Prologue
My sense of direction is poor to the point of being ridiculous.
When placed in such an unfamiliar terrain such as this, one usually takes the time to inhale the smells and sounds associated with the area, not gain more stress from the experience. And let me tell you, an airport is extremely stressful.
The last time I was in an airport I was seven and almost got ran over with a courtesy transport car. Not one of my best memories, but I survived. I’ve kind of had a phobia with small vehicles and large buildings surrounded by aircrafts since then, so I’ve avoided any contact with the place, often having to take ferries instead of planes when going on holidays but it could have been worse. And this definitely classified as worse.
Ever since I walked in the glass doors accompanied with two large suitcases that probably weighed more than I did and my backpack. Things first started to go downhill when I tripped over my own feet, stumbling until my arm slid across the floor supporting my body weight. Along with that, my bags wheeled away, unsupported, until almost falling on some child in a buggy if the father hadn’t stopped them. After offering me a death glare I continued on my journey to find the check in desk.
I took the time to ask the security man where to go and he said something about taking the left after the café that sells cotton candy. Or um…maybe it was rotten coffee. I don’t know. So I wandered and ended up at the entrance of the terminal. Again. I trudged backwards, trying – and failing – to retrace my steps. This might’ve seemed like a good idea at the time, but the next thing I remember is ordering a Frappuccino in Starbucks, slurping it while checking in the load that was slowing me down.
Flight BH241 032 to Chicago is now boarding. Please proceed to gate 106. I repeat – flight BH241 032 to Chicago is now boarding.
But of course I didn’t hear the announcement and continued to stroll around the airport aimlessly while my mind wandered. It wasn’t until I was knocked to the side when I realized my gate was now closing. So, naturally I ran.
I don’t run for two reasons.
1) Sweat and I – not really the most compatible pair,
2) I am extremely uncoordinated and I have trouble staying on my feet for even the smallest amount of time (hence the falling) let alone while moving at a fast pace.
My face smashed against the marble floor, the area around my nose started to get moist. (You might have noticed I just refrained from saying wet – my mature mind works like that). I brought my finger to the area above my lip with hesitation and was unable to stifle a gasp when red dotted my fingers. Mounts of colourful language tumbled from my mouth as I rummaged through my bag in search of a tissue. I decided to stay on the floor to avoid any further embarrassing moments. I dabbed at my nose, pinching the bridge slightly and looked up at the black screen hanging from the wall.
Flight: BH241 032 To: Chicago Gate: 106 Status: Gate Closing.
Damn. I sprinted towards the gate, only acknowledging the bold arrow leading me to the plane. I threw my passport and boarding pass on the table, chest heaving while the flight attendant looked at me disapprovingly. I would’ve come up with a decent excuse, but my insides felt as if the were being stuffed inside a small metal tube and poked repeatedly with a fork.
I collapsed in my seat and closed my eyes, ignoring all the movement around me. It took four deep breaths before I could finally compose myself. Then it hit me.
I was finally going to America.
*
By the time I collected my bags I was crossing my fingers. My left shoulder strap was hanging loosely at my elbow and a piece of my light chocolate brown hair dangled in my face. I blew it out of the way impatiently and followed the crowd. I might have been direction impaired (Is that a thing? It’s now a thing) but I knew that if a large amount of people were going a certain way, chances were it was the right way.
