The distinction between “apropos” and “ironic” has become so blurred in this world that I don’t even try to read an omen into the the iconic Men at Work song blaring overhead the counter seat in the overpriced and utterly unmemorable airport restaurant where I’ve camped out to bide my time until the first of my three southbound flights.

So far, though, I’m leaning toward ironic. I’ve had less auspicious starts to trips, but this one has had more than its share of hurdles, just getting to the literal starting gate. Mind you, the ride down from Port Townsend was as delightful as ever, with our favorite bus driver ever – thank you, Eugene! – greeting me by name and asking when my darling better half was next going to grace his route.

But things got ominous when my boarding pass wouldn’t print, and the young attendant who scanned my passport furrowed her brow and called over a senior colleague. I got bounced around a bit before I decided I wanted in on the drama.

“You booked this through a third party, sir?”

“My hosts did. Is there a problem?”

“It’s your name sir.”

She holds the boarding pass out for me to examine. It read “Mr. David Ariel Cohn” (actually “COHN/David Ariel Mr”) Yes, that’s my name. And the problem is?

“It’s the ‘Mr.’, sir.” Your passport doesn’t say ‘Mr.’, so the names don’t match in the computer.”

[Insert suitable graphic of me, boggled, but – comprehending the blinding literal idiocy of software systems – tragically understanding.]

“Can’t you just change it?”

“Well, no. Because it was booked by a third party. You have to ask your travel agent to change it.”

I explain that the travel agent is someone whose identity I’ve never known, presumably someone hired by the sprawling bureaucracy at CSIRO, in Tasmania, where it is currently the middle of the night. It is…unlikely that I’ll be able to reach the travel agent before my flight is due to depart.

“There’s nothing you can do?”

She shakes her head, no. “You see, the computer….” I see. I see.

We’re at an impasse, me with my duffel on her conveyor belt, and her with my passport and boarding pass. I sit with the moment, waiting, remembering a dictum from all those samurai movies I watched as a kid. Pro-tip: taking life advice from old Kurosawa flicks is not something I’d generally recommend. But I have learned that in standoffs, whoever acts first usually does so to their disadvantage. There’s a line growing behind me, and she desperately wants me to no longer be her problem. But I’ve got three hours before boarding and nowhere else to be right now.

We stand that way, in silence, for maybe ten seconds. Then she does a thing with her eyes and types with one hand on the console. Boarding pass and bag tag grind out. She hands me my passport and slings the tag on my duffel.

“Just try security. If they don’t balk, you’re fine. Probably.”

I thank her and go with “probably.” And when I get to security, the nice man at TSA glances at my ID, says I look like I was headed somewhere fun (“Work first, but definitely fun afterwards!”), and tells me he is sure I’m going to have a good time.

There have been other challenges as well. Apparently I had no Electronic Travel Authorization on record for Australia. You don’t need a visa to visit the Land Down Under, but you do need an ETA. Which is, basically, a visa. I stepped out of line and started Googling. I could apply for one online and be assured that “an outcome letter will be sent to your nominated address within 72 hours.” Mercifully, within about five minutes of hitting “send” on the payment screen, email arrived in my inbox with an official-looking PDF that had “Application Status: GRANTED” stamped across the top in bold lettering.

So far, so good. Now for the first flight in a 26-hour Economy-Plus odyssey…