A Night at the Istanbul Airport

Change of Gates

"Come on, man!" Hussein almost yells. Almost, but does not. Had Hussein been a less respectful person, he would have yelled a little higher. And he would have probably said something else. Something worse than "Come one, Man!". But Hussein is not that kind of man.

I stand a little behind. Accidents like these can usually irritate Hussein quite easily. We are both cheerful people. But when it comes to stupidity and irrationality, let us just say that Hussein is less tolerant than the average man. I would rather not say much. I myself am calm, anyway.

"Come." he tells me.

I admit that I stand behind for a different reason as well. Because I have no idea what else to do. I am sure Hussein will figure it out very soon. So I am satisfied with just waiting for him to do that.

In all my travels and journeys, no matter who I am with; my parents, my family, my friends, I take care of every tiny thing. That is just who I am. The only person I do not always do that around is Hussein. And to be honest, sometimes I could use the break.

So I do.

I drag my carry-on behind me and follow him. I do not know where exactly he is going. I am sure he is not just wandering around. Hussein always knows where to go. And always has a reason for going there. I have never met someone so systematic. Not before I met him, not after I met him.

We arrive at an office with a glass window. An office I tried to catch the name of, but was not able to. When we approach, I walk a little bit slower. This is the end of the line. I can no longer lose Hussein, so I take a break and finally walk at my own pace.

I look around left and right. There are a few people around here. At the end of the hall, near the corner, there is a lady sitting on the ground with one kid on each side of her. A boy and a girl of similar age. I would say around ten years olds. There is a carry-on next to them. They watch every one around and we make a quick eye contact. I turn my face.

Hussein makes a left, and joins a group of people waiting in a disorganized line for their turn to talk to the glass window. At least, this is how it looks like to me from afar. Any one who is standing on the inside cannot be seen. 

Each one of the people standing in line looks completely different from the other. I immediately get the feeling that each one is traveling solo.

It is 1:00 am, I e-mail my professor that I will not be able to make it to class tomorrow morning because I missed my flight. I used to always skip classes during my undergraduate degree. But now as a teaching assistant, it is simply wrong to do that. 

I join Hussein and the crowd. Next to us, there stands a couple of men. One of them is tall, thin and has dirty blond hair. He is wearing sweatpants and has a very long earring in only one of his ears. The other man, much shorter, wears a button-down shirt and jeans. He has a huge backpack on him. I assume that is all he has for the travel. It looks heavy and dense. It looks like it contains anything one would need.

"You know, I do not think the problem is in Islam, I think we just need modernization for Islam." the tall guy says.

"I don't necessarily think so." the short one answers him.

Their accents are strange. I am not able to directly tell where they come from. All I can tell is that they do not come from the same place, for sure. So these are probably two strangers, probably in a lot of mess to be standing in this line at this hour, casually discussing their ideas of Islam. Interesting.

"We checked in very early." Hussein is telling the glass window. "Look at the tickets, it says Gate 38B." He shows her his ticket.

"We waited at the gate and when we felt like it was time to start the lining up and it still did not, we checked with the employee at the ticketing and he literally told us that he airplane is simply late. So we kept waiting until the line-up, just to figure out that we were at the wrong gate!" He is not yelling, but he is talking quite quickly. He is truly pissed.

"How do you not announce that the gate changed?!"

I cannot hear what the glass window is answering him. But I am sure it is something similar to "Sorry Sir, there is nothing we could do about it." or "Sorry Sir, it is not my job to help you with that, all I can do is..." 

I want to stay next to Hussein and figure out what our next step is, but a lady - a 40-ish lady with a black abaya on and a black veil - walks up to me. She looks me in the eyes. I can tell that she will be addressing me in the next couple of seconds.

"Lady." she calls me. A British accent. "Do you speak Arabic?" her tone is authoritative. I feel like I should answer her fast.

"Yes."

"The woman sitting there is calling for you." she points at the woman with the two kids. I am a bit confused. I know no one here. But it feels to me like a group of people have been put together in a place because each one of them is in a certain mess, probably a unique mess. But all with the same outcome. They missed a flight. And it feels to me like this group of people have made a small awkward family. And they are now taking us in.

One same trouble for all those people here. One trouble that every one of these people is currently thinking about and about nothing else. Stuck here. Stuck together.