December 13, 2004
We smoked another cigarette before adjourning back into the airport. It was 1:00 p.m. our time and 6:00 a.m. back in Whitewater, Wisconsin and I was extremely nervous to call my parentals. John and I set down our bags and stared at all of the internet screen/pay phones that seemed to have more buttons than necessary. I gathered our flight information, let out a great sigh and picked up the phone to dial my parents collect. An operator connected us and finally I was able to speak."Dad? Bon jour! I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No, of course not. How are you?"
"Well, I'm alright... But I have a little problem. You see, John and I missed our flight out today and we're trying to get on another flight, possibly tonight. Ya know, Dad, the only relief I have in telling you all of this is that you, yourself, missed a flight in the past."
"What happened?"
"Well...," I stammered, "it's sort of like this. You see, the train and um, we were sort of, well, late and the train and, well, I'll explain later."
I apologized, since he was to pick us up from the airport in Milwaukee, gave him the tentative flight details and told him that I would call him later if we were able to get a seat. I dared not mention the Holland Casino - not yet.
"Not a problem, Honey, we'll talk to you later."
I smiled at John and recounted the conversation, relieved that my father was not angry. Our task was then quite simple - loiter about the airport and wait. We made our way upstairs, through security and into an area filled with comfortable couches and chairs, a bar, and a smaller version of the Holland Casino. I ordered a couple of beers and we sat before the open area of the Casino, watching business men stroll in and last minute gambling gurus dash out. I looked over at John to make a comment, but noticed that his right leg was bouncing, which held his right arm so that his right hand jabbed at his face accordingly. This was his signature sign of nervousness and I knew he wanted to get in some last minute gambling. I handed him my lucky Buddha charm that the monks had given to me in Paris and let him try his hand.
While he was in the Casino, the bartender came to my table to clear off some items and asked if I were coming or going. I looked up at him and then across the way at John who had picked out a Black Jack table and sighed,
"I wish I were staying, really, but I am leaving."
The bartender followed my gaze over to John and inquired as to where I had I been during my stay in Europe. I told him about Paris and Nijmegen and he straightened up, placed his hands on his waist and shook his head.
"Ya know, I never cared for the people in Paris. Just a bunch of stuck up snobs. They all can speak English, you know, but they're too proud to do it. Now, if you go into the country areas of France, you'll find the best bunch of folks you'll ever hope to meet. They cannot speak a lick of English, but one can sure carry on a hell of a good conversation with their hands and their feet."
I laughed as I pictured this mediocre form of sign language and the bartender smiled as he turned to walk away. Even some of the Dutch had these negative notions of the people of Paris, just as I had been warned about before leaving the States. I could not imagine, with all of our wonderful experiences, how this perception became so universal, but perhaps we were just especially lucky in our endeavors.
It was not long before John returned empty handed save for the Buddha I lent him for luck. He was cheerful despite the fact that he had not hit the jackpot and he relayed the details of the dealer's hand who seemed to have the perfect cards. When it was finally time to scope out the 4:00 p.m. flight for vacant seats, we made our journey across the airport and began the usual process of checking in. The trip was in vain as there were no available spots on that flight. We exited through security with rather slumped shoulders and I paused at the Customs Desk as though I were just arriving. I smiled brightly at the young man and, in order to cheer myself up, requested that he stamp my passport again. He returned a sideways grin as he looked up from my already stamped passport, but obliged.
We passed through the familiar scenes that we had first encountered days ago and noted the various destinations high up on the departure screens. We joked about heading to London or Italy or Dublin or some other dreamy land as we paraded beyond the tickets lines and returned to the rushing crowds downstairs. John, now the thrifty shopping expert, purchased a few more items of food in the grocery store and we sat down at a cafe to dine on our snacks. Before relaying the news to my parents, John and I leisured in a cigarette as I swung my feet from the high cafe stool. After the call I was rather relieved, in part, that we would not be arriving until tomorrow as then my mother would surely join my father in the process of picking us up. I knew she would not be present if we were to have left on the 4:00 p.m. flight and arrived in Milwaukee at 11:00 p.m.. I was also relieved to have conveyed the reasoning that we missed our flight in the first place and John overheard my words as I described my first time playing Black Jack at a casino.
As the darkness fell over Schiphol Airport, we decided that we should at least check the prices of a room and found ourselves crossing the street in an above walkway to the Sheraton Hotel. I believe John was rather worried about the increasing limp in my left leg and would have rented a room if it were not for the 305 Euros required for such necassary repose. I held back a gasp at the mention of the price and stated that I was a trooper, more than willing to spend the night in the airport. John looked at me and frowned,
"I don't like doing this to you - you know that, right?"
"Oh, come on... I appreciate your concern, but I'll have over eight hours to sleep on the plane!"
It was a long night in the airport. We found a bar that was still open and would be until 21:00 hours. I read A Moveable Feast, with my legs stretched out on the chair opposite of me, while John watched Sumo Wrestling and Kick Boxing on television. We ordered a couple of drinks to prolong our stay and, for me, to dull the pain in my aching legs. My shins stung with every movement and my left knee nearly gave way every time I stood up. All too soon, it was time to quit the bar and we were in search of a quiet place to close our eyes. We nestled into an area where passengers were waiting for a flight that had been delayed and John slept; though I hardly could imagine how in such cramped conditions as on those waiting area seats. I looked around at our company.
