Looking up at the screen, I almost drop my cup. The plane isn’t late, after all, and is already at the gate! How could that be? Earlier, did an unexpected attack of dyslexia make me transpose the digits of the flight number? I abandon my still-hot cup in a trash bin and hurry down to the gate. Some passengers, having already emerged from the jet bridge, are heading towards baggage claim or the exit doors. Standing in a spot that the maestro couldn’t miss, I wait until the flight crew walks out, but there’s no sign of the maestro. We haven’t met, it’s true, but I’ve seen his pictures, and none of the passengers who got off the plane looked even remotely like him. Is it possible that he disembarked and left before I got to the gate? Unlikely. But even if he managed to get out early, why isn’t he waiting there? After checking the men’s room and the waiting area more closely, I head to the airline counter near the gate.