I feel like I should post something meaningful about arriving on US soil after 1.5 years, but I can't think of anything so instead I'm treating everyone to a dip into my stream of consciousness as I arrived on the plane from Abu Dhabi to JFK Airport.
It begins on the plane, after a journey that theoretically was a little over ten hours but actually felt like about ten years. I now expect, like Rip Van Winkle or one of those characters on a more experimental season of Star Trek (?) to emerge into a world that looks nothing like the world I left...
The two girls standing next to me in line to disembark are Americans but they've been living in Abu Dhabi for the past two years. We discuss the possibility of snow. I knew it was going to be cold, but it never ocurred to me that there might be snow. Apparently, there will be snow. I don't know how I feel about this - vaguely annoyed, actually, since I plan to travel to NYC and Chicago in the next two weeks - but on the other hand, when I say this, people look at me like I'm being treasonous. Okay then. It occurs to me as the three of us chat that it's true what they say about Americans - we really like to talk to strangers.
After about six hours of waiting on the runway (I am not exaggerating) we emerge into American AIR!! I always tell people that America smells like nothingness (as opposed to India, which smells very powerfully like something I would rather not name) but actually the air in this particular part of New York smells vaguely like weeks-old fast food. Odd.
I have no cell phone. This is going to be a serious problem because it means I have absolutely no way to entertain myself during the interminable waits that follow.
Even though there are signs everywhere, I still feel totally lost. I finally find the Delta counter and they charge me to check my bag because my domestic flight was booked separately from my international flight. In India, I would smile charmingly at the counter person and ask if they could "make an exception" and they probably would. I decide not to try this at the Delta desk at JFK airport.
They tell me I have to take something called an "Air Train" to Terminal 2. I suppress a brief flash of panic. I am a seasoned world traveler. I can figure out an Air Train. And there it is, helpfully labeled. There's a man standing at the door who is supposed to help us, I think, but clearly he got another job description memo because instead he is looking distressed and yelling at us because we are clearly too stupid to figure out the perfectly clear instructions on the Air Train. I get off at the stop labeled Terminal 2...
...only to discover that I've landed in some kind of inexplicable concrete wilderness. There are cars everywhere! Buildings everywhere! No people anywhere! Also, it's raining, a nasty freezing rain. I'm wearing leggings and a half-sleeve tunic. This seemed adequate back when I boarded the plane in New Delhi. It seems paltry now: I might as well be standing on this freeway naked. My teeth begin to chatter. After a minute of looking around, I realize that there is no helpful retinue of attendants hanging out here waiting for passengers to arrive. I will have to find Terminal 2 on my own.
There are three signs pointing me to Terminal 2, which is apparently only metres away and yet I still cannot see it anywhere. The signs point in different directions, so instead I wait around until I see a man in an orange vest get out of an elevator. "Terminal 2?" I ask. He gives me a look like he's deeply concerned - I'm standing in the freezing rain outside the clearly labeled Terminal 2 wearing nothing but a T-shirt, after all. I begin to see his point.
"It's right there," he says. Well, I feel stupid. I wander in that direction and eventually find my way into Terminal 2, where the first thing I see is a Starbucks. I get in line, then realize I have no American money. I do have a credit card, which is practically the same thing, but the line is long and I'm already bored and there's no doubt a Starbucks in just another twenty yards. So.
I brush my teeth in the airport bathroom. Do not knock this until you've tried it. After twenty hours of travel you probably emerge feeling distinctly inhuman, there is absolutely nothing so life-affirming as brushing your teeth at a time like this. Believe me. While I'm at it, I drink a healthy dose of tap water, because it probably won't kill me. My first drink in America: tap water. That's one thing off my checklist.
I get in line for the gates. There is a massive security line at JFK. I spend my time ogling people. They look unhappy and cold, like they're putting a brave face on something. Some have iPods, others stare blankly into space. It occurs to me as I stare that there don't appear to be any attractive people in this entire airport. What happened to all the beautiful people? I guess they don't fly through JFK.
