SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2026 -- This might make me sound deeper and more profound than I am, but: I've spent the better part of my adulthood trying to balance the radically different views of the road (and, by extension, life) expressed by Robert Frost and George Harrison.

Frost, you recall from grade-school English, obsessed about the road not taken. He seemed convinced that you made a cosmic choice with your selected path and famously bemoaned that he could not take both. Harrison seemed convinced that any road will take you there, especially if you aren't picky about the destination.

As I say, I'm not particularly deep, so I may be missing the nuances offered by Frost and Harrison. But I've been thinking about this a lot lately--Finally, he's getting to the point!--after my latest cancelled trip. Permit me to explain.

For a variety of reasons, my wife and I haven't had a holiday in quite some time. So we had an idea at the end of last summer: Gather willing couples and celebrate Thanksgiving in Rome. Flights were booked, lodgings arranged and one of our group decided we'd eat at a favored restaurant on Thanksgiving Day. (Okay, that was Mister Meatball and the restaurant was Perilli.)

It turns out none of the couples took the road to Rome. We all cancelled for a panoply of reasons I now can't recall. No matter, I told my wife, we'll recalibrate for an Italy trip on Christmas.

That trip did not happen, either. Nor did our plans for a trip to Italy for New Year. We regrouped and planned a trip for mid-January. Again, a road not taken.

Finally, we rebooked flights to Milan for last Saturday and bought train tickets to take us onward to our hideaway town in Liguria.

This time, I was sure, a road (and, of course, the flight and three trains) would be taken. We planned to be gone a month, so we emptied the house of perishables and I stuck the watering spikes in the house plants. We arranged to feed the feral cats who call the vast, worldwide JoeSentMe headquarters home. We scheduled the Uber for the ride to the airport. We packed--and, yes, you can do a month using only carry-on bags.

Fifth time's the charm, as neither Frost nor Harrison ever said.

Then I woke with a start in the darkness of Saturday morning. I switched on the light and grabbed at my phone. It woke up my wife.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Um, well, I'm thinking I don't want to go."

"Then let's not," she said.

"Because," I rambled, "for the first time I really don't want to get on another plane. For the first time, I'm okay if we don't go to Italy. I just want to pull the covers over my head and sleep for a week."

"Then let's not go," she said again. "I could sleep."

And she did. Me? Not so much. After all, what manner of traveler am I if I don't want Frost's road or the road not taken or any road? I also realized, with the flights only about 12 hours away, it might actually be easier to go than to stay home.

But when my wife woke up at a more civil hour last Saturday, she looked at me and said: "You know, I'm okay that we're not going. I'm exhausted."

So we didn't. I spent a few hours Saturday unraveling our travel plans, watched some Olympics, made pasta because there was nothing else in the house and pretty much did nothing.

Ironically, high winds at New York's Kennedy Airport delayed the flight we were due to be on by three hours. Its late arrival into Milan/Malpensa meant we would have missed our scheduled trains. It would have been an infuriating, arduous start to the trip, filled with far too many hours in a subpar Kennedy lounge, far too much time rebooking trains, far too many coffees at various Italian train stations and a far too late arrival at our Ligurian hideaway.

I may be getting lost in my own metaphors here, but that counts as the road not taken, right?

Anyway, a week later, my wife still hasn't unpacked. But instead of hanging out in Liguria, we drove to a place 30 miles from home to buy pickles, laid in a new supply of Fuji apples from a nearby cold-storage outfit and found a wonderful Uzbek restaurant just over a bridge from the vast, worldwide JoeSentMe headquarters.

So the road repeatedly not taken was Italy, a place we love. The road taken has had pickles, apples, plov and sleep. Also good. It's worked out. Harrison was right, too. If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there. As long as you have Google Maps, of course.

Confused? Consider this pithy tune about Robert Frost. And I remind you Harrison also suggested that the farther one travels, the less one really knows.

And, now, back to TSA shutdowns, air space closures, airline strikes and whatever. But whichever road you take--or don't--next week, when there'll be a fusillade of secular holidays and religious milestones, please go in peace …