At the Airport


© 1997 by Yevgeniy Pomerantsev

Story Index

Finally. First, two hours at O'Hare waiting for the plane to take off, then eight hours from Chicago to Shannon, then three hours there waiting for a connecting flight, then another three and a half hours in the air, and, finally, this damn long journey is over. Actually, not quite yet -- I'm still at the airport: tired, exhausted, hungry, but excited and happy to finally be on the ground and not having to fly for another two months. Not because I'm afraid of the planes -- I'm just glad to be home.

But I'm still at the airport and there is a huge line in front of me [E]waiting for an immigration officer to process their documents. (How come I never manage to be among the first to attack the counter?..) It seems to me that even though I've been here forever, the line didn't move a bit. What can be more sadistic than keeping people who come back home after a year and a half in the airport terminal? (Of course, a lot of things can but I'm not thinking of them right now -- I just wonna get out of here.) They should separate those who return home from those who arrived from home and give the former the priority -- I can't stop paranoid ideas like this forming in my head.

Six -- what's taking so long?.. Five -- it takes forever... Four -- it's never gonna end... Three -- I'm never gonna get out of here... Two -- time has frozen... One -- can it be true? -- Only one person in front of me and I'm next?.. A woman with a kid behind me almost breaks down and starts swearing at the entire system of passport control and threatens to complain about this. I silently agree with her and say: "You can go ahead next, just keep it down a little bit for your own sake. Those guys at the counters have plenty of time and can keep you here for as long as they want." She takes my offer and goes in front of me but completely ignores my advice and keeps arguing. Well, I wash my hands... I do not care: I'm next. Story Index

I noticed it a long time ago: only waiting in lines takes forever; once it's finally your turn, it only takes parts of a second to complete whatever needs to be completed. The officer looks at me, looks at the picture in my passport, looks back at me, stamps the passport and returns it to me. "Is that it?" I ask suspiciosly. "Yes. Go on." And I'm going on, glad to have fullfilled the first part of the play, but not overly excited for I know that the next step is the customs control, and I already can see same old good line forming at another counter. Now it's even more huge because people have received their luggage and pull it along (there are no carts here -- only outside, past the customs).

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Story Index

People have crowded around the luggage conveyor belt waiting for their stuff. I hate crowds -- they make me feel insecure. In a different situation I would have waited; but now I'm so tired and start feeling dull pain in my forehead (maybe consuming unlimited free drinks on the aeroplane wasn't such a brilliant idea... -- on the other hand, what else is there to do on a twelve hour flight with a three hour stop?) that I force myself to the damn luggage thing looking for my suitcases. I suddenly realize that despite all the hassle I'm not even mad; on the contrary -- I became entirely indifferent to the situation. Of course, I'm still eager to see my mom and dad but at the same time I know that no matter what I do, it's not gonna bring this moment any closer.

I already found my first suitcase and am patienltly waiting for the other to come out. Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty... Finally the belt stops, people pick up their things and head to the customs gates. There are a couple of bags left but none of them looks like mine. Well, I cannot say it took me by surprise, I certainly did account for it to happen -- I guess that's what you get when you take the cheapest flight there is. And once again, I don't feel mad or upset -- suddenly I feel so helpless and start looking for an officer with the least aggressive expression on the face. First couple of my attempts to find out about my missing piece of luggage failed before I even could start stating my problem: guys who work here are definitely used to ignoring others -- here it's their kingdom, and who would miss the opportunity to show that he is the allmighty one, even if the kingdom is as tiny as the international terminal of a lousy airport? But then somebody listens to my stammering (I already have lost my recently acquired American self-confidence) and says: "Did you check at the other conveyor belt?" With one suitcase in my hand I'm running to another end of the hall where the sign over the luggage river says "BEYRUT." Wow, who knew I had to check out all of them? -- I'm slowly returning to the Russian reality. And really, between two boxes filled with peaches I see my lost treasure and for the first time after the landing I feel something similar to happiness. Story Index

And now -- to the final frontier! The customs declaration is filled out, I have all of my luggage, the headache doesn't seem to be too bad afterall, but I'm at the end of the line again, and everything repeats second time around. I think of my parents and feel aweful for them: they probably arrived at the airport to pick me up way in advance (I know my mom), and it's already been more than two hours since I left the plane. I can see the young woman with a kid again -- she already made it to the customs and an officer is giving her hard time: all of her stuff is unpacked.

All of a sudden another counter opens and I, don't know how, am there first in one jump, with my pretty heavy suitcases and a backpack (that's where the survival instincts come into play). "What's inside? Personal cloths and presents?" "Yes," I go and try to remember what's all the stuff I packed in there. But there's no need for this: my customs declaration has been stamped. I even feel somewhat offended -- have I been waiting for more than two hours for you just to ask me that and stamp a piece of paper within two seconds?! No "Please open your bags," no "Please follow me for the personal (say: strip) search," as it was last time? I can't believe that I'm finally free. The officer looks in my passport and asks: "Are you a permanent resident of the United States?" "Yes, I am." "Are you coming back there?" "You can bet your ass!" is the first thing that comes to my mind but I only servantly cast down my eyes and say "Yes, sir" as softly as I can. Story Index


Emotion Structure of the Story


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