Sleeping at the airport
If you’re like me and didn’t fly anywhere over the holidays: On a tento-ten scale with “ten” being “really glad” and “ten” being “really glad,” how would you rate how you feel about not having to travel on a plane these last few weeks?
Airline travel had already devolved to all the glamour of a Third World bus trip. Quite frankly, I’m surprised there aren’t roosters and goats wandering the center aisle. That stated, these last couple of weeks has made me more than content that I no longer fly hither and yon for my living.
Even so, on more than one occasion, I was stuck in airports in horribly unpleasant conditions and had more than a fair share of empathy for what so many are going through currently.
I had secured an exciting multi-location engagement to consult a nonprofit in Texas. Although all short-run commuter flights back and forth from Dallas-fort Worth airport (DFW) several delays between California and DFW, caused by bad weather, meant I missed my first connection and had to sleep at the airport.
The terminal was recently renovated so all they had for the hundreds of stranded travelers to sleep on were brand-spanking-new cots comprised of aluminum tubing for legs and a notfound-in-nature rubbery material for the bed. They had obviously never been opened as we had to pull them from the plastic bags in which they were shipped and then assemble them.
Expanding the cot to full size was challenging. The material was so inflexible that when unfolding one set of metaltube aluminum legs, I’d get one set of legs down and the other pair would spring up as if connected by strong elastic, and slap me upside my noggin. Aside from annoying and painful, this was colossally exasperating. Under normal conditions, I might have had more patience but I was angry because I was missing an engagement (and the income that would have come with it), and was wiped out, now being the butt-end of a very long day that began too early and far away. Bottom line, “exhaustion” would have been an upgrade in my mood.
The airport was sardine-can stuffed with forsaken travelers; staff was spread thin, and help was non-existent because they were so overloaded. Of course, my fellow airline commuters were all experiencing exactly what I was going through, so no one could help anyone else.
I finally got the damn thing to remain expanded and began schlepping it around the concourse, seeking a secure place to catch at least a few Zs, which might have a modicum of seclusion. So, with a cot, backpack, two suitcases, and a computer in tow, I tugged, lugged, yanked, swore, and hauled the whole kit and caboodle to a location next to a pole. Why it felt safer, who knows? I was sleep-deprived.
The next difficulty to solve was how to keep my possessions safe while I slept (if I did)? I ended up removing my belt and strapping through the handles all the suitcases together. When I laid down, I fastened a strap around my foot and connected it to my possessions so I would be awakened if anyone tried to abscond with them.
With one foot over the edge of the too-hard cot, I attempted to get some shut-eye. Aside from the adrenaline of the day working at odds with intentions, airports are bright — and noisy. They dimmed the lights a smidgen, but it is a 24hour enterprise, and even though no planes were coming or going, they had to keep the lights on. Several flat-screen TVS were stationed through the terminal, all broadcasting CNN, which ironically, was covering the terrible travel conditions at DFW. We, the stranded society of pooped persons desperately struggling to sleep, marooned half a country away from our homes, were subjected ad
nauseum to hearing them broadcast our plight.
Eventually, everyone settled down despite the fluorescent lights, talking TVS, and an air conditioning system set to “ice age.” (No there were no blankets.) However, due to the cots’ exceptionally stretched vinyl, rubbery bed, whenever anyone lying down adjusted, even the smallest amount, the fresh overstressed material groaned loudly, sounding like the seals at Pier 39. Due to the acoustics of marble floors and the disproportionate amount of glass used to construct an airport terminal, the sound reverberated through the space, amplified several-fold, sounding like a roomful of overtired, humiliated strangers who ate too much fiber, creating a bizarre chorus of what sounded like breaking wind — repeatedly, often, and from every direction. If I was an 8-year-old, I would not have been able to stop laughing.
At first, I was mortified, because I wanted to explain to no one in particular and anyone who could hear me, that I was not flatulent. Of course, everyone else was having the same experience and undoubtedly sharing my thoughts.
I never did get to sleep.
About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is the CRP (Chief Recovering Perfectionist) of www.thistimeimeanit. com and the founder of the inspirational Facebook Group, Intentions Affirmations Manifestations. Want more positive messages and ideas? Sign up for his free semi-monthly newsletter at www. thistimeimeanit.com/ signup