It is 1:30 am in the dark, crush of humanity that is an unnamed terminal of a Parisian airport. I have just finally resolved myself to drinking a cappuccino and staying up all night, despite the fact that, should we ever board a plane, I will have already been in transit for at least 24 hours by the time we take off.
I would start at the beginning, the excitement and last minute packing before holiday travel; but the happiness was fleeting and is rather uninteresting next to all that follows.
Instead, I will begin with the little boy who threw up all over the floor. This was after a four hour flight, a few hours sitting on the plane in Paris when we were meant to be in London, and four hours sitting in this cold, jaundice-lighted purgatory on the outer edges of the airport.
The little boys parents had been making a fuss to the only airport personnel in the building not far from where I sit, and something was actually happening. The family was getting help - in fact, a member of the plane's staff was visiting all the parentswithsmallchildren from their flight, asking if they needed anything - milk or special foods. Just as these gestures were seeming as well intentioned as could be, the little boy projectile vomited (in the way only little boys can do) all over the floor.
Now there was a fuss. There was yelling (in a language that was not English, Arabic, or French) about hotels and, I can only imagine, infuriation at the wait. I had long since resolved, twelve hours before this incident, that holiday travel only leads to cranky travelers and unfulfilled hopes and dreams - long since resolved to take today's travel in stride. I have no control over the weather.
Behind my head, an incessant beeping, about once per second, needled its way into my brain; during which time the boy's sickness was not cleaned up. Not after one hour, but probably before two. It didn't smell, but laid there as a reminder that things were getting worse. Just before the boy was ill, the only few shops open in the tiny terminal were closed. Just a coffee kiosk, providing one free drink and one sandwich to each passenger, was open. The line, three airplane passenger manifests long, snaked through the 15 seat-long benches that are separated into seats by cold metal armrests and are difficult to get comfortable in.
I checked the internet regularly throughout the night for some news. Around 9pm, our flight showed a possible departure of 1:20 am. This was a light at the end of the tunnel that was shortly thereafter extinguished when we were told Heathrow would not reopen until 5am. We were told this around 11pm; too late to bother even trying to find a hotel in Paris to take us. There was arguing. A ground hostess did her best to answer questions in English and Arabic, but kept her loudspeaker on, so that her frustrations, and those of our fellow passengers were evident to us all. It didn't matter anyway, everyone was tired and tense. This all happened over the course of a rough few hours that have long since passed in the time-warp that this journey has been.
The snow stopped here long ago; but we do not know if it will start again, or if London will reopen its airports.
And so we sit, in the yellow/flourescent glare. Some snooze, dutifully, as if there was no point in being awake; and proclaim their sleep in shameless snores. Some make jokes and try to keep a positive attitude. The few children that remain (most parents with children were sent to hotels a few hours ago, but a few did not make it there in the first round) squeal and cry and toddle up and down the rows making child noises that know no nationality. The line for coffee went from three planes, to two (when the plane to Beijing managed to take off), to just a few stragglers from my flight, who were not offered hotels like the others.
I think we have too much hope of takeoff to leave here, anyway.
Update: a beacon of hope at 3:30 am, hotel in the suburbs by 6 am...and now we wait with the weather with all our bags still aboard a plane at the airport.
