For the first time in a little while, I travelled alone via aeroplane. I’ve never really enjoyed flying. So when I can, I choose the train over the plane. But it's not the flying I hate, it's the airports. The time spent waiting around, queuing for security, and the lacklustre food and drink options combine to make the experience truly miserable. And that’s all without mentioning the prices. But the novelty did give me something to write about. Every cloud has a silver lining.
“Bye, love you,” I whisper, closing the door behind me, cringing as it whines on its hinges. My bag’s heavy, cutting into my shoulders. A by-product of cheap tickets and cheaper airlines. Something in my gut tells me I’ve forgotten something, but I always think that. I push on down the soaked street under a vulnerable patch of blue. The grey is moving in quickly, impatient to retake its place in the sky. But I’m under the bus stop before it can start its shower again.
“Morning,” the driver says, catching my eye. I part my lips, ready to reply, and then I nod instead. Is that it, I think. Have I forgotten my voice?
“Morning,” I whisper under my breath. It’s a tire check. They’re okay, firm and ready.
The bus twists its way out of the city, pausing now and again to breathe. We're her oxygen, powering her forwards. If that’s the case, then what is our luggage? Nitrogen? Cigarette smoke? Flu particles? She coughs and pulls away again, this time gaining more speed, racing towards her end destination.
Those of us left have a little suitcase or a backpack at our feet. A couple have a lanyard around their necks.
“Next stop, Schiphol Plaza.”
The plaza is less of a plaza and more of an elaborate bus stop. I cross the road, passing the ranks of taxis with their drivers performing their songs.
“Taxi, taxi.”
I wonder how many people respond to those performances with an, oh yes, please. To the side of the entrance, a mismatch of faces, they're pulling the last drags of tobacco into their lungs. There’s a smell here, not only of smoke but of anxiousness. For people like this, flying is teeth-grindingly tough.
Warm air welcomes me inside the terminal. It’s a beehive or an obstacle course. A place demanding your attention. I start snaking through, straightening my posture and holding my head high. When you don’t feel confident, it helps to fake it on the outside. At the very least, you’re less likely to be bothered. And now and again, you’ll trick your gut into believing your lies. Is that it? Have I left my confidence behind, I think, tapping down my pockets. But confidence isn’t something you can pack. It never fits in my luggage, no matter the weight limit.
The security line is small; I count thirty people and join the back of it behind a man bobbing along to his headphones. My phone vibrates in my pocket. How is it? She asks. Empty, I’ll be at the gate in fifteen minutes. I reply, shuffling forwards. Now I’m a couple of people away. The man in front is still bobbing while he unbuckles his belt. Good idea, I think, and do the same.
“Boots, belts and jackets off. Liquids out. Keep your laptops and tablets in your bags,” a woman in blue orders. I catch her eye and smile. But she’s in no mood. “Keep moving down,” she says, pointing to the open spaces. I empty my pockets, placing my phone and the random pound coin I didn't know I had into the plastic tray. I catch her eye again, and she looks over me with the warmth of a winter storm.
“Sir,” a man in blue says, ushering me through the scanner. There can’t be many things more demeaning than a good pat down by security. His hands are big around my thighs, and I wince as he slides his cold fingers under my waistline.
“Thank you,” he says, as if I’d offered.
“No problem.”
My early start is catching up with me, weighing my eyelids down. I need a coffee. Perhaps that’s what I forgot? I think, reaching for my pockets. Starbucks is closest, and although the coffee’s nothing more than brown water, there aren’t better options. Wherever you are, whatever airport you find yourself in, you’re surrounded by big chains that make big profits and bad products.
“Espresso, please.”
“Name?”
“James.”
“That’s three euros.”
“Card, please,” I say, wincing for the second time.
My gate’s a ten-minute walk, and I make my way, sipping my espresso every time my feet land on a moving walkway. Outside, the sun and the clouds are playing chess, and the clouds are winning, quickly closing any blue that appears on the board. There’s a line of jets waiting for their next voyage, taking on fuel and luggage. I spot the bobbing man again, he’s still jamming to his tunes a couple of people ahead of me. I wonder what he’s listening to. By the beat of his nods, it’s something playing 90 to 100 beats per minute. 90’s Hip Hop? I start walking, passing the bodies between us, then passing him, hoping he might have his phone out. He does, but he’s scrolling through his inbox. By the looks of it, work emails.
Everyone’s waiting around at the gate, filling the benches; those who’ve arrived late are leaning against walls or sitting on the floor. I join them, finding a free length of wall to prop myself up against. A young woman, not much older than a teenager, picks up a telephone.
“Last call for flight EJU7845. All passengers, make your way to Gate H1.” Her voice doesn't match her face; it’s ten years and a smoking habit older than I expected. We wait another fifteen minutes before a red-faced couple descends the blocked staircase. She’s clutching two bottles of water and a folder. He’s carrying two backpacks and a half-eaten, sad-looking sandwich.
“Sorry, we couldn’t find the gate,” the woman says, presenting two passports and a stack of paper.
“No problem, you made it,” the woman says. She’s got the same expression as the woman at security. Lifeless. I guess that’s what happens when you spend your days telling people to hurry up. Another fifteen minutes pass before I’m on the stairs, waiting in the wind. A little ray of sun cuts a cloud in two, reflecting off the orange plane. Checkmate, I think, then step through the doorway.
“Good morning, sir,” a man in grey and white says.
“Good morning,” I reply and smile, this time getting one back. I guess you have to smile if you’re cabin crew. No one wants to look at a miserable face before starting their holiday. My ticket says 20F, but row 33 is empty, and I’m the last one to sit down, so I take advantage. I glance back at the door. The smiling man in grey and white gives me a nod.
To my right, the bobbing man, and yes, he’s still nodding along. He leans over, reaches into his backpack and pulls out an old Game Boy Colour. In the row in front, through the gap between the seats, I see a head leaning on a shoulder.
“What is the hotel like?” She asks, nestling into his neck.
“I told you, you’ll have to wait and see.”
“But we’re on the plane. I can’t change anything now.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oooh, please. I’ll make it worth your while,” she whispers.
“Nice try,” he says, tucking her long blond hair behind her ear.
That’s when it hits me. I forgot you, I think and lean my head against the window.
“Welcome on board and a special welcome to all…” the captain begins, but his voice disappears as quickly as the patches of blue in the sky. I pull out my phone and start typing. Miss you already, I write. Love you.
Love, Luke
Beautiful story! I think it perfectly highlights the demeaning nature and disillusion of being a transportable good, instead of a human being.