By Supriya Savkoor
Arriving at London's Heathrow (Photo: Jnpet) |
I don’t know about my favorite mode of transport, but
hands down, my favorite place to be, in any city anywhere in the world, is…odd
as it sounds….the airport.
I know, I’m a freak, but think about it. People of all
backgrounds and classes, many of whom may never meet in the outside world or
even otherwise be in the same room with any of the people around them, rubbing elbows. All of
them hustling and bustling through a little microcosm of the world, coming from
who knows where, hopefully going somewhere special, and possibly starting a new
life, a new venture, a new family. The anticipation of both departing and arriving,
of the infinite opportunities and possibilities, experiences and sights and
sounds…it all gives me a heady rush. I’ve had plenty of celebrity sightings at
airports all over the world. (I once spent an afternoon watching Huey Lewis sign autographs, as we both waited for a flight out to Chicago during a blizzard.) Even those little blue
lights glowing along airport runways give me a tiny thrill, somewhat bittersweet
from leaving somewhere, maybe someone, behind, but mostly thrilling because of the delicious
anticipation of both the known and the unknown.
There is something extremely magical about the entire
experience, even in this day of having to wait out in the main terminal rather
than right at the gate when welcoming your visitors, taking your shoes off
through painfully long security lines, or throwing out tiny bottles of your
favorite perfume because you forgot to leave them behind. For me, there’s almost no
better place to people watch, dream up stories, imagine distant lands, and live
vicariously. Oh, and eavesdrop…but never mind that…
Bus terminals, train stations, cab stands—all of these
provide a sliver of what an airport offers in ample supply, but for my
money (well, okay, so it’s free to just hang out at any of these places if
you’re not going anywhere), nothing beats the excitement of an airport.
Besides, you know that special moment in your life when you
feel sort of like a rock star? My 15 minutes of fame, give or take 5 or 10 minutes,
occurred at London’s Heathrow Airport in the early ’90s.
A few months out of college, I was still trying to find
my way around the adult world. The American public had spent much of the year anxious
about an imminent war in the Persian Gulf, which in turn had led to a deep national
recession, which meant limited job opportunities for me and many other new
grads. By the fall of 1990, I’d quit my first low-paying newspaper job and scraped
together my tiny bundle of savings to take a long, relaxing trip to India,
where I hoped to figure out my next career move.
I’d caught an Air India flight from New York to Bombay
via London’s Heathrow, where I and hundreds of other hapless souls converged at our boarding gate and received
some surprising news.
It was mid-October 1990, two months after Iraq had
invaded Kuwait. Nearly half a million Kuwaitis and foreigners had fled the
country, where Saddam Hussein’s forces were plundering the little nation’s
wealth and committing all kinds of human rights violations. The Indian
government had just begun an aggressive week-long campaign to airlift 150,000 Indian
expats, once an affluent Kuwaiti minority and now left destitute after all their
assets, from their property to their life savings, had been confiscated. It was
all hands on deck, so to speak, and Air India was among those aiding the rescue
effort.
The airline had already begun running emergency missions,
diverting a number of its planes to the Middle East. On that particular autumn
day, the plane that was to fly me and my few hundred co-passengers to Bombay
was instead en route to Kuwait City. We were stuck in London for at least the next 24 hours, with the
option to stay at a London hotel, our accommodations paid in full, if—get this—we
surrendered our passports for those 24 hours to the attendant at the boarding gate. That meant allowing the airline officials to shuttle us to the hotel, get us checked in, and bring us back the next day, all but guaranteeing that we couldn't leave either the hotel or the airport of our own accord. As
soon as he made the offer, as though it were some kind of race, the entire
crowd rushed forward, passports extended. All except me.
From the back of the crowd, I asked what would happen if he
loses one or more of our passports. What if we couldn't find him to get any information
about it. If he would kindly give us his full name and contact information,
just in case the new attendant can't find them. Where exactly did they plan to store our passports that night. Who
would be accountable and responsible if our precious passports did get lost or stolen. And why, for
goodness sakes, we couldn’t just TAKE our passports with us to the hotel
since, after all, there was no logical reason for us to surrender them (except
the whole visa thing, which seemed a minor technicality given the circumstances). Especially, since we'd be lost, literally, without them.
This, in case you’d forgotten where my little story was headed
(ahem), was my rock star moment.
Hundreds of heads turned suddenly in my direction. My co-passengers who were ready to hand over their passports, no
questions asked, peered up at me, their arms slowly retracting. (Why were they looking "up"? Was I standing on a chair? I
can’t remember, but at that particular moment, I did sort of feel like Moses.) You don’t
think it’s a good idea, the good-looking newlyweds, at least a decade older
than me, asked in their prim European accents. What should we do instead, queried a
rather classy elderly gentleman. As though I were their representative here. As
though I had all the answers.
I shrugged. I don’t know what could happen, I told them,
but I’m not taking any chances. If that guy loses my passport, it's obviously up to me to figure out how to get a new one, not him. I’d rather stay here at the airport all night,
even if I have to sleep on one of these chairs.
All eyes turned back to the attendant, who was no longer
smiling. In that case, he said, you’ll just have to wait it out at the airport.
I can give you vouchers for two meals at one little restaurant that closes
early tonight. Sorry, that’s the best I can do. There won't be any breakfast. Maybe some coffee. Anyone still want to go to the
hotel?
Nope, everyone—each and every one of those hundreds of folks waiting at the gate with me—decided to hang back. We spent a safe, quiet, if uncomfortable, night at
Heathrow. Instead of Bombay, we ended up in New Delhi, again in waiting mode for
some 12 to 15 hours for another flight. All for a good cause, of course.
Not bad for being stuck at an airport, no? See what I mean about that sense of adventure?
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