Dear Readers,
Lest we forget the blessings of living in a nearly perfect climate and having an International Airport so small you can cross the whole thing in two minutes, I offer you the following.
I am on my way to Guadalajara, after having taught a week-long course on Desert Caves at King Abdullah University of Science and Technology in Saudi Arabia. I found the students brilliant and enthusiastic, truly delightful and the crowning point of the week was a class visit to a truly spectacular Lava Tube. Now I am enjoying the benefits of Business Class on my Lufthansa flight back home, relaxing in a complex mechanical seat which, at the first touch of a button might appear to be a cross between a barber’s chair, a Transformer robot and a car compacter, but, in reality is so wonderfully comfortable you can actually sleep in it without having to take a pill.
From the deserts of Saudi Arabia I now arrive among the snows of Europe, the first leg of my 26-hour trip.
In Frankfurt, where “It was raining ice cubes yesterday and many flights have been cancelled,” according to a local informant, I get off the plane from Jeddah and head in the direction of Gate C16 where my next plane will hopefully be waiting for me, passing through a thorough security check on the way. Upon arrival, a Lufthansa agent looks at my ticket in dismay. “Why does it say C16 here? Where did they issue you this ticket? Ach, in Saudi Arabia, eh? Well, your flight has not been cancelled, but your plane is actually at gate Z62 … at the very opposite end of the airport.”
This is the kind of news that could turn your stomach into a knot, but I’m not too worried as I still have two hours before my next departure. Surely that’s more than enough time to reach any point in an airport, I naïvely assume.Now come several kilometers of high-speed walking which bring me not to my gate, but to a hastily constructed barrier across three staircases with a big sign including a great many “nichts” and “verbotens” in the text, plus an airport official who, when I nervously point to where I have to go, says, “Nein, nein,” This section of the airport is now closed. You can’t reach Gate Z62 on foot; instead you must take a shuttle bus from Gate B63.”
Section B, of course, is far, far away from where I am at the moment. I take off at an even brisker pace and what seem like two or three more kilometers of rapid walking bring me to … another security check for Section B! This one is tougher than the first and includes one of those infamous pat-downs, but, at long last I reach Gate B63, which, I discover, is jammed with bodies: worried looking people with ashen faces. All of them desperately need to get on that shuttle bus, an operation which appears to have been improvised on the spur of the moment and I, too, now start looking as worried as the rest of them. A few minutes later a voice booms out: SECTION D UND E. Half the crowd – and I as well – groan audibly: “What about the bus for Section Z?”
After what truly seems like a lifetime, the Z bus appears and off we go. Through the bus window I get my first look outside: lots of snow falling, lots of people in bright vests running about and gesticulating, all of them splashing through thick, icy slush which covers the tarmac: “Hmm, I say; reminds me of April in Milwaukee.” The bus weaves all over the place, slipping and sliding a bit and at last I reach my destination. But it’s not simply “Z”, it’s actually A und Z, which means more kilometers to run just to get clear of the endless series of A gates and then … yes, for the third time I have to go through security again.
But this time I’m ready for them. From 20 meters away I’m already removing my watch with one hand and my belt with the other while my third hand fishes my laptop out of my backpack and my fourth hand stuffs all my pocket items into the space left by the laptop. I’ve got it down to a science by now, truly a snap here in Europe, because if I were in the United States, I’d have to be doing all of the above, while untying my shoes at the same time!
Now I am in Z Section, but, amazingly, I am still far, far, far from my gate. I race around a corner and face one of those long, long passages stretching off into infinity, straight as an arrow and filled with an endless series of rolling conveyor belts. How long could the distance be between Z1 and Z62? You don’t want to know.
My plane should now be boarding. Rapid walking is no longer enough; Olympic sprinting is called for here. “Gangway! Here comes the old Gringo and he’s in a hurry. Twenty-year-olds blocking the conveyor belt, better step aside: Herr Pint is fliegen today, come what may!”
After what truly feels like a 700-kilometer marathon, I finally reach Gate Z62. All the passengers should be on the plane by now, but actually, they’re all sitting around looking bored. The Lufthansa rep apologizes for the delay. “The weather, you know. Please have a seat. We will be boarding shortly.”
“Boarding!” What a welcome word – I made it! Thank God I hiked up El Col Mountain two weeks ago. It was perfect training for a visit to the Frankfurt Airport.
Onboard my plane, Lufthansa’s Manager of Cabin Crews, Julie Peters, introduces herself to me and asks how I got along in the airport. She tells me that Frankfurt experienced a weather anomaly: the night before my flight the air temperature was several degrees above freezing while the ground was several degrees below freezing. Then, suddenly it rained. Of course, all that rain froze, instantly coating the ground with a thick layer of ice and resulting in havoc. Having heard the story of my long odyssey to every corner of the sprawling Frankfurt airport and my three security searches, she apologizes, mentioning that the plane I am now on had been fully booked, but “as you can see, only one-third of the passengers have managed to show up for the flight.”
“Well,” I said, “I am glad to be among the few who made it, but if you’re interested, I can tell you exactly where all the missing ones are … just look for them still waiting for that shuttle bus at Gate B63. And by the way, thank you so much for giving something to write about for my column this week in the Guadalajara Reporter.”