On a recent flight, I had a two hour lay-over in Doha's
airport, only to get there and find that the flight was delayed an extra hour.
Disgruntled, I head towards the Duty-Free Shops to buy a magazine and useless
souvenirs in order to pass the time. One pen, mug, and key chain later, I head
back to the gate, armed with the latest issue of Cosmopolitan, thinking less and less of myself as I stare at the
cover that featured one of the Kardashian
sisters, and titles like 'Lady Parts; Questions You're too Embarrassed to
Ask' - Seriously! I vow not to travel without a book again, find an empty seat,
and start flipping through the pages in an effort to waste time.
In a seat next to mine, a girl half my age sat chatting away
on her phone about some nonsense or another. Many, many calls later, I grow
weary of her empty chatter and repetitive complaints about the flight delay, so
I look around for another empty seat but to my dismay, the gate was quite full.
With two hours left, and no chance of finding a secluded spot at the gate, I
grab my magazine, a cup of coffee from the cafeteria and head towards the
smoking room, a short walk from the gate, to kill the time in peace.
Minutes later, my gate-neighbor shows up at the nearly-empty
smoking room, takes an adjacent seat and proceeds to talk to me. Was there no
cell phone reception in the smoking room? With my chance of finding out more
about my 'lady parts' shattered, I engage half-willingly, half-attentively in
the mandatory airport chitchat, all the while wondering why people rarely
engage in conversation in similar situations elsewhere, yet willingly divulge
so much about their lives at an airport!
Forty minutes before the anticipated take-off, I wonder out
loud to my former gate-mate and current smoking room companion - whom I learn
is named Dania - when they will start boarding. She said not to worry, and that
they told her at the gate - just as they told me - that they start boarding
Thirty minutes before take-off. Minutes later, I start to worry again, but she
re-assures me that they haven't made a call to board the plane. True. The only
time she gave her vocal cords a rest was during airport announcements.
Regardless, I decide to walk back to the gate, and she follows reluctantly.
We approach the gate, which seems empty now, and I start to
fret again. We get to the gate only to be told that we can't board because
they've already shut the plane door. Huh?! We plead with the seemingly nice
gentleman and the sensible fellow says "no problem, let me just get the
manager's approval and we'll get you on the plane." We breathe a sigh of
relief and wait for him to whisk us through. Moments later, the manager appears
at the desk to tell us that he won't let us on the plane, that we have missed
our flight (while it's standing at the gate with the engines off, mind you). We
argue, we plead, we beg, we complain, we insist there was no announcement, all
to no avail. I claim that we have a funeral to attend upon arrival (despite the
fact that the plane is scheduled to arrive at 8:30 pm.) I even fake-cry (don't
judge, desperate times call for desperate measures) hoping to appeal to his
sense of humanity, and still, my best effort did not avail. The evil Indian man
said his final word, and decided our fate. We have missed our flight and we
would have to catch the next one SIX AND A HALF HOURS LATER. There was one
thing left to do, spew hatred. I turn to Dania and tell her to stop pleading
with the goat herder who now gets to wear a jacket and a badge and gets to say
no, by virtue of said badge, only because he can. I turn around to check the
expression on the face of our evil archenemy and his angry expression and
bulging eyes send a shiver of satisfaction down my spine. Mission accomplished!
The irony of my predicament almost made me chuckle. I missed
my flight while both the plane and I are at the gate and while trying to make
the first three hours pass by swiftly, I had to wait another Six and a half
hours. Yet I couldn't decide what was worse, having to wait Six hours, or being
tied at the hip to Dania for the next Six hours, now that we share the same
destiny.