Hidden by a couple of large, leafy plants and next to the windowed wall, a woman lay all curled up with her head on her bag and her jacket draped about her shoulders. Behind me, two men with Jamaican accents littered the air with swear words and ribald commentary toward all the passing females. Directly in front of me, a man sat with low, darting eyes and crossed arms and intermittently rested his nervous gaze upon John and myself. I pulled my leather back pack closer to my chair with my foot and read the same damned sentence over at least five times before gently breaking John's sleep. I relayed that I was going downstairs to use the bathroom and he nodded before falling back to sleep. When I returned, the man with the darting eyes had retreated off to quite a distance of a group of tables on my right. I felt a hundred times better and slowly relaxed.
I had not even realized that I had shut my eyes until I was forced to open them at the noise of the two Jamaican men, ranting and raving, behind me. I turned around to find them wildly moving their hands to assist their vulgar speech in an attempt to explain their placement to a couple of airport security guards. Their grunts of "Fuck, man," and "Give some distance, man," didn't afford much respect from these two uniformed, gun toting guards. They checked to be sure that the two men had tickets and carefully made their way down to me. I displayed my pamphlet of tickets and was about to explain the entire situation with elaborate detail when one of the guards waved his hand in front me and said,
"I know, the flight has been delayed and we appreciate your patience."
John nodded and before I could reply with a 'thank you,' they were gone. I rose from my seat and stated that I was going to stretch my legs and venture outside for a cigarette. I was down the stairs and halfway to the exit when I noticed that the Jungle Juice bar was still open. I looked over the ten foot stack of oranges next to the entrance and procured a Marlboro Light from my diminishing pack of cigarettes. The place was mostly empty, except for an older gentleman seated by the door who had his head cupped in one of his hands while his other circled a dark cup of coffee. His eyes were half open and just barely focused on the soccer game on TV. I finished my smoke, wandered a bit and returned to John's languid body. He woke as I sat and I mentioned the quaint little bar I just found.
"Lets go, then," he said, as he helped me with my back pack.
I ordered the first of five hot chocolates for myself and two glasses of tap water. I noticed the cup full of purple, squiggly straws and leaned over the counter, requesting two for the water with a mousy voice. I brought the tray, full of these items, over to our table and filled up the time with writing in my journal and reading my book. A Supermoto event, in which I knew a good portion of the racers, on a muted TV consumed another hour of my time, followed by a brief tour of the closing shops in the airport. John crossed the way to another waiting area to get some more sleep and I checked on him periodically while listening to the gentleman next to me sing along to the radio.
11-30-04
The hours crept by with the impatience of non-moving, rush hour traffic in downtown Chicago and I was halfway through Hemingway's history before John tapped my shoulder. I looked up at him towering above me and smiled.
"Perhaps we should head up to get our tickets and wait by our gate now."
"Lest we miss another flight," I retorted.
We waited for the first check-in attendants to arrive and wound our way through the silver rails before the counter. The woman who helped us was pleasant enough, but found that our tickets had somehow been rearranged. John and I both were so out of it that we could barely comprehend the reasoning behind the changed flight number, but seeing as there was only a ten minute difference between this and our previous departure time, we were not about to argue. Since the flights had been once again rearranged, we were instructed to return to the ticket booth to have them printed. The ticketing staff were not yet on duty, but we were allocated the first position in line and thus we took our seats to watch the minutes tick by.
At 7:30 a.m., our tickets were printed. I could feel the redness expand in my eyes as we passed one last time through security. John was once again thoroughly searched and I, once again, sailed through the entire process. Each of us looked forward to the comforts of that Airport Casino Lounge and there we each found about an hour's worth of light sleep before being jolted awake. A man from the bar spoke in a loud voice and our eyes slowly clarified to his pleading manner.
"You cannot sleep here. I am sorry, but you cannot sleep here. You can go up these stairs and sleep all day in the comfort chairs, but you cannot sleep here."
Neither John nor myself stated a word in reply. We just looked at him with annoyed understanding. My contacts seemed glued to my inner eye lids and I blinked several times as John persuaded me to get ready to go. He procured a baggage cart that I refused to push and I relayed my childhood story of the grocery cart which always interferred with my mother's tender ankles as we piled up our belongings. John made a little show of daintily pushing the cart as we started down the aisle and I laughed, shuffling my feet next to him. He walked behind the cart while I rode on the moving walkway.
At our gate, we were greeted by a sea of occupied seats. I settled into one of the empty spaces and looked over the myriad of faces. An Islamic family of mostly women huddled together across from me with three or four restless children, Dutch businessmen pressed out numbers on their cell phones, various teenagers tapped their shoes to the music blaring from their mobil MP3 players and a young American mother tenderly fed her baby, never taking her eyes off of her small child. I fell asleep with my head resting on John's left shoulder.
** To be Continued...