Three Hours in a German Airport

 

Three Hours in a German Airport

            Smoke.  I remember the smell of smoke more than the other smells.  My red-streaked eyes looked around aimlessly as I reoriented myself to the lights German airport.  My eyelids drooped from lack of sleep. The dust floating up from the patterned airport carpet made them sting.  My hair, that had once been arranged in a neat braid, looked more like one of Marie Antoinette’s wigs.  People from all walks of life walked circles around me as I searched for some kind of familiarity.  I tried so hard to not look scared, but that can be quite difficult for a fifteen-year-old girl far from home.  The confidence that I had mustered while sitting on the plane dissipated into thin air like the smoke rising from the cigarettes stations around the airport.  My dad looked at me encouragingly while grasping his own, over-packed, carry-on bag.  Growing up I had listened to countless stories of my pop’s own traveling days.  Hearing certain stories more than once, I had developed my own personal fantasy of traveling for myself to see the faces, the places, and the vastness this world offers.  My twenty-two-year-old self realizes now how naïve I was in my knowledge of world-traveling.   I was such a little girl. The three hours I had in this German airport would teach me important truths I needed to learn before entering into my destination: Romania.

            Three hours.  People surrounded our small group of eight as we looked at details for our connection flight.  We had three hours to kill.  As I glanced at the huge electronic information portal, I couldn’t believe all of the flights that were set to leave in the coming hours.  There was a flight leaving shortly for Japan, and another for Italy.  Two more were leaving four hours later for London.  My adventurous self was nowhere to be found sadly.  We had traveled from the small town of Morganton only a day ago to the dynamic metropolis of the Frankfurt airport.  All I could think about was the safeness of my home in North Carolina.  I was sure mom was placing the kettle on the stove for her famous sweet tea, and Sammy must have just returned home from soccer practice.  I longed for their freckled faces.  The concept of home pervaded my mind more than the continuous sounds coming from the overhead speaker.  “Mr. Smith, please approach the desk.  We have details pertaining to your luggage,” came a polite sounding woman in her thick accent through the speaker.  One of our leaders, a tall red-headed doctor, motioned for us to gather around.  I shrugged knowing this would make us stand out even more.  My natural inclination for distraction overcame his words as I observed the people.  Leather jackets seemed to be the rage.  I looked at my over-sized jeans and tennis shoes, and shrugged a deeper shrug.  A group of stewardesses from a South Korean airline walked by impeccably dressed in elaborate uniforms I knew must have been made of pure silk.  They looked gorgeous.  Shady-looking men, who of course must have worked for the mafia years ago, also walked by in over-sized trench coats, and unshaven chins.  I walked a little closer to my dad’s side leaving just enough room for

my pride.

            The first hour dawned.  After making sure each person was situated nicely, we walked through the long corridor of gates that led to other adventures.  I kept close to dad’s side making sure my wallet was still in my pocket every five minutes.  I had read a warning in one of the traveling books I had purchased at the library that a traveler must be aware of the valuables on their person.  My small coin purse held a hundred US dollars.  An older man in my church gave it to me the Sunday we left for Romania.  “Use it for the trinkets,” he remarked.  I glanced down at his arms that were painted with the tattoos he had received during his time in the military years ago.  I took the money gladly for I knew “the trinkets” were going to cost more than the twenty I had set aside.  The southern charm was now replaced with diverse representations of aloofness.  The south had shaped my understanding of life more than I could have ever imagined.  The produce stand down the road, the old Wal-Mart, and other “hometown” locations strangely found their way into my thoughts as I observed the glitz and glamour coming from the airport merchandise shops.  One was glowing gold as I looked to find a jewelry store that advertized pictures of shiny diamonds and rubies.  I didn’t know what “posh” meant at that time, but it would have been the perfect word to describe my surroundings.  Women in fur walked out of the store with an air that smelled worse than the smoke.  My friend Anne must have noticed as well because she quickly evaluated her own outfit in the store window.  We both felt insecure in our fifteen-year-old bodies.  As the group began to walk again I prayed for the three hours to end quickly.  Sadly, the only power I had over the time was the ability to misinterpret it. 