I get over the disappointment quickly, yet I feel sorry for
Dania who had to inform her mom, then dad, her sister, then the aunt that was
to be picking her up upon arrival, of this unfortunate turn of events. I watch
and listen as she makes a myriad of excuses. I don't blame her; I wouldn't want
to tell my mom - or any one for that matter - that I missed my plane while
smoking a cigarette. I hear her tell one parent after the other a customized
lie that fit their personality - I suppose - and held their wrath at bay. She
tells her mom that she went to the bathroom and came back to find out that she
has missed her flight. Having been ruthlessly chastised by her mom, she changes
her story when she calls her dad and tells him that she went away from the gate
long enough to get a bottle of water to take a pill for her "raging"
headache and came back minutes later to meet her new fate. I find myself
struggling to hide the smirk that made its way to my face and I find myself
praying that her parents aren't that gullible. She finally calls her aunt and
apologizes profusely for having to force her out of bed to be picked up at 3:30
am. While she goes through 30 minutes of calls and long periods of silence
while being - undoubtedly - castigated, I send a lone text message informing my
ride of the delay. Ah.. the virtues of aging and not having to answer to anyone!
After we get our new boarding passes, my need for food
becomes quite urgent. I suggest to my obligatory companion for the next Ten
hours (the waiting time plus the duration of the flight) that we grab something
to eat. We get to the cafeteria and I examine the vast variety of seemingly
mouth-watering choices offered, but I exercise my better judgment and skip the
tempting choices in favor of a burger, reasoning that you can't mess a burger
much. This is airport food after all, which is on the bottom of the food scale,
only one notch above in-flight food. Right? Well. Never has food looked as
different in real life than in the advertised photo on a wall menu. My first
instinct was to sniff the meat, but I catch myself in time, not for fear that I
might offend someone, but for fear of having my photo taken by some
over-zealous amateur photographer and ending up on Facebook, resembling a lost
mutt looking for its next meal. I could become one of those heavily circulated
photos on the web with a funny caption underneath. Shudder!
I stare at the sub-par concoction that was served to me, yet
remain unfazed. I remove the lonesome, limp, lifeless lettuce leaf from the
sickly yellow bun and cover the pretend burger meat with condiments that I
normally shun, in hope of enhancing the flavor, or rather, to mask the original
flavor, all the while resentful of the calories I'm about to ingest on this
uninspired synthetic mess, all the while wondering where in my life, or perhaps
in some past life, did I commit an offense so grave that I were now being made
to consume this? Ugh!
Meanwhile, my new travel companion had gotten over her
disappointment and was now ripping through her phone book contacts informing
her friends, one by one, of the new state of affairs. I remind her to chew her
food slowly, as we have six and a half hours to waste. She chuckles and scarfs
down her tuna sandwich while yapping away into her handset. Halfway into the
assault on my taste buds, I reprove her for combining both activities, eating
and talking, as again, we have six and a half hours to waste. She laughs and
relays my message to her friend at the other end of the line. Shortly after,
having grown tired of the continuously repeated segment of dialogue, I advise
her to space out her phone calls over a period of time so as to have something
to engage her for the next few hours, but she remains obdurate, repeats what I
said to her friend, and swallows whole what remains of the sandwich! Sheesh!
Shortly after the anticlimactic meal, I check my watch. Six
hours to go! Having exhausted her cache of friends, (and her monthly cell phone
plan, I'm sure) she stares at me blankly. I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time
and suggest that we go to the smoking room to get a lesson in Indian language
(the GCC countries are home to many Indian workers). She laughs and follows me
back to the smoking room which is quite crowded now. We walk into a cloud of
smoke not much unlike the one that circled the atmosphere over Europe some two
or three years ago. We rub our eyes and begin to feel our way through to the
back of the room. As we resign to our new destiny and proceed to make ourselves
at home, a group of Indian men walk in and I say jokingly, "lesson number
one." She greets my comment with a hearty laugh that offsets my sarcasm.
I proceed to talk with Dania, when she suddenly interrupts,
"Its Dana." Oops! Embarrassed, I secretly vow to give my travel mate my
attention and a little more respect. She proceeds to tell me about her friends
and her home life. She talks enthusiastically about her school and shares all
the accolades she earned that mean the world when you're in school, but will
mean absolutely nothing once you're out in the real world. She shares with me
pictures of her family, her friends and a few anecdotes here and there. I
discover that the kid that not so long ago irked me is refreshing in her
enthusiasm and lack of cynicism. The virtues of being young and un-jaded!
