttered. “Because nothing says ‘innocent traveler’ like unsolicited eucalyptus.”

From behind came a grunt and a thud as Marge tried to lift her rhinestone-studded carry-on onto the conveyor belt, nearly toppling over in the process.

“Don’t underestimate the power of sparkle,” she said breathlessly, flashing the TSA agent a dazzling smile.

The agent grinned, amused at Marge’s flare, then waved her through.

“See?” Mindi said, nodding with approval. “The glitter’s your secret weapon.”

“I am the weapon,” Marge corrected, brushing imaginary lint off her bedazzled sleeve.

The line inched forward like molasses. There was the usual chaos—someone forgot to take their laptop out, a woman tried to sneak through with four bangles and a full-sized bottle of toner, and one poor soul left behind their belt—and dignity—as they tried to exit the scanner.

Just as they passed through the metal detectors, Marge suddenly froze.

“Where’s my boarding pass?” she asked, patting herself frantically.

Cindi groaned without even looking. “You didn’t print it, did you?”

Marge grinned at each of her sisters’ shocked faces. “We’re digital now. The future is paperless!”

“Then maybe future-you should’ve checked if the Wi-Fi here actually works,” Bindi said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I saved it to my wallet app—oh wait, never mind. That was a coupon for frozen yogurt.”

Cindi looked genuinely concerned. “Does this mean we’re stranded at JFK? Is this the story of how we all die?”

“No one is dying,” Bindi growled, snatching Marge’s phone. “Give me that. I’ll find it. Everyone else—move on.”

Miraculously, the boarding pass was found, the group reassembled, and the sisters hustled toward their gate in a chaotic caravan of wheeled suitcases. Cindi kept dropping snacks from her bag. Mindi annoyingly fiddled with her scarf. And Windi kept stopping to pet the leaves of each airport plant she passed.

“Finally,” Cindi said, flopping into a seat near the gate and pulling out a half-smashed granola bar. “Now we’ll just have to wait our turn.”

“I can’t wait for the first croissant,” Mindi sighed, stretching out her legs.

“And the haggis,” Bindi added.

“Maybe we should download a translator app,” Cindi said, ignoring her sister and scrolling on her phone. “You know, just in case Scottish isn’t technically English.”

“I brought my charm and essential oils,” Windi said, patting her carry-on lovingly. “That should be enough.”

“I brought glam,” Marge added. “Between the two of us, we could seduce a customs officer.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bindi said. “But if it does, Mindi’s scarf might double as duct tape.”

“Ahem,” Mindi sniffed, adjusting the scarf yet again.

“Flight 243 to Edinburgh will now begin pre-boarding for passengers with mobility issues or those needing extra time to board,” the overhead speaker announced.

Marge immediately stood and hoisted her rhinestone carry-on with flair. “That’s us,” she announced confidently.

“No, it’s not,” Bindi said, grabbing her arm.

“Excuse me,” Marge said with mock indignation, “this bag weighs forty-three pounds, and my shoes are technically orthopedic-adjacent.”

“They’re Skechers with rhinestones,” Cindi pointed out.

“Exactly.”

Windi, sliding an oil rollerball across her forehead, chimed in, “I believe I also need extra time. I’m spiritually fragile in crowded spaces.”

“You say that every time we go to Costco,” Bindi muttered.

“And every time, I am correct,” Windi replied serenely.

“I’m anxious,” Mindi said. “Is that a category?”

“No,” Bindi said flatly.

“Just sit, Marge,” Mindi sighed, peeling the wrapper off a granola bar from Cindi’s bag. “We’re old, but not quite yet infirm. Enjoy it while ya got it.”

“I always got it,” Marge replied, reclaiming her seat and crossing her legs with flair. “Age is just a number—and mine’s unlisted.”

“This is going to be the longest three weeks of my life,” Bindi muttered.

Cindi popped a peanut in her mouth and smirked. “I give it ten minutes before Windi tries to convert someone to essential oils in row 17.”

“You’re being generous,” Bindi replied, massaging her temples in little circles.

Cindi chuckled. For a moment, they people-watched. The gate buzzed with kids flailing, stressed couples bickering, and most travelers checking and rechecking their phones or tickets, scanning the crowd to ensure they were in the right place.

A gate agent stepped toward them, polite smile in place. “Ma’ams, if you’d like to pre-board for any reason—mobility, assistance, or—”

Mindi lifted her chin firmly. “We’re retired, sweetheart, not relics.”

