Jack's Flight Club dropped something extraordinary into my inbox

In the summer of 2019, Jack's Flight Club dropped something extraordinary into my inbox: Business Class to Auckland with China Southern. London to New Zealand, flat bed, A350, the window seat I'd been dreaming about. February travel — perfect timing for the Southern Hemisphere summer. I booked it instantly.
I felt smug for months.
Three weeks before departure, New Zealand closed its borders to all flights arriving from China. My routing went through Guangzhou. My smugness evaporated.
I had two choices: abandon the trip or adapt. I'm not the abandoning type. I rebooked — Amsterdam to London, London to Singapore, Singapore to Sydney, Sydney to Auckland. Economy. Four legs. The universe's way of reminding me not to get too comfortable.
It was worth every cramped hour.
For three weeks I trekked through the North and South Islands, completely absorbed in mountains, fjords, and the peculiar joy of being somewhere spectacularly beautiful and utterly remote. Back home, my friends were apparently hoarding toilet paper. I had no idea what they were talking about. New Zealand felt like a different planet — calm, unhurried, magnificently unbothered.
Then I started flying home.
Singapore, transit stop on the return leg. We were informed our flight had a technical malfunction and would be cancelled. We'd be rescheduled for the following day. Fine — except nothing about what followed was fine in the way airports usually are. Travelers arriving from Sydney and Auckland were escorted to a five-star hotel: gourmet dinner, crisp sheets, the works. Travelers from other destinations were not permitted to leave the terminal. Nobody said it out loud, but we all understood: geography had become destiny.
The next morning I went to the airport early, hoping to find a direct Singapore-Amsterdam flight and skip the London connection entirely — my KLM leg home kept shifting around like it couldn't decide whether to exist. No luck. But the detour gave me something I'd wanted for years: a proper wander through Changi Airport. Under the circumstances, it was a surreal gift.
At the gate for our rescheduled Qantas flight to London, a news ticker appeared on the television screens.
Qantas suspends all international flights.
We looked at each other. We looked at the screen. We looked at the plane sitting at the jet bridge, door open, crew ready. It was departing anyway — and we were on it.
Landing at Heathrow, I stepped onto the platform for the inter-terminal train. Three people. The whole platform: three people. The automated announcer, perfectly composed, advised us to stand back from the edge.
I stood back from the edge and thought: I just watched a pandemic begin from the best possible seat in the house.
Jack's Flight Club found me that deal. I nearly flew Business Class into history. Instead, I flew economy across four time zones, got stranded in Singapore's most beautiful airport, boarded what might have been one of Qantas's last international flights for a very long time, and arrived at a ghost-town Heathrow just as the world pressed pause.
Some people ask if I was unlucky to lose the Business Class seat.
I was lucky enough to make it home.