There seems to always be "something" that goes wrong when you travel. And sometimes that hurts quite a bit more than others.

When a Jamaican governmental official asks you if you want to watch Usain Bolt run, you say yes, unless your wife is giving birth, you—personally—are getting married, or you are waiting in line at the U.S. embassy in Kazakhstan and can't possibly make it back in time. Those are your only options.

I was asked this question as a single, celibate man, who was sitting on the island the race would be run the next day, so I emphatically accepted—enlivened by the opportunity to witness an honored piece of Jamaican culture first hand.

But first, we had plans; the official and I were to head north to take a look at the school he started for under-privileged kids.

On our way to the parking lot, I remembered that—only thirty minutes prior—the only car I'd seen had a pair of legs sticking out the window. At the time, I thought it poor decorum to be used at a place of such pomp; now I realized that the same lounging driver would be our ride to the north of the island—and I assumed, my ride back to the city for the track meet.

My life, physically and emotionally, was in his hands.

He drove. The three of us chatted, and in no time at all fears I had were allayed. As the nighttime mountain air swept through the cab, I couldn't help but think of how lucky I was to get both a day in Portland Parish and a monumental evening of Jamaican track in the capital.

PORTLAND

With less than a day to experience the school, etc., my host kept us busy in the most wonderful ways: we toured the school, led a soccer clinic, swam in the local river, and spent time with the children all remaining time throughout the day. By dinner, we were all tired and jovial. I, while being those things, became increasingly anxious to depart for the track meet.

Only, that departure never came. Calls, unanswered. Texts, unanswered. Driver, no where to be found. Only after the meet had begun did he send word that he would no longer be driving me to Kingston that night.

I walked out to the lawn to clear my head. This was the first moment of real disappointment on the trip. As I stars came out and the moon shown off the crashing waves in the distance, I was frustrated that we'd all had such a terrific day and I was unhappy.

The children went home. The adults remained up for hours chatting about education, Jamaica's history, and teaching kids to have proper grammar. I participated, but it was through an internal fog. When we left for bed, I journaled before giving in to my physical exhaustion.

RE-ENTRY

The next morning—the sun led our way through the golden, verdant mountains and my irritatingly-nice new friend dropped me off back in Kingston.

As I waited for my ride in a Half-way Tree gas station, people hummed around me in activity. I was busy trying to put a positive spin on missing such a unique opportunity while I perused the shelves of the store. And then, I saw it.

Silent, yet bold, on the counter was the morning newspaper with a massive picture of Bolt, with superlatives to match.

"Were you there?" a nearby man asked about whether I'd beed to the race.

I composed myself and gave the best glass-is-half full answer I could, that I was disappointed at missing it, but hopeful that I'd get the chance to see another—expecting him to appreciate my prudence.

"Oh, NO!" he responded. "You missed it!" I smiled, but only half-heartedly.

As my friend Donovan and I walked up the street, I replayed the last 24 hours to him; from the excitement of touring the school to the disappointment of missing the meet.

He quietly listened to me talk and said only, "You can't let it get you down, man."

It was then that I realized my fatal error.

THE UNEXPECTED

I hadn't come to the island to see a race; I'd come to see a people, a culture. I didn't know how that would happen. I didn't know I'd be sitting down with men and women all over the city who were doing all they could for the people in their sphere of influence.

I'd had no inclination of what to expect when my plane touched the ground a week prior, and up until the previous day, everything had been pretty incredible.

So, what was different about that previous day that affected me so? Nothing. What was different was my expectations. The previous day was the first time in my trip that I'd known what was about to take place and I incorrectly thought that I had to get to that event for my time to be successful.

Seeing Bolt run certainly would have been an amazing experience, but I was in Jamaica to experience Jamaica, not see a race. It absolutely could have played a role in that, but not any more than sitting on a porch in Buff Bay could have done, overseeing an exquisite Caribbean night.

IN MY PLACE

Three days later, I sat on a plane headed north over the Caribbean, I pondered everything that happened during the previous ten days—all that made such a deep impact on me—and I was compelled to reach for my journal. I flipped it open to the night in Portland, and the conversations my friends and I had that evening.

I read about what we discussed like I was truly experiencing it for the first time, no longer blinded by my idealism.

Pausing, I apologized to God, to my Portland Parish friends, and even to myself. I'd allowed a unique experience to disrupt my expectations for a successful trip. As the plane flew north over the Caribbean, my heart returned to Jamaica and the pages of that journal so I could finally finish my trip.