Sixteen Hours in the Geneva Airport (Part III)

Even in Geneva, even in the airport, the hair removal infomercial plays late at night. The one where the Before scenes are in black and white and a red "X" crosses over the pile of razors. I can’t help but cringe every time the lady nicks herself and it was at that point I decided to explore.

I felt like a mall guard with the graveyard shift. I whistled. I window-shopped. The designer sunglasses were indistinguishable from the Moscow knock-offs. The cigarette warnings, however, were very candid, ranging from “Smoking causes a long and painful death” to “Cigarette smoke will damage your sperm.”

Sleepier now, I took the escalator to the second floor and was faced with row upon row of plastic bucket chairs. One would think the Swiss could design functional, ergonomic airport bleachers, but they had opted for the oversized eggcrate, too. I walked over to where the V.I.P. lounges were but a heavy door with a keypad blocked my entrance. I jiggled the handle forcibly. I typed in some birthdays and my cell phone number. I laid my forehead against the door with my eyes closed and slowly petted the numbered buttons. No sesame.

I left the V.I.P. lounges resigned and wandered over to a sign of a stickfigure baby . Through glass windows, I saw there a romper room filled with toys and bean bag chairs and blocks and crayon drawings. It looked so cheerful I was almost happy. Almost happy until I was refused entrance into that room, too. My tired eyes disbelieved what they saw next, not trusting that something so appropriate could exist at this moment of defeat. According to the plaque, I had discovered at the end of a dead-end hallway, a self-described Meditation Room, and it was open.

I entered the wood-paneled sanctuary. The wood was particularly striking because airports are grey and metal and this room felt so warm, so upper-class squirrel family's living room. A religious squirrel family, from the looks of it. There were multiple Bibles in a battery of languages, several versions of the Torah, prayer rugs, alters and plants. Not nondenominational, but every-denominational. It seemed unceremonial, frequently used, and safe; I knew that’s where I would sleep that night.

I was sitting on the floor when I reached that decision, gazing at a back-lit royal blue screen that covered most of the back wall. I was thinking that someone must take care of this room and water these plants and also remember to not turn off the light that made the screen in front of me look downright holy. The screen was so captivating at the time, I felt compelled to stand and approach it. I padded over to one side, now in my socks, and not knowing why or expecting anything for the effort, peeked behind the screen. I was to be shocked for the second time that night.

Behind the blue there was a red and tattered mattress. Hidden from plain view but there for my service nonetheless . A mattress, of all the things to find at two in the morning behind the back-lit blue screen in the Meditation Room of the Geneva International Airport.

The following morning when I awoke I had no idea where I was until I blearily received the prayer rugs. The events of the previous night took shape from a very groggy place – I reached beneath me to physically confirm my bed. I then popped in gum, packed up and returned the mattress to its concealed state.

When I left the Meditation Room I frightened a vacuuming maid. She was not expecting someone to emerge from a room she had seen no one enter. My presence was noted with an intake of breath and a hand over her chest, but when I smiled, she relaxed and wished me good morning. She was pleasantly surprised when I took both her hands in mine and returned the salutation.

When I was seated, finally, I kicked off my shoes and stared out the window, wondering who had left the mattress there and who had used it besides me. There seemed to lurk some urgent, life-affirming lesson in there for one to meditate on in an airplane.

But this revelry was broken by the passenger in front of me, who minutes after take-off turned around and asked me, “Excuse me, do you speak English?” When I amiably responded in the affirmative, she announced to the plane, “Thank God, your feet stink.” Touché seat 27B. My feet were stinky. Stinky feet that were on their way back home.

What's your favorite airport?