And then I realize: naked scanners!!! I'm going to get scanned by the infamous naked scanners. This is absurdly exciting. After all the controversy, to finally experience these awful scanners strikes me as some serious good fortune. America and I: getting to know each other again.
The line moves slowly on. At security I yank out my change, my laptop, my belt and my shoes. There's not much left but they finally let me through. It's scanning time!
Here's how the naked scanner works: you stand in front of a blank blue wall and hold up your hands for a moment. Then the TSA woman says "next" and you move on.
This is not what I expected at all. My time in front of the blank blue wall lasts for about a second. I try to make meaningful eye contact with the agent who just saw me naked, but he seems underwhelmed. This would sting but that's kinda how I feel about the entire naked scanning experience. I could take it or leave it.
Flashback: my best experience ever with airport people is a tie. Option 1) Traveling from Seattle to DC, and there's no one else waiting to check into Alaska Airlines, which results in an absurdly pleasant exchange with the three people behind the counter. They help me put my luggage on a cart - and don't charge me for the checked bag - we shoot the breeze. This is by far the best airpeople experience I've ever had EXCEPT for Option 2) I'm 17, traveling with my father and sister. I still remember what I was wearing and the fact that I had on more makeup than normal. The TSA agent in charge of helping me unload my laptop is really young and really attractive, and helps me for far longer than is strictly necessary, to the point that his TSA buddy eventually has to remind him to attend to the other people in line. This is definitely my best TSA experience ever.
So anyway, now I'm at the gates. I'm a bit disturbed that my flight is an hour late, but then I realize that this tiny waiting area has both a Starbucks and a Wendy's. And at least ten other restaurants. I spend about ten minutes wheeling my bag from fast food joint to fast food joint, standing outside of each and gazing wistfully at the menu like a particularly tragic Dickens orphan.
I still have no American money.
I sit down to read but I'm distracted by the aroma of fast food, which is even stronger here than outside. On the plane, me and the girls from Abu Dhabi made the kinds of ridiculous vows that expats make: "I'm going to eat bacon every day" (them) or "I'm going to drink tap water with every meal" (me). I decide to go to Wendy's. Oh smorgasboard of delightful options!
Flashback to the flight: They served Indian food. As I chewed on the lukewarm stewed paneer and spinach, I realized that it's been a really long time since I've had truly bad Indian food. It's as if the chef on Etihad Airways tasted Indian food once, years ago, and doesn't really remember what any of the ingredients were, but he's trying to recreate it out of respect for some obligation. I know airline food is always bad, but it makes me sad to realize that there may be a world of flavors that only exist in one country. This reminds me of when my piano teacher told me that Beethoven could only have existed in a particular place and time, and nobody - no matter how talented - could write music like that today.
The guy at the Wendy's counter falls into the "extremely friendly" category of American. (There are two kinds of people in America. Those who are extremely, excessively friendly and delighted to answer your questions and make small talk, and those who wish you would die so they could get on with their business. There's not a lot of middle ground, at least in airports.) For a while, despite the line, he helps me debate which salad to get - lettuce, how I crave you! - and whether or not the chili is worth it. I end up getting a meal that includes at least ten ingredients. I sit down to eat it. At one point, the elderly woman next to me leans over and says "That smells good." Wendys: it may not be Taco Bell, but it's still satisfying.
There are still four hours until my flight. I repeat the Dickens airport orphan routine and finally decide to get a Frappuccino. Frappuccino, how I crave you. Until the girls rings it up, and I realize I just paid $5 for a milk shake.
Back to the plastic seat. These seats were not designed for comfort. The Delhi International Airport has beds. And sleep pods - where a charming attendant will set an alarm and wake you up before your flight. I would love a sleep pod right now.
It's still 4 hours until my flight, which has now been delayed another 25 minutes. Still no attractive people in the airport. Hmm.
It begins on the plane, after a journey that theoretically was a little over ten hours but actually felt like about ten years. I now expect, like Rip Van Winkle or one of those characters on a more experimental season of Star Trek (?) to emerge into a world that looks nothing like the world I left...
