One Day + A Few Hours: An Overnight In Heathrow Airport
Hitting at an angle, the sun drives itself into the corner of my right eye and continues down the right side. The leather jacket I wore when I originally boarded the flight in Scotland seemed as if it was mocking me for my poor dress choices. The loud ding jerked my head upwards, cracking a bone in my neck. The words I had dreaded seeing for the past three hours flashed brightly on the screen. The robotic voice read out, “Flight EK 237 to Dubai has been canceled. Please visit our cancellation desk for more details.” The news marked my fourth canceled flight in the past twenty-four hours.
My back hurt in anticipation of the weight of my backpack as I rose. Gum, trashy magazines detailing the “ SHOCKING Fight Between The Royals” and oodles of random pieces of paper overloaded my backpack, but I was too far along to dump them now. My parents always taught me to travel light --your backpack should never outweigh you -- yet traveling heavy has finally paid off as I’m now fully entertained. Trudging my way to the cancellation desk two floors down, the escalator ride passed by in a blur of square shapes and vivid colors as Heathrow covered every square inch of the walls with paintings of the world’s flags. As I walked to the cancellation desk I felt as if I could almost see my path on the linoleum floor, worn down by my rubber boots, a choice I made in haste a few mornings earlier which I severely regret now. Apparently, I’m not the best person to ask when it comes to airport attire.
Standing in line, I looked around at all the other tired faces with me on my flight. I love people watching. I especially like how the normalities of life play in a hectic situation. There was a mother and her two children, she looked tired and drawn out as she wrangled two kids to stay in place. I stood behind a towering man in a suit, as he spoke in waves of Arabic and English. The majority of the Arabic was profanities to curse a missed meeting with an investor, and the English was used to lament “the horrible weather” and “the bad airlines.” Cringing with my eyes and playing with a lost gum wrapper in my jacket pocket, I waited for my turn in line.
Twenty minutes later I made my way to the front of the line, to be greeted with the clipped words “Passport and boarding pass”. A few clicks later, the airline employee looked up and stated plainly, “You're not in our system.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Hold, please”, she snapped as she picked up the phone to call someone. A few calls later she looked up to me again, with a bit more pity in her eyes this time and said, “ You’ve been re-routed so many times due to weather issues, so our system thought you’d already reached your final destination. Regardless, your next flight is in 10 hours.”
Before I turned away, the airline employee motioned for me to wait, (something she hadn’t done to earlier passengers) and gave me a food voucher. My curiousness rose, and I raised my eyebrows to ask why.
She replied in a maternal tone, “My son is your age. If he was stuck in the airport at such a young age, I’d want someone to take care of him.”
Slightly surprised by the kindness of a stranger, I thanked her profusely and texted my parents the updated flight times.
As I made my way back to the squeaky metal chair which had left small, hole-shaped impressions in my body, I attempted to fume at the thought of sitting on the chair for another 10 hours. My attempts failed, as an overnight at the airport left me with barely enough energy to muster a few words of excuse to the bag I accidentally stepped on. I sat down in the chair, contemplating which restaurant to go to after my nap. The sun had finally gone down, and the large windows across from me were only bright enough to see a few straggling planes take off. The carpet began to change colors, as it was brightened with direct, white overhead lights.
The woman sitting beside me seemed as exhausted as me, fine lines from sleeping on the bench marring her cheek, yet her eyes were bright and welcoming.
“So how long are you stuck here?” she commiserated in a welcoming, British tone. (I believe that is the first time a British person has ever been described as welcoming.)
“10 more hours. You?” I questioned.
“Oof. Where are you from?”
I mustered up the set phrase I had imprinted in my brain for the better part of 15 years, saying “Well, I’m from India, but I live in Dubai.”
I readied myself for follow-up questions, expecting “Wait, what?” “Then why are you in London?” “ So are you Arab?” Instead, I just got a curt nod and heard, “That’s nice, I’m German and Canadian but I live in Bristol.”
The woman, -- Eva is her name, as I would later learn -- continued speaking, but I had stopped paying attention. For the first time in many years, I didn’t have to pull out what felt like a family history book because I didn’t align with people’s perceptions of me. Eva heard my three-fold identity and instead of questioning my identity, she returned with her complicated one.
Eva and I continued to speak and eat a shared packet of Toblerone. I learned that she was just as frustrated as I when it came to sharing her identity. She hated poutine but she wouldn’t dare say that in Canada unless she had a death wish. While she spoke German at home, she most naturally felt comfortable in English, a lot like me. Living in Bristol gave her a lilt in her voice, slightly drawling on the letter “a” but a contrast to her sharp features; pin-straight, long blond hair, and a piercing set of brown eyes. Having been stuck at the airport more times than I, Eva sympathized with my frustration and donated another bar of Toberlone to my annoyance.
Eva left a few hours later on her flight to Bristol. I rode my way on the escalator another floor up to the dining area. While I walked around and eventually started eating, I began people watching again. I heard a medley of languages; some European, others African and a small subset of them East Asian. Two British adults drew my attention: they wore “Majorca, Spain” shirts with University of Manchester sweatpants and groaned about the harsh lights of the Heathrow Terminal. An older couple shuffled through, deep in conversation with each other and oblivious to anything happening around them. I finished my meal at the buffet-style restaurant; ⅓ of my plate was baked beans, the other udon noodles and the final third a mango-based dessert.
Finally, I rested in my airplane seat, my shoulders releasing tension I didn’t even know was present. My window view enabled me to look into the busy Heathrow airport once again. An airport for many people is a hellion world, a place to get in and out of as quickly as possible. It is filled with cash-grabs, bad restaurants with no clear menu, and hostile employees. Yet, I put on a set of different glasses to view airports: ones that belong to a third culture kid. People like Eva, the Arab businessman and the old couple came from all walks of life with confusing, sometimes warring identities. Airports are a melting pot of the world and for a third-culture kid unable to find the coordinates for home, airports become a type of home built with kindness from strangers, a concoction of cuisines and the uncomfortable metal seats that are a legal requirement in every airport. There’s a famous saying which goes: Home is not a place, it’s a feeling. I’m not quite sure if I agree with that saying or not. What I do know is airports are the one constant in my life. No matter what I do or where I live, I know airports are my steady place.