Storms back east delayed my flight home from California about four hours, so the redeye scheduled to depart at midnight took off around 4 a.m. Pacific time. Airport innards have the most soul-sucking atmosphere anywhere, so I waited outside as long as I could stand to, enjoying the fresh air and watching the red-alerted cops bitch at drivers lingering in the drop-off/pick-up zone.
I checked myself into the airport at midnight and found a quiet spot in a near-deserted gate area, in a corner between a wide pillar and a windowed wall, where I formed a little nest. I put on my light jacket for warmth, used my backpack as a pillow and curled up on the hard carpet. I slept fitfully under repeated PA warnings about liquids and gels. I listened to Sarah McLachlan on my iPod and through my floor-level window watched the nightshift on the tarmac empty trash. At one point, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and thought someone was making off with my stuff or looking to challenge my territory, but it was only a young lady plugging her cell phone charger into the outlet above the one I’d commandeered for my iPod.
Although I don’t think the recently foiled terror in the UK was responsible for the delays, it certainly didn’t help. Inefficiencies lingered. The airports recommended passengers arrive two to three hours early due to heightened security. TSA grunts at Ontario were hand-searching every piece of checked baggage, right next to the airlines’ check-in areas, and confused lines snaked all around. When I arrived at JFK the gate areas were a bazaar of the weary and desperate. I could relate. I tried to muster an understanding smile but my face was too tired.
Traffic advanced haltingly on Harlem River Drive and I arrived home after the long cabride in a stupor. I feel asleep unexpectedly and woke around 7 p.m., disoriented and shaky, like Han in Jedi, freshly thawed from carbonite.