Suddenly, I feel the glare of a stare directed my way. I
turn to find a man with European features standing ramrod tall only two feet
away and staring intently. Not one to particularly enjoy small talk, and having
endured hours of it, I turn sideways and whisper to Dana, "He's looking to
talk, don't look his way." Seconds later he says, "Excuse me"
but with my back turned to him, it was easy to pretend not to notice. Another
'excuse me' and yet another went supposedly unnoticed, so he reached over and
poked me. Hard. The man is determined! Unable to ignore his poke, I turn
around, and he unexpectedly eschews standard greetings and small talk and jumps
right into a conversation about philosophy and theology and theory and
conspiracy.. as if we have already discussed all these ideologies and he was
elaborating on his previous thoughts. Instantly, I felt like I was watching a
movie that started a while back and inadvertently, I felt a sudden urge for the
standard airport small talk!
He changed subjects abruptly, and without proper punctuation
in his speech pattern, along with a thick Eastern European accent, it was a
very hard conversation to follow. I tried to humor him, but it became
exhausting rather quickly. Unable to keep up with his train of thought (if any)
and unable to decipher his words through his thick accent, I settled for the
occasional nod and began to observe him. Early fifties, with sharp angular
features, prominent nose, and an authoritative tone to mask the empty content.
Dressed in a dark t-shirt that should have been retired a few moons ago, and
khaki pants that fall a few inches above his ankles. And clogs. Yes, clogs! Those held my interest for a while. I found my gaze travelling South more than
it should, and I found myself thinking about those way more than anyone should!
And just as I was getting comfortable with my thoughts, he stood abruptly,
unintentionally declaring the end of our talk (his soliloquy) as he declared
the smoking room too "smoky." Um.. Okay!
Dana and I discuss the guy, his approach, his attire, and
his accent bemusedly and soon realize that we didn't even get an opportunity to
ask his name as he went off on a bombastic rant! Eventually, we fall back into
our comfortable pattern of talking about vague things that don't require much
thought.
In walks a lovely girl, courageous enough to step into the
fog of smoke that now completely engulfed the room, all to satisfy her nicotine
addiction one last time, before boarding on a plane for an undisclosed number
of hours. She was a pretty girl with an envious bounce in her step. I secretly
admired her style and eminent confidence. She had the flair of an artist. She
chose a seat by the door, ready for a quick escape, perhaps? In case the fog of
nicotine becomes unbearable? Aware that we have a few hours to pass, we wave
and holler at her to join us in our trusted spot. She obliges immediately and
moves to the 'back of the class.' We run the usual set of questions past her,
and in a few minutes, she sums up her life and we sum up ours. It turns out; she is an artist, going to do her first
exhibit in India (and the third exhibit of her short life as an artist). As I
always do upon hearing the word 'artist', I become suspicious and begin to
assess and evaluate her talent without as much as a hint or a clue, simply
because I've encountered too many individuals that consider themselves to be
'artists' that do not possess enough talent for such a privileged title. Also
pretty people are rarely talented, right? But her cheerfulness and self-
assuredness weighed in her favor, so I resign my usual suspicions (jealousy,
actually) of her said talent and instead, observe her demeanor while she shares
her stories with us. She was lively, friendly, attentive, poised, and showed great
aplomb in dealing with our endless stream of questions.
As the call to board the plane is heard, she gets up
hastily, collects her stuff hurriedly lest she meets the same fate as us, and
as she hugs us, she makes us promise to stay in touch and blurts out her
contact information as she rushes out the door, "Tala Afshin, Google
me." Ah, the sign of our times! But how many of us are fortunate enough to
be able to say 'Google me' with the utmost confidence that we are indeed Google-worthy,
and that the results will yield more than a Facebook page?! A quick Google
search several days later, yields a profile on LinkedIn, Google + and a short
bio on a website by the name of Sublime Galleria, which is dedicated to the support of
upcoming artists by providing a platform for them to gain visibility. I soon
learn how faulty my theory about pretty people possessing talent is, and that
her artwork is quite captivating!
I decide it's time for another caffeine fix, so I head to
the cafeteria to pick up another latte. Not one to flinch at the thought of
paying $7 for a cup of coffee, but I found myself to be more resentful with
every sip, having to pay $7 for a stale, bland concoction that left an
inexplicable chalky film in my mouth! Why is airport food so abysmal?! And it
seems to sink to a new low with the passage of time.
