2006-01-12 - 1:49 a.m.
Have you ever had a layover in an airport last for 78 hours? Well, I have. Hello. My name is goodprovider and let me tell you a story about how I, goodprovider, survived for 78 hours in Heathrow Airport.
I was returning from a delightful 10 day romp with Josh, the hunter-gatherer of my heart, in Prague via Vienna via London (via! via! the new Ricky Martin song!). My flight, London to Vienna, was delayed by an hour. So I missed my Vienna to London flight. No problem--they just put me on a later Vienna to London flight, putting me at Heathrow a mere 40 minutes before my London-Ashgabat flight took off. I questioned Barbara, my Austrian Airlines help desk maiden:
"Barbara, won't this be a problem? Only 40 minutes between the two? That's not enough time to grab my bags, run across the airport, check-in, and get to the gate on time?"
"Nay. You have nothing to worry about," replied Barbara, peering over her pert little Austrian glasses. I could smell the waltz on them a mile away.
"But Barbara, wouldn't it be best if you tagged my bags for the Turkmen Air plane so I won't run into any problems?" my forehead already wrinkled from aging (my hair is also thinning from age, but that has nothing to do with this story) furrowing more seriously. I tried to look Bavarian, Black Woods-ian, Sturm und Drangian to get across the seriousness of my flight plight. "If I don't make my Turkmen Air flight, I have no way of getting home until Tuesday evening, three days later."
Let me intervene for a moment. Turkmenistan Air is no Delta or Midwest Express or American Airlines. This is an airline run by Turkmenistan. They only travel most places once or twice a week--arriving, dropping off passengers, picking new ones up, and skedaddling back home to Ashgabat as soon as possible. London is an honored post in that you can go there or back two times a week, Saturday and Tuesday. If you miss your flight, you cannot reschedule for another flight the next hour or day. It's hours upon hours upon days in which you can return.
"No. It is not necessary. Have a nice flight," she giggled, probably dreaming of some cow that needed milking. Or a wildflower that needed picking. Those damned daydreaming Austrians.
So I get on the plane, bumped up to business class (thanks to Austrian Aviatrix Barbara T. VanSchnitzelworth), shove spoons of creamy things with peas on top into my mouth, fail to understand the flight attendant's harsh, guttaral English, and when the plane touched down, I ran with fire in my footsteps.
Bags akimbo, wrists flailing limply in the wind--"Not now, Indian Woman. Get out of my way!" I screeched from one end of Heathrow to another, reaching the check-in gate and coming to find the name "Turkmen Air" not writ anywhere.
Breathless at the help desk, I beg the older woman to tell me where the Turkmen Air check-in gate is. "Oh, that? Oh, that gate is closed. You'll never make it on that flight." And what can you really do at a moment like this, when your one moment to return home is dashed, your chances of getting back ruined for more than a few days?
I sulked off to my little luggage trolley, lay my head on the bar, and cried. Yes, the softhearted goodprovider lay his heart gently down like a lamb in cruel airline hay and wept. But quickly collecting myself like a warrior ready for battle, I whipped the tears from my eyes, straightened up my sweater, and marched back to the desk, demanding that something be done.
Phone calls were made, lips were bit, of courses were said. "It seems that if you would have had your luggage tags, you could have made it on your plane," the silver-haired sylvan help desk dame informed me. My fists clenched themselves and somewhere on my palm, my nails carved into my flesh the words, "I shall take my revenge on thee, Austrian Maiden Barbara." Rage settled and grabbing my sad little luggage trolley, I wandered the halls and tunnels of Heathrow Airport for a few hours, cryingcryingcrying.
The facts were thus: I had about $90 or so in my checking account and that was all. Given that the British pound totally kicks the American dollar's ass in any Pokemon round, buying a soda costs like, $4. There was a leftover tiny baguette in my backpack and a box of granola in my luggage. The next flight out of London to Ashgabat via Turkmen Airlines was 78 hours away. So I hunkered down, swallowed the stone of pride, and accepted the fact that I must wait, wait, wait for somethingtohappen.