The agent smiled slightly, nodded, and moved on.

Cindi leaned back in her chair and gave a soft huff of amusement. “Remember when we were the ones making sure the old folks got on okay? Now we’re the old folks.”

“Don’t say that,” Bindi snapped. “You’re the youngest of us. If you’re old, then we’re all old.”

“True. You’re right,” Cindi said, waving it off. “I still can’t believe we pulled this off. All five of us. Finally free. Finally retired. And going somewhere that doesn’t involve a spreadsheet.”

“Amen,” Bindi said.

“Cheers,” Marge added, raising an imaginary glass.

“About damn time,” muttered Mindi from behind a magazine.

Windi didn’t say anything—she was busy sprinkling lavender oil on her boarding pass.

“Well, after years of waking up at dawn to live the same day over and over again, I’m happy to be moving on,” Cindi said, her sisters all catching the tone of her trying to convince herself.

They all knew what it was like to finally retire—worrying that you wouldn’t quite feel ready. That you’d feel useless. Faded. Lost. Old.

“That’s exactly right,” Marge nodded. “And this trip will be your welcome to your future!”

“Yes,” Cindi exhaled. “The last chapter of it.”

“Oh, no,” Bindi said. “This isn’t the last chapter—it’s the next volume. The prequels were great, but the best stories? They start now.”

As though on cue, the general boarding call came through at that moment. Bindi pointed upward with a grin. “See?”

Marge stood, squaring her shoulders and jutting out her chin. “Let’s go, ladies. Time to take this retirement tour global!”

They stood, five across now, each ready to start a next volume of their own.

“Okay, everyone stay together,” Bindi said, taking charge the way she always did in crisis situations. “We check in, we get coffee, and we don’t make eye contact with anyone in a uniform… especially if they’re wearing latex gloves.”

Mindy adjusted her scarf, which had begun to droop toward the floor. “Relax, Bindi. It’s an airport, not a hostage negotiation.”

“Same thing,” Bindi muttered, scanning for their airline counter. “Except probably with worse snacks.”

Windy drifted along behind them, while Cindy and Marge trailed in a chaotic tangle of luggage straps, snack bags, and one determined neck pillow that kept trying to escape captivity.

“Are we sure we’re at the right terminal?” Mindy asked, squinting at a sign.

“Delta to Edinburgh,” Bindi confirmed. “Yes. We’re good. For once in our lives, we are—”

“Excuse me!” A security officer waved from a podium. “Ma’am! You dropped your… uh… crystal ball?”

Everyone turned. Windy knelt down dramatically to retrieve a large amethyst sphere that threatened to roll away from her, catching the fluorescent lights like a disco ball.

“Oh, thank you!” she called, scooping it up like a mother cradling her newborn. “It’s for energy alignment.”

Bindi pinched the bridge of her nose. “We haven’t even checked in yet.”

When they did reach the check-in counter, a weary agent with haunted eyes greeted them with the enthusiasm of a crumpled sock.

“Passports,” she said. Her name tag read TANYA – Senior Agent, which probably meant she’d earned the right to tolerate less nonsense than usual.

The sisters, not wanted to get on Tanya’s bad side, lined up like baby ducks. Bindi handed hers over neatly. Cindy followed suit. Mindy dug through her purse like a raccoon in a dumpster. Windy presented hers immediately—then also offered a small sachet of dried lavender “for stress.”

Tanya blinked. “I’ll just… take the passport, ma’am.”

Cindi made a mental note to go thru Windy’s bags at her earliest opportunity to ensure there weren’t any more sachets with various dried herbs that could mistakenly land them all in a Scottish prison upon arrival.

Marge, meanwhile, was elbow-deep in her handbag, muttering, “I swear it was in here with my lip gloss and the emergency almonds.”

Bindi gave her a pointed look. “You have emergency almonds?”

“Don’t start,” Marge said. “You had emergency duct tape last time.”

“That was different,” Bindi countered. “We were in Florida. The car door wouldn’t shut.”

“Found it!” Marge triumphantly waved her passport in the air—then immediately dropped it, sliding beneath the check-in counter lout of reach.

Tanya exhaled deeply through her nose and crouched down. “I’ve got it,” she said.

Windy leaned over the counter. “You have very soothing energy,” she said. “Do you meditate?”