            The first hour flew into the second as we walked into the food court.  I noticed my stomach growling for the first time since we arrived.   Of course there was the German cuisine, but the pretzels and piles of sausages made me think twice.  I looked endearingly at the king of all American fast-food restaurants, McDonalds, that was situated right next to the German equivalent to a Papa John’s.  God had, in His great mercy, spared any concerns or thoughts of food-poisoning during the entirety of the trip.  Set in my American ways, there was no ignoring my grumbling stomach.  One of the traveling books I had reserved at the Morganton library, that was actually intended for children, had a section dedicated to the rich cuisines found in my European countries.  My mouth had watered at the ornate pictures of meats, the variety of cheeses, and of course the delectable desserts.  I remember turning the pages slowly so as to make mental notes of the foods I most wanted to try.  Looking back, the most frightening thing about first-time, over-seas travel is discovering the expectations you set are unattainable.  My perceptions on what a German airport looked, sounded, and smelled like certainly looked more American than European.  I had a narrow way of seeing the world due to the fact I had never ventured farther than Louisiana at that time.  I wasn’t dumb.  I knew life would look different in these countries, but the shock that arose made me feel light-headed.  A  moment later, Anne and I spotted a Haagen Dazs a few feet away and sighed with happiness.  The least-polite teenager was on the other side of the counter looking at our group with a forced happy face.  Her bright blue eyes shined against the soda machine while her fake smile shown almost as brightly as the florescent lighting above her small head.  I was at the front of the line, and asked politely for water.  “Bubbles or flat miss,” she asked curtly in that German tongue I had almost grown accustom to.  Bubbles?  Flat?  What the heck?  Trying to not seem too needy, I said I didn’t care.  Worst mistake of my life thus far.  I walked to the side of the Haagen Dazs and heard a sharp fizz sound as I opened the pretty bottle.  I ignored it as I looked for a band to tie back my Marie-Antoinette-looking hair.  I took a rather large gulp of the bubbly substance and felt a burn that made my sore eyes widen with horror.  This was perhaps the most humbling truth I learned in the second hour: never say “I don’t care”  if you don’t have any idea what the other person is offering.  I coughed for what seemed like hours.  The ladies in fur smelled a little more pretentious as they walked by my hunched over body.  Dad limped over with touching emotion—his Achilles heel he had injured a few years ago had always bothered him after sitting for hours in small quarters.  I laughed—the first laugh I had laughed since landing.  Dad patted my back slowly.  The fizz settled in my empty stomach after a few pats and I smiled at dad revealing my retainer I had promised mom I would wear every day.  Having washed my retainer in the airplane bathroom I had been a tad suspicious, but I knew one of the first questions I would be asked upon arrival in Morganton would be, “ Did you wear that retainer everyday missy?”  I missed my mom in that moment, but I was realizing fast that not everything was bad.  Home was becoming a second thought. 

            I sat at our gate waiting for the third hour to end.  My mom had purchased a journal as one of my birthday presents back in August.  I had opened the small package with a small ounce of disappointment wishing instead it had been something I could wear or paint on my face.  I looked for the journal in my red backpack positioned by my feet.  This day had already brought countless new experiences, journaling would be a perfect coping mechanism.  I’m happy to say since this trip, I’ve dedicated many evenings to the practice of writing about my day, thoughts, and emotions on the “chaste white piece of paper” as the Asian poet in “Headstrong Boy” described.  The attendants at the gate had already begun calling people up to the counter for questions.  I did a quick, unnecessary, head-count of them team then tried to write something.  The distractions arose as close by I heard the sound of Arabic.  I turned to find five men huddled together wearing elaborate turbans.  A few feet away a mom was rocking her small daughter.  I wondered if she had a husband waiting for her in Romania.  My tiredness had turned from anxiety, to confusion, and now to the blessed feeling of remorse.  For three hours I hadn’t enjoyed myself like the others.  My adventurous spirit wanted to return home.  I hated myself for it.  I checked my wrist-watch for the time.  Thirty minutes left until this German airport would only be a memory.  There was no room for anymore of this fifteen-year-old nonsense.  Romania was on the horizon.  I watched the time tick by as the journal sat on my lap like my mutt back at home.  The shame I felt for missing the three hour adventure sat sourly in my stomach.  Taking my pen in hand I wrote in big letters, STOP.   My face must have looked unsettled for as I sat on the sticky airport chair, my dad squeezed my hand lovingly as if to say, “Honey, it’s going to be alright.”  I gave him a smile back.  I’ve heard that saying a million times since that moment in the Frankfurt airport.  As I’ve aged into my twenties and traveled to more distant lands “it’s going to be alright” still echoes in the dark crevices of my mind as I deal with the changes lie ceaselessly brings.  As I boarded the plane I held loosely to my carry-on, I smiled at the little girl with her tired looking mother, and let one of the turban-wearing men get in front of me as if to say, “I’m not afraid anymore.”  Anne looked at me questioningly as she held her bag tightly to her chest.  There was no going back to Morganton for a while, and I was glad of it.  The bubbled water worked its magic, and I’m forever grateful.