#hotpilot

Oh you deceitful little bitch. Your younger brother 2015 never made it a secret that he was out to get me, to get me good. But you, 2016, with all your promises of better things to come, allaying my suspiciousness with the silent beauty of fallen snowflakes paving the way into a better future - you really had me believing I had left all bad luck behind. And most of my own stupidity.

I should have never let my guards down, never let you lure me into such a wrongful sense of security. But I didn’t know better. Not then…

I took a deep breath. You know, not the kind you actually have to take to fuel your body with a sufficient amount of oxygen. No, the cathartic kind, the type you use to absorb all positivity and as you breathe out again you let go of all your fears, worries and negative thoughts. Very zen, very new age.

I opened my eyes and took in the beautiful hustle and loud noises of people rushing from left to right, running, jogging, strolling, reading, talking, laughing, bumping into each other, crossing diagonally, carrying or pulling bags behind them. Some might find all this chaos unsettling, all the noises irritating but I think it was beautiful. Like ballet. Airport ballet. My favorite play is and has always been the London version.

“Darling” – they say, and “Deary, anything else?” – “My pleasure”. They are so polite and yet seem so honest. If you are being asked “Is everything okay?” … well, I will get to this later.

My plane from Dusseldorf had landed at Heathrow earlier this morning and I had more than four hours to kill before my connecting flight to the States would leave – more precisely take me to my next layover at the George W Bush Airport – the name of the airport was so long that the actual city of the airport did not fit on my boarding pass. But it obviously was in Texas. Duh.

I had already passed security, gotten lunch and a cup of not-coffee from Pret A Manger and was sitting with a book in my lap right in front of one of the monitors in the big waiting area of what I call the “spend your money out of boredom” terminal. I was so early that they hadn’t even announced my flight’s gate yet. The monitor only showed the flight number, destination and time.  

The book was brilliant, one of those you really don’t want to put down. But I always kept one eye on the monitor. And finally. They announced the gates for all the flights leaving at 14.30 (2.30pm – you are welcome): C64. I packed my stuff, took one of those fancy futuristic trains to my gate and walked up to gate number C64. How convenient! A Starbucks was right across from it. I mean, I already had my drink with me, but they have such comfy seats. Obviously, being a good and thorough German and all, I checked my flight on the board. 14.30! Austin, yupp, Texas, also right. Per-fect.

So I sat there in my big arm chair, legs crossed, sipping a coffee-looking substance, nose in a book –  I should get some of those fake hipster reading glasses to perfect the picture next time. 

When people got up to line up in front of the check in, I decided to wait another minute or two. I mean, what’s the rush anyways? We all have a reserved seat, and the plane isn’t gonna leave without us, right? 

Eventually, I joined the people in line, ready to board, had a quick witty talk with a lovely British lady and finally handed my boarding pass to the British Airways employee. She scanned the barcode and – dodoom. No sweet light hearted beep. A deep irritating sound followed by a red flashing light.

She tried again. Sound. Red light. What the bloody hell was going on…? Did I get flagged? I knew I shouldn’t have packed five kilos of chocolate, it was excessive, but is that really a reason to…

“Ma’am, this isn’t your flight.” - Huh? - “Huh?” – “This isn’t your flight…” What the… she handed me my boarding pass back. “Of course this is my flight. Here. 14.30, Austin. And here… 14.30…” She shook her head as people behind me got restless. “You are not going to Austin…” “Excuse me?” “Your ticket is for Dallas. Not Austin.”

What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!

Flashback inside my head: I see myself sitting in front of those monitors. Yes, right there it says ‘Austin 14.30’ and right underneath ‘Dallas 14.30’ and I look at my ticket and it doesn’t actually say the city, it only says George W Bush. But I know it is in Dallas right? I know it. So when the Gates are announced… did I just read the Gate for the wrong city by mistake? Or did I look for Austin because I thought that’s where the George W. Bush airport is at? No, I know it is in Dallas. Then why was I totally cool with sitting in front of a gate that clearly stated ‘Austin’? And why the fuck does it even matter and why are you wasting valuable time pondering about this when you should be fucking running through this fucking airport and at least attempt to make it? Go!! Goooo!!!!

I turned on my heel, took a step forward, turned back around, looked at the lady and said: “Tell them I’m coming.” So Hollywood. She just looked at me like I was crazy for even trying. Clearly the other plane was boarding already as well. I took another step, I looked around and realized I was in the middle of a goddamn maze. I turned back around, same stern and determined expression on my face and ask: “How do I get there?” The lady sighed and told me to take the elevator, go straight, right, then down, left to the train. Gotcha!

And I’m running. As fast as my feet can carry me. I look around. Elevator. Elevator. Where is that fucking elevator. Elevator… Oh there you are. Boom, hit the button. Nothing. Hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit. Come on! Doors slide open, I jump in. And doors close again, in slow motion. Why?? We are going down, I see the train platform but nobody is there. Luckily I see an employee in a likewise empty corridor. He tells me it is the right platform. It is just empty cause usually people only exit and don’t board from this side. You know what? Why don’t you keep your smartassness and judgment to yourself? Thank you.

Finally, the train arrives and I get in. I almost fall into a group of very handsome and dapper looking PILOTS! I try to put on a very nonchalant expression and must have miserably failed since one of the pilots, about 35 years old, tall, well-built, handsome face, great smile, asks me: “Are you okay ma’am?” I was ready to say “Who, me? Yes of course!” Give him an irresistible smile and hope he’ll ask for my number. But unfortunately I catch my own reflection in the train window. I’m white like a sheet. Cold sweat is glistening on my forehead, gluing nasty streaks of hair to it.

“Not exactly. I was at the wrong gate and now I am trying to still make my actual flight. But I doubt it’ll happen.” Oh and there it is. That handsome, charming, slightly superior smile and I’m shivering. It is a good shiver. His tone is gentle, yet determined: “Don’t give up yet. I’m sure there’s still a chance. What time is the departure?” Yes. He says there’s still a chance. Is he still talking about the plane or is there subtext? FOCUS CHIARA – FOCUS! I take a deep breath, because I know in a mere couple of seconds my very comfy bubble will burst and I’ll get thrown back into reality. “Two thirty.”

I have never seen a smile fade away that quickly. He doesn’t even check his watch. I’m telling you, the smile was completely wiped of his face and all I could see was pity. Not the good, warm, I’ll-take you-to-my-place-and-give-you-a-bed-to-sleep-in-kind, though. And even worse, he tried to force it back on his face but at that point I was already over it. “Oh. Well…” I cut him off “I know…” More pity. From him and all his colleagues. The train stops, he tells me which side the doors will open. He is wrong. Awkward. I leave, say good bye, still slightly hoping he will come after me, take me in his arms and… FOCUS! I’m already on the platform, ready to start sprinting again when I hear him yell after me “Good luck!” My heart makes a little jump. And I start running.