E-mails were written, phone calls were made, and two days later, I had confirmation that Peace Corps had arranged to have a ticket sent to me. However, remember that I am flying Flintstone Airlines and that instead of them writing in their computer system, "Steve Lynch," in order to get on the plane, I must have a physical ticket in hand. A little piece of schist with my name chiseled on it so that Barney Rubble will let me board the back of a pterodactyl. To accomplish this, a Peace Corps worker's husband had to give the ticket to a pilot who would fly here, give it to an attendant, who would then deliver it to me. I'm part of the story and I'm confused too--hold on, hold on to yourself. This is gonna hurt like hell.
Needless to say, I made all 78 hours safely (only one thing stolen--a small Nalgene given to me by Josh) in Heathrow Airport, never leaving the building, and got happily onto that Tuesday plane.
But what did I do for 78 hours in one building? I don't think enough words can convey the actual amount of sitting and sitting that can occur in that amount of time. I would sit in one area for about two hours, walk around for another hour, two hours, find another place, and camp out there for another two hour span. But for the sake of brevity, I've included a list of my favorite things to do in an airport during a 78 hour layover:
1) Go into news shops and read through all the magazines. However, I had to limit myself to one store per shift in each terminal because I didn't want to be labeled a "dirty loiterer." You also have to give yourself the discerning shopper glare, as if you're reading the magazine but this isn't quite the magazine you think you're going to buy. You must look like you're actually going to buy something.
2) Camp out in a handicap bathroom and practice a non-fake looking smile/scary faces/broadway showtunes faces (aren't the last two the same thing?).
3) Stand by the Arrivals Gate, looking anxiously at the screen continuously, and telling myself loudly enough for other people to hear, "Oh...is it him? OH MY...oh wait, that's not him," growing more and more anxious with each person that passes.
4) Stand on my luggage rack and coast down ramps; however, this can only be done at night because of daytime traffic and the terrific amount of noise a rattling trolley on brick ramps causes. It is, however, awesome as Dominique Dawes-ome. I highly recommend it.
5) Sitting in a lounge in one of the terminals and making pretend best friendships with the people sitting near me. I would also list all the reasons in in my head that they were my best friends. I was tempted to call them "terminal friends," but that made us all sound like we lived in a hospice and would all end up dying of an awful, rare disease like characters in a Lurlene McDaniel book.
6) Racing with people, unbeknownst to them, who are standing or walking on the flat escalator while I walking ridiculously, painfully fast on the walkway. I always lost.
You can also bet that after more than three days, you will have a really good layout of the airport. I had a good idea of where all the good things were. Best handicap bathroom? Terminal 3, Second Level, behind the Burger King. Best store to read magazines covertly in? Terminal 2, W.H. Smith near the departure gate. Warmest terminal? Terminal 1. Coldest terminal? Terminal 3 by the arrival gate. Best terminal to sleep in? Terminal 2, Second Level. Bathroom with stalls wide enough to put a trolley? Terminal 3, Ground Level, end of long hallway. Best ramp to coast down? Terminal 2. Friendliest workers? Terminal 1. After a period of time, as if by unconscious knowledge of it, people would just come up to me and ask, "Excuse me, where's the escalator?" "Ma'am, you'll take a left after that bookstore and it'll be straight ahead. That'll take you to the check-in desks." I would then truck off to another handicap person's bathroom to make funny faces in the mirror.
Despite the fact that tears were shed, a stomach rumbled from hunger frequently, and feet ached from walking, with my beat-up little trolley, my slumped bags landed, and my jacket and hood thrown over my head, I looked like an airlinin' bag lady. A hard-time-talking, beat-walking, cookie-crumb-munching, new -pullover-from-H&M-on-sale-wearin' bag lady, just pushing his little sad trolley around, ticking off hours on his hands.
And that, fair reader, is how I endured a 78 hour (3 days, 6 hours) layover in Heathrow Airport without ever leaving the building.