I walk back in leisure and catch a glance of a little girl,
perched on a chair, in a frilly dress, with her hair in ringlets cascading
along her cheeks, next to her, her father I suppose, dressed in a pair of loose
linen trousers, a crisp button down shirt and a seemingly comfortable pair of
leather slip-on shoes. I catch myself sighing! In a sea of khaki and plaid
shorts, logo tees, and flip flops, I find myself appreciative of the effort he
put into selecting their travel wardrobe! In today's frantic society, the
endless search for comfort, and the scrutiny of airport security, we are often
subjected to the sight of dingy sweats, unflattering leggings, and vomit
inducing bunions and calluses on un-groomed toes in flip flops. Amazing are the
things you notice when you have Six hours to kill!
I lean against a wall to catch the sights and sounds that we
tend to miss as we rush through airports to board our planes. I catch the sight
of Emirates Airlines flight attendants emerging, wearing their sand-colored
uniforms topped with bright red hats with veils and can't help but admire the
nice, subtle touch of national identity on the Emirates uniforms. I flew
Emirates several times, yet never caught that hint before. I begin to wonder
how many other airlines choose uniforms that reflect their national pride in
forms other than the color of their flag. I suddenly recall a flight on Thai Airways
from several years ago where the flight attendants dressed in Western-style
suits pre- and post-flight, but changed into traditional Thai dress once on
board. I wonder why I didn't observe that then, and why more airlines uniforms
do not reflect more of the national flavor.
I head back to the smoking room, to find zat our Polish
friend izz back. I say hello again and sit on zee far end zis time, letting my
travel mate deal with his mutterings and musings. He opens his carry-on bag,
and out of it comes another plastic bag. He opens the latter and pulls out two
oranges, one for the each of us. We politely decline, yet he insists. Again we
decline, and again he persists claiming that they are Thai Oranges (!!) yet he
seems completely oblivious to the lack of utensils needed to cut through or
peel said oranges. We take one each, hold on to them for a few minutes, then
slip them into our carry-ons, but he seems happy and satisfied!
After a few failed attempts at Dana's part to make me take
my original seat next to him in an effort to ward him off and unable to follow
his random thoughts, she opens her laptop and pretends to be busy with
something important and engaging. Undaunted, he continues with his ramblings,
while she continues to ignore most of his conversation. Not satisfied with the
occasional nod and 'yes' or 'no' answers, he moves closer, neck thwarted
towards her PC screen to see what she's doing. Busted! Feeling a little
embarrassed, she starts engaging him.
No longer the center of his attention, by virtue of having
sat on the chair farther from him, I sat there watching, totally amused, while
she struggled to decipher his thick Polish accent and to make sense of a random
conversation that jumped unexpectedly, unapologetically from subject to
subject. I ignored her occasional elbow nudge to jump in and save her, so she
switched to an offensive tactic, by trying to take the helm of the
conversation, hell bent on self-actualizing. But Polish Peter wasn't having any
of it! Her attempts were met with mockery and a raised brow. The tug of war
that resulted was one of the most entertaining, utterly compelling and
cherish-able moments of my life. Needless to say, you can't beat a master
at his own game, and Peter is, undoubtedly, a master in the art of con-fusion.
I decide to let these two battle it out and
walk out of the smoking room for a breath of fresh (recycled) air. I wonder
into the duty free shops and browse through the perfume section, naturally. I
spray myself with every cologne within my reach in hope of masking the smell of
cigarettes that's reeking after hours in the cloud of smoke, totally aware that
perfume and smoke don't mix, and one cannot camouflage the other.
I pick my selections with the help of a young Asian sales
woman, when suddenly I see Polish Peter glancing furtively over my shoulder
examining my selections. Unimpressed, he turns towards the sales woman and
proceeds to ask her to produce the authentic version of my perfume selections.
