John (Poland) Quick Hits From An Airport

Greetings fellow travelers, it’s good to finally get away from home and have a chance to add something to the blog, which I’ve very much enjoyed during my long hiatus in the south suburbs. I write this entry from the Munich airport in the midst of traveling purgatory. I have already had three flights today, Chicago to London, London to Paris, Paris to Munich and soon, finally, Munich to Krakow (the things we go through to save a buck, eh?). It’s been quite an experience which has given me a few insights to international air travel.

First of all, I love British Airways. My first flight was great, comfy seats, decent food (and wine) and amazing entertainment highlighted by a cool feature that allowed you to track your flight’s progress and stats in real time on your little monitor, which I think all flights should have. The only bad part was when they served us some food that must have been British in origin, some sort of an icy congealed mixture of viscous eggs, sausage and bacon on a bun.

Things have continued to go downhill from there. I’ve realized that all big airports are the same in that each is uniquely baffling. In Heathrow I was led in a frustrating circle by attendants which resulted in my going through the lovely shoeless x-ray process twice, after which I rushed to the gate, arriving breathless and worried I would miss my flight. Here I was hit with another realization – Americans are coddled and herded like cattle in terms of group directions. I saw nothing indicating the flight number at the gate, no sign saying when it was leave (which was later than scheduled) and heard no announcement to start boarding. This, naturally, flustered my sleep-deprived, feeble American brain, which was worried I was at the wrong gate, but all my innocuous, in my mind fair, inquiries such as “Is this the right gate for flight 294?” were met with dire looks that seemed to say “It obviously is, you dull-witted Yankee twat, would you also like help finding your ass?”

In Paris, the airport had an even more indecipherable system of gates, satellites, letters and numbers, which even those working there didn’t quite seem to understand. This was exacerbated by the fact that the signs and maps pointing to my terminal all seemed to give me two alternatives. 1 – follow this sign pointing straight down through a solid floor to get to a nonexistent shuttle OR 2 – just hoof it you fat fuck! The French honestly must love watching dumb Americans like me trying to parse their ridiculous signs.

I’ve been trying to enjoy international flying, despite doing it alone. It’s funny how being alone makes such a huge difference. I find myself wondering about others’ nationalities and being acutely aware of my own. I find that I start imagining that my Americaness just radiates and those nearby hold me in secret contempt because of it. It gets to the point where I’m launching silent irate attacks against those sitting around me. “So what if I took the tomatoes off my sandwich, that doesn’t mean I’m spoiled. Screw you, you judgmental bitch!” It’s probably not a healthy pastime.

That's all for now, I'll actually post about Krakow soon, once I've had a little more time to get a sense of it.