The two girls standing next to me in line to disembark are Americans but they've been living in Abu Dhabi for the past two years. We discuss the possibility of snow. I knew it was going to be cold, but it never ocurred to me that there might be snow. Apparently, there will be snow. I don't know how I feel about this - vaguely annoyed, actually, since I plan to travel to NYC and Chicago in the next two weeks - but on the other hand, when I say this, people look at me like I'm being treasonous. Okay then. It occurs to me as the three of us chat that it's true what they say about Americans - we really like to talk to strangers.
After about six hours of waiting on the runway (I am not exaggerating) we emerge into American AIR!! I always tell people that America smells like nothingness (as opposed to India, which smells very powerfully like something I would rather not name) but actually the air in this particular part of New York smells vaguely like weeks-old fast food. Odd.
I have no cell phone. This is going to be a serious problem because it means I have absolutely no way to entertain myself during the interminable waits that follow.
Even though there are signs everywhere, I still feel totally lost. I finally find the Delta counter and they charge me to check my bag because my domestic flight was booked separately from my international flight. In India, I would smile charmingly at the counter person and ask if they could "make an exception" and they probably would. I decide not to try this at the Delta desk at JFK airport.
They tell me I have to take something called an "Air Train" to Terminal 2. I suppress a brief flash of panic. I am a seasoned world traveler. I can figure out an Air Train. And there it is, helpfully labeled. There's a man standing at the door who is supposed to help us, I think, but clearly he got another job description memo because instead he is looking distressed and yelling at us because we are clearly too stupid to figure out the perfectly clear instructions on the Air Train. I get off at the stop labeled Terminal 2...
...only to discover that I've landed in some kind of inexplicable concrete wilderness. There are cars everywhere! Buildings everywhere! No people anywhere! Also, it's raining, a nasty freezing rain. I'm wearing leggings and a half-sleeve tunic. This seemed adequate back when I boarded the plane in New Delhi. It seems paltry now: I might as well be standing on this freeway naked. My teeth begin to chatter. After a minute of looking around, I realize that there is no helpful retinue of attendants hanging out here waiting for passengers to arrive. I will have to find Terminal 2 on my own.
There are three signs pointing me to Terminal 2, which is apparently only metres away and yet I still cannot see it anywhere. The signs point in different directions, so instead I wait around until I see a man in an orange vest get out of an elevator. "Terminal 2?" I ask. He gives me a look like he's deeply concerned - I'm standing in the freezing rain outside the clearly labeled Terminal 2 wearing nothing but a T-shirt, after all. I begin to see his point.
"It's right there," he says. Well, I feel stupid. I wander in that direction and eventually find my way into Terminal 2, where the first thing I see is a Starbucks. I get in line, then realize I have no American money. I do have a credit card, which is practically the same thing, but the line is long and I'm already bored and there's no doubt a Starbucks in just another twenty yards. So.
I brush my teeth in the airport bathroom. Do not knock this until you've tried it. After twenty hours of travel you probably emerge feeling distinctly inhuman, there is absolutely nothing so life-affirming as brushing your teeth at a time like this. Believe me. While I'm at it, I drink a healthy dose of tap water, because it probably won't kill me. My first drink in America: tap water. That's one thing off my checklist.
I get in line for the gates. There is a massive security line at JFK. I spend my time ogling people. They look unhappy and cold, like they're putting a brave face on something. Some have iPods, others stare blankly into space. It occurs to me as I stare that there don't appear to be any attractive people in this entire airport. What happened to all the beautiful people? I guess they don't fly through JFK.
And then I realize: naked scanners!!! I'm going to get scanned by the infamous naked scanners. This is absurdly exciting. After all the controversy, to finally experience these awful scanners strikes me as some serious good fortune. America and I: getting to know each other again.
The line moves slowly on. At security I yank out my change, my laptop, my belt and my shoes. There's not much left but they finally let me through. It's scanning time!
Here's how the naked scanner works: you stand in front of a blank blue wall and hold up your hands for a moment. Then the TSA woman says "next" and you move on.
