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A Very Long Night in Terminal B
Patrick Lancer, Wednesday March 14th, 2007O’Hare International, the airport of all airports, is known for its insomnia. In fact, it claims to be “the airport that never sleeps.” I certainly got that impression after a few flights in and out of this super transportation hub. I was under the impression that the river of pedestrians flowing through the veins of the terminals during the days was in perpetual supply. The mountain of luggage being carted in and out of the bellies of the 757’s swelled up and down like the tide on a barren beach of asphalt. Stalls vending everything from coffee to liquor lit up signs like the Vegas strip. Vendors selling everything from shoe-shines to baggage hawked over their wares while the prey swam on by. O’Hare, at first glance, is a lightning rod for constant and consistent action.
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That was before I spent a night in Terminal B.
There is something about traveling alone that makes me carefree. I am accountable for myself and only myself. And I trust myself to get out of any situation which I might get myself into. It is not a concept that requires much explanation. My plane is late and I miss a connection, I don’t worry. Why? Because there will be another… And in the mean time, I have money in my wallet and clothes on my back.
As it turns out, there is not always “another”. Low clouds (fog, in laymen’s terms) prevented my flight to Chicago from departing on time. While the rest of the cabin was freaking out and making hotel reservations, I was cool as a cucumber. Cool as a cucumber that had been in the refrigerator for a few days, at that. I had my iPod and my books; I had no need for anything else at that moment. Fast forward four hours: We finally arrive at Chicago, my one year old iCrap Nano is out of juice and I am about ready to burn my books. Shakespeare’s “King Lear” and “The Collective Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot” are hardly the kind of light reading for air travel.
Standing in line at an airline service counter seems like an eternity in Purgatory. The entire passenger log of my plane was queued in front of me, waiting for someone to tell them there was nothing they could do and give them a reduced price voucher for a hotel nearby. I decided against that and checked the “big-board” (official FAA term) for the next flight in my direction. Shit. It was at eight the next morning. I would have to spend the night.
At around eleven at night, the stalls and shops begin to close. I was tempted to exit the airport and try to go into downtown Chicago, but as a wise and responsible young adult, I stayed in the terminal. It is a huge place, and there were plenty of places to go. I walked around in circles for a while, and eventually settled near some seats that were perfect for rest. I dozed off once or twice, but the lights were still on and CNN was blaring on each and every TV, strategically located so you are always in view of at least one at all times. It was then, in my hazy state of quasi-sleep, that I was scared shitless by a Spanish cleaning lady who shook me awake. In my greater state of consciousness, I was able to determine that she wanted me to move. I picked up my bag, and made for my gate. If I was actually going to fall asleep, I needed the assurance of being near my plane in the event I did not wake before eight.
The benches surrounding Gate 22 were, to say the least, considerably more sketchy than those at my previous location. They were down a long hall, an off shoot of the main terminal. There must have been a maintenance office around somewhere, because there were plenty of dodgy personnel in the area to keep me on my toes. It was then I began my rounds. I tried to find every gate in both the B and C terminals… a whopping 127 as I recall. It took me nearly an hour to find the more obscure ones, but I did it. I did it while walking backwards on the conveyor belts and running up the down escalators. Never had I had so much fun doing nothing.
The airport began to fill up around five and the shops opened again. I had a Starbuck’s espresso (a commodity not readily available in Vermont) and I ate my first McDonald’s breakfast in many years – boy did that warm food taste good after a cold night. I got back to my gate and decided to call my mother and let her know I had survived. Then I went to take a leak.
It was when I returned from the bathroom that I had the shock of my life. In my mindless wandering, I had indeed returned to Gate 22… but in the WRONG TERMINAL!
Luckily, this time I only needed to wait two hours for the next flight.
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HA. Wow, what a great travel story. Remind me never to let you plan my iteneraries... although, my record is far from spotless. Together, we'd make a heck of a team!