Sixteen Hours in the Geneva Airport (Part I)

It was shockingly stupid. It was alarmingly blockheaded. It was dumbfounding. To discover at the age of twenty-three that one has not grasped the difference between noon and midnight is a sobering revelation indeed. It was like forgetting how to tie a shoelace, stumped right after you form the two bunny ears.

I had arrived in Geneva at 8:25 p.m. After a quick trip to the ladies I walked to the monitor to find my gate, one hundred percent expecting to find a plane bound for JFK. I scanned. I searched. I fine-tooth-combed that screen. No New York.

Wrong terminal? No, Geneva International Airport only has one terminal and in what seems like a historically typical Genevan design, only one large runway that all the airlines share. Wrong country? No, no, I can smell chocolate and everyone is speaking French. “Well Whit, let’s go find a friendly face to ask,” intrepid Whitney said to herself. Intrepid Whitney always speaks in third person.

“Do you speak English?” “Oui, I speak English,” responded the Swiss customer service representative. She seemed radiant, like she had gone skiing before work. I mumbled, “Where’s New York.” She responded with a prim, “Pardon?” but I was dauntless. “The plane to JFK that is leaving tonight? Where is the gate for that plane?” She firmly explained that the soonest plane bound for New York City was tomorrow, at twelve thirty-five, and I gasped.

Most of Europe enjoys the twenty-four hour clock and just for good measure, the metric system, too. Leave it to the USA to be unique and stubborn and insist on using ambiguous, arbitrary units like a “yard” that is three “feet” that is twelve “inches.” The plane is leaving at 12:35 “p.m.” not 12:35 “a.m.” “Planes” don’t leave airports “after midnight.”

Fat tears sprung to my eyes. That mixed with a penchant for black eyeliner made me look like a raccoon that had just lost a fist fight. I was mentally, physically, and alcoholically spent. I was wrapping up a week drinking so much vodka with my old college roommate that I was forced to switch to these pink, flavored malt beverages hysterically named Tequila Sombrero and Sunny Beaches. Basically they are the Russian equivalent of Smirnoff Ice, but taking into account how Moscow is five years behind the rest of the world in terms music, movies, and chick drinks, I’m going to have to say they are the Russian equivalent of Zima.

Through the fog of this interminable hangover I struggled through some mental math until the truth of my situation hit me like a kilogram of Swiss watches. I was starting a sixteen hour layover and walking away from the counter, I did what anyone in my position would do. I said “Aw, man c’mon” aloud to no one in particular. I tilted up my face and shook jazz hands in front of my eyes because I was embarrassed I was crying. I irrationally panicked I was going to starve to death. That a security guard would find my lifeless body, all skin and bones and whisper, “After the food court closed at ten, she just gave up all hope. You can’t live without hope.”

What did you eat the last time you were at the airport?