“Only between flights,” Tanya said, deadpan, handing back the passport. “Checked luggage?”

Mindy pointed at her Hyundai-sized suitcase. “Here’s mine. Be gentle.”

Tanya’s nod was less than reassuring, as Mindy nervously watched her bag rumble down the belt and out of sight.

Bindi clapped her hands. “Right. Security time. Let’s go.”

Approximately 20 minutes later, Marge’s designer shampoo – her “liquid gold” – was discovered –  in a full 16-ounce bottle.

“But it’s organic!” she protested, before being  rendered temporarily speechless as the security agent unceremoniously tossed the bottle in the huge trash container behind her.

Cindy was flagged for having “an excessive quantity of granola bars.” Apparently, six was acceptable, but seventeen raised concerns.

“I’m hypoglycemic,” Cindy explained. “And they don’t feed you on planes anymore.”

The officer shrugged as Cindy’s contraband granola joined Marge’s shampoo in the bin.

Meanwhile, Mindy’s floral scarf got caught in the conveyor belt of the X-ray machine, dragging her halfway toward the tunnel before a TSA agent hit the emergency stop button. The scarf survived, but Mindy’s adoration for it had faded slightly as she disentangled herself and shoved it roughly into her bag.

When it was finally Bindi’s turn, she walked through the metal detector with confidence—only for it to beep.

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“Ma’am, do you have any metal implants?” the agent asked.

“Just my fillings,” Bindi said.

“Do you have a belt?”

“No.”

“Jewelry?”

“Just these earrings.”

“Pacemaker?”

“For the love of—no.”

The agent waved the wand over her shoes. Beep. Bindi frowned. “They’re Skechers.”

The agent looked at her gravely. “Skechers can’t be trusted.”

By the time they all reassembled on the other side, Windy was diffusing lavender oil onto her wrists, Marge was still mourning her confiscated shampoo, and Cindy was shoving a granola bar into her mouth out of spite.

They arrived at their gate forty minutes before boarding, which, in Bindi’s world, was the exact acceptable buffer for catastrophic contingencies. In Marge’s world, it was time for a drink.

“Let’s get a cocktail,” she said, peering toward a bar.

“We don’t need to start drinking at ten in the morning,” Bindi protested.

“Speak for yourself,” Mindy said. “I’m on vacation. The minute my suitcase hit the conveyor belt, my responsibilities ended.”

Cindy raised a hand. “Seconded.”

Windy smiled dreamily. “I could go for a kombucha.”

“Kombucha?” Marge scoffed. “We’re about to fly 4,000 miles over open water. We need gin.”

“Fine,” Bindi relented. “One drink each. No shots, no doubles, no airport karaoke.”

“Define karaoke,” Marge said with a smirk.

“Anything that ends with applause or involves security,” Bindi replied, rerouting her steps toward The Last Shot Bar & Grill.

Mindy ordered a mimosa “with just a whisper of orange juice.” Cindy got coffee “spiked with courage.” After not seeing kombucha on the menu, Windy asked the bartender for “something that promotes balance,” which earned her a glass of seltzer with a lime wedge and a confused shrug.

Bindi stuck with iced tea. Someone needed to stay in charge.

Marge raised her glass. “To sisters! To Europe! To not killing each other before we even board!”

They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks in relative silence, people watching while each trying to calm their nerves.

When the gate agent called their zone, Bindi tried to herd them forward. “Okay, everyone has their passport? Boarding pass? Emotional stability?”

“Define stability,” Marge said.

“Define everyone,” Cindy added.

They shuffled onto the plane like a small, dysfunctional parade. Bindi had insisted on booking their seats together in the middle section, a decision she now regretted profoundly.

Windy took the aisle seat so she could “stretch her aura.” Mindy sat beside her, immediately clasping her hands together as though they had just become glued that way. Cindy was next, already wiping down every surface with disinfectant wipes. Marge took the window seat, immediately pressing her face against the glass. “I can see the wing!”

“Congratulations,” Bindi said. “Try not to climb onto it.”

The first hour of the flight was almost peaceful. Almost.

Windy began a guided meditation—out loud. Passengers in the surrounding rows shifted uncomfortably as she murmured, “Breathe in gratitude, breathe out judgment.”

“Breathe in silence,” Mindy hissed.

Cindy unwrapped granola bar number two. “You’ll thank me when they serve us something that looks like dog food in a tin.”