This is not what I expected at all. My time in front of the blank blue wall lasts for about a second. I try to make meaningful eye contact with the agent who just saw me naked, but he seems underwhelmed. This would sting but that's kinda how I feel about the entire naked scanning experience. I could take it or leave it.
Flashback: my best experience ever with airport people is a tie. Option 1) Traveling from Seattle to DC, and there's no one else waiting to check into Alaska Airlines, which results in an absurdly pleasant exchange with the three people behind the counter. They help me put my luggage on a cart - and don't charge me for the checked bag - we shoot the breeze. This is by far the best airpeople experience I've ever had EXCEPT for Option 2) I'm 17, traveling with my father and sister. I still remember what I was wearing and the fact that I had on more makeup than normal. The TSA agent in charge of helping me unload my laptop is really young and really attractive, and helps me for far longer than is strictly necessary, to the point that his TSA buddy eventually has to remind him to attend to the other people in line. This is definitely my best TSA experience ever.
So anyway, now I'm at the gates. I'm a bit disturbed that my flight is an hour late, but then I realize that this tiny waiting area has both a Starbucks and a Wendy's. And at least ten other restaurants. I spend about ten minutes wheeling my bag from fast food joint to fast food joint, standing outside of each and gazing wistfully at the menu like a particularly tragic Dickens orphan.
I still have no American money.
I sit down to read but I'm distracted by the aroma of fast food, which is even stronger here than outside. On the plane, me and the girls from Abu Dhabi made the kinds of ridiculous vows that expats make: "I'm going to eat bacon every day" (them) or "I'm going to drink tap water with every meal" (me). I decide to go to Wendy's. Oh smorgasboard of delightful options!
Flashback to the flight: They served Indian food. As I chewed on the lukewarm stewed paneer and spinach, I realized that it's been a really long time since I've had truly bad Indian food. It's as if the chef on Etihad Airways tasted Indian food once, years ago, and doesn't really remember what any of the ingredients were, but he's trying to recreate it out of respect for some obligation. I know airline food is always bad, but it makes me sad to realize that there may be a world of flavors that only exist in one country. This reminds me of when my piano teacher told me that Beethoven could only have existed in a particular place and time, and nobody - no matter how talented - could write music like that today.
The guy at the Wendy's counter falls into the "extremely friendly" category of American. (There are two kinds of people in America. Those who are extremely, excessively friendly and delighted to answer your questions and make small talk, and those who wish you would die so they could get on with their business. There's not a lot of middle ground, at least in airports.) For a while, despite the line, he helps me debate which salad to get - lettuce, how I crave you! - and whether or not the chili is worth it. I end up getting a meal that includes at least ten ingredients. I sit down to eat it. At one point, the elderly woman next to me leans over and says "That smells good." Wendys: it may not be Taco Bell, but it's still satisfying.
There are still four hours until my flight. I repeat the Dickens airport orphan routine and finally decide to get a Frappuccino. Frappuccino, how I crave you. Until the girls rings it up, and I realize I just paid $5 for a milk shake.
Back to the plastic seat. These seats were not designed for comfort. The Delhi International Airport has beds. And sleep pods - where a charming attendant will set an alarm and wake you up before your flight. I would love a sleep pod right now.
It's still 4 hours until my flight, which has now been delayed another 25 minutes. Still no attractive people in the airport. Hmm.
I do feel it is a little misplaced a comparison, on bare facts, you would be right, but to remember New Delhi airport is just a year old(the present form) and JFK has been nearly the same since 1999.
ReplyDeleteAmerican airports and airlines have never had the X factor, even say 10 years ago when none of the Asian airports were yet world class(* barring Changi and the ones in Japan).
And EWR and JFK are one of the lesser desired airports in US, they handle too much air traffic as well, easily 5-6 times what Mumbai and Delhi does.
I know your comparison was not on airports or the countries per se, but i did feel it was not an even comparison. Delhi airport a decade back was pitiable, a woman lost her life in the elevator - that's how bad it was.
Some things have become a chore, air travel is one - be it India or US of A.
KA