The woman, slightly irked, yet willing to ignore his remark - perhaps
attributing it to ignorance - explains that all duty-free perfumes are indeed
authentic. Unfazed, he continues with his examinations and accusations
impishly, displaying a minimum level of decorum. I observe quietly her level of
discomfort rising and she starts to physically back off. I point this out to him discretely,
and he tones it down for a few minutes to regain her trust. But that only lasts
a few of minutes. Then, he continues to have a heartwarming conversation with
her, and by heartwarming, I mean devious and totally creepy, of course. My
attempts to jump into the conversation every once in a while in an effort to
convince the sales lady that we are sane, and that my companion is indeed being
playful, obviously did not avail. She continues to back off slowly, until I
realize she was standing 15 feet away and we're almost shouting to one another.
I start to wonder if this is indeed who he is, or if this is a comedic version
of his real self.. if he assume a fake identity during his travels, unfiltered,
unabashed. Freak out your fellow passengers, why don't ya? You’ll never see
them again.
Finally, our time has come. We exchange goodbyes and email
addresses with Polish Peter and head towards our gate to board. The population
on the plane seems quite scarce, and at half past midnight, everyone on the
plane should be eager to get some shut eye. Great! No drunken babbling. No
detectable body odors in my vicinity. No small children. I mutter a silent
prayer to the airline Gods! This promises to be a smooth flight devoid of
turbulence, interruption or irritation.
Obviously, I sent my silent prayers to the high heavens a
little too soon. Moments later, I see a woman treading through the aisle,
weighed down by guilt and three kids all under Six, and a tote bursting with
toys, books, snacks and blankies. I spot an iPad and find myself hoping,
praying to the iHeavens that she has three of those to keep the little ones
engaged. I follow her with my eyes sympathetically as she makes her way through
the aisle under the glare of many angry passengers, yet paradoxically, I find
myself flinching every time she paused and kept urging her mentally to travel
farther back into the plane. As I see her settle with her brood in the last
seat on the plane, I feel relieved.
At take-off, Dana and I grab earphones to muffle the sound
of distant snoring, and she shuffles through the menu looking for an interesting
movie to watch 'together'. Really! I refuse to agree to any of her selections,
fearing the constant commentary or winks or nudges or whatever it is that
people do when they think that they're ahead of the plot. Eventually, she gives
up and settles on some low rent rom-com and I settle on Clooney! I look forward
to a period of quiet introspection. I find myself more apt to cerebrate on a
plane ride than anywhere else.
I reflect on the last ten hours and grieve the wasted time.
We're often told that life is too short to be wasting time, yet most of life is
wasted time. Every time we get lost behind the wheel or spend time looking for
misplaced items, is wasted time. All the time we spend on social media or
watching Housewives of Orange County is wasted time. Every time we talk business, discuss the state of the economy, worry about the republicans taking over, is a waste of time. Every time we put energy
into the wrong people or put our faith into a politician or a public figure that didn't keep his campaign promises we've wasted our time. Every time we micromanage our staff or hang on to a project that no longer looks promising, we waste time. Every time we like someone who doesn't like us back, worry what people might think of us, try to explain our self, or plot revenge, we waste time. Every time
we make mistakes, fear failure or rejection, mourn lost opportunities, we waste
time. Every time we daydream, speculate, search for answers, wait for
inspiration to strike, we're wasting time. Every time we
worried about what we don't have instead of focusing on what we do have, we
waste time.
But what would life be without the occasional daydream, the
satisfaction of plotting to break a man's heart, or sharing an anecdote to
break the rut of the day? Maybe our narrowly defined objectives lead us to
judge things like time based on how instrumental they are for us, rather than
how they may be instrumental in a greater plan. I think about this new
perspective and decide I can let myself be angry over wasted time, but that would
be even more wasted time.
I reflect on the day's events, the people I met and my harsh
opinions of them, and I realize how my opinions of them changed as we got to
exchange the biggest waste of time, empty chatter. As annoying as the day
started, and as irked as I initially was by my companions for the day,
those interactions reminded me of how great it is to live in a world full of
enthusiasm and free of cynicism, how personable a cheery attitude is and how
entertaining unabashed-ness can be. Unconscious hubris, meet humility. I reclaim my time humbly, happily when I realize that the
time you enjoy wasting, is not wasted time.
P.S. Months later, I still can't decide if Peter is a
comedic genius or an old fool.
The Artwork of Tala Afshin
Waiting..
Splendor On Green