Marge had ordered two mini bottles of prosecco and was watching Love Actually on the seat screen, tearing up.

“Hour two,” Bindi mumbled, “ and we’re already emotionally unstable.”

Halfway through the flight, turbulence hit. Windy gasped, clutching her mala beads. “We’re entering a vibrational shift!”

“It’s called air pockets,” Bindi said through clenched teeth.

Marge, still tipsy, giggled. “Weeeeeeee!”

When things calmed, Bindi attempted to read her travel guide, Europe on a Budget (and Other Lies). But between Marge’s giggles, Cindy’s crinkling snack wrappers, and Windy whispering various uplifting affirmations, focus was impossible.

The baby two rows ahead began to cry.

Windy reached into her tote. “I have crystals that can help with that.”

“No!” shouted Bindi, Mindy, and Cindy in unison.

Windy blinked. “It’s just rose quartz.”

“You’re not waving a rock at someone else’s baby,” Mindy spat, as the pilot’s voice interrupted them to announce the lunch service, after which peace hovered for a glorious moment… until nature called.

“I can’t believe there’s a line,” Marge muttered, crossing her legs.

Cindy clinked the bottles of prosecco on Marge’s tray. “What did you expect?”

Windy was leaning across the aisle, chatting with a British man about herbal detoxing.

“Would you like a sage sachet?” she asked him earnestly.

Cindy, ignoring Marge’s whining, insisted Windy take the next spot in line for the loo, taking the opportunity in her absence to indeed check for contraband looking sachet’s in Windy’s bag.

Bindi’s, the last to take a bathroom break, returned looking haunted. “Someone before me had… creative aim.”

Marge wrinkled her nose. “Well, it’s hard to hover over the seat in an airplane.”

”My lord,” Bindi shuddered.

After a surprisingly uneventful remainder of the flight, the plane began its descent.

“Look out the window!” Marge squealed. “Green hills! Sheep! Civilization!”

Windy pressed her hands to the window. “It’s so pure. So untouched.”

Bindi tightened her seatbelt. “Okay. When we land, everyone follows me. No wandering. No small talk with customs. No offering strangers essential oils.”

Windy looked offended. “I only share when the spirit moves me.”

“Well, tell the spirit to chill,” Cindy said.

The landing was surprisingly smooth, which Bindi considered a small miracle. As they shuffled off the plane, Windy stopped at the flight attendants’ station.

“Thank you for guiding us safely through the skies,” she said reverently. “You are modern angels.”

The flight attendant smiled politely. “Thank you, ma’am.”

They made it through customs without incident—largely because Cindi had surreptitiously tossed all of Windy’s “herbal items” during the bathroom break.

But baggage claim was another story.

Cindy’s suitcase arrived first. Marge’s followed. Then Mindy’s elephant sized trunck. Then… nothing.

“Where’s mine?” Bindi demanded, watching the carousel spin mockingly.

“Maybe it’s taking the scenic route,” Marge offered.

Windy gasped. “It’s karmic payback for your negativity!”

“It’s incompetence,” Bindi said flatly. “The airline lost my bag.”

A disheveled attendant confirmed that suspicion moments later. “My apologies. We’ll deliver it to your hotel tomorrow, miss.”

“So tonight I get to wear this same outfit?” Bindi asked, deadpan.

“You could borrow my scarf,” Mindi offered grinning.

“I’d rather wear a bath towel.”

”We’ll find you something, hun,” Marge doted. “Between the five of us, we’re bound to have something to suit you for the night. Let’s just set it aside until tomorrow.”

”I’m not wearing anything bedazzled,” Bindi shot back.

By the time they piled into their rental van at the Edinburgh airport, exhaustion had set in.

“Okay,” Bindi said, gripping the steering wheel after arranging her large cup of coffee from the vending machine in the cup holder. “We made it. We’re alive. No arrests, no bans, no permanent injuries. So far, so good.”

“Europe, here we come!” Marge cheered faintly from the back seat.

The van lurched forward into Edinburgh traffic.

“Next stop,” she said grimly, “the hotel.”

“Adventure!” Marge cried.

“Chaos,” Cindy muttered.

“Growth,” Windy whispered.

“Regret,” Bindi finished.

And as the van rounded the corner toward the cobbled streets of Edinburgh, a small sisterly miracle occurred: for one fleeting, improbable moment, unbeknownst to one another, they were all thinking the exact same thing—

We should’ve just gone back to Florida.