My body temperature has dropped and I can feel the curling line of tension -- part exhaustion, part shiver -- pinching my spine as I sit at the lone white bar counter. This is not what I had in mind for a late night stint at the bar: artificial light glaring down and stale McDonald’s wafting in the air. Then again, neither did I think I would be sitting at the “Sea Food Bar: Caviar House & Prunier” kiosk all alone on Christmas Eve. At the JKF airport.
At this time (1:00 AM New York time), I am supposed to be somewhere over the Atlantic, hovering between sleep and some movie I‘ll never remember. I’m supposed to be halfway home to Madrid. Halfway to Christmas with the parents. And halfway to a decent night’s sleep in my bed.
But then this happened. I left my apartment on time, took the L, then the A, then the AirTran all the way out to JFK only to stand in line for two hours for a flight that got postponed till the next day. For no apparent reason.
They sprung the news on us rather surreptitiously. As she was handing me my board pass, the desk attendant slipped it in like the flimsy pass stuck in my passport. “Your flight has been postponed until 6:00 AM. Here’s your boarding pass. And if you take a left, then a quick right and look for the two Air Europa personnel standing by the door, they will direct you to the bus that will take you to the hotel….”
I tuned her out after “6:00 AM.” I scooped up my bags and then spent the next 15 minutes tracking down the elusive bus. After a bumpy ride in a bus that looked like it had been borrowed from NYC Transit, we arrived at a white block of cement called the JFK Hotel. Original name. I staggered through the doors to the back of another line. I was getting rather good at this.
Another hour dragged by. By now, the crowd of disgruntled passengers had become more animated. I say a bit, because the group -- by and large made up of Spaniards homeward bound -- were a patient, resigned bunch, biding their time in line. Spaniards are good at this. They wisely know not to expect much. Even after waiting three hours in line, energy was high -- as I could tell from the booming conversations pelting me on all sides. We were just 45, then 30, then 20 people away from starchy sheets and ugly carpeting.
Or so we thought. Gradually, rumblings of “over capacity” made their way down the line. The rumors, first just hinted at, became bitter truth when the front desk started turning people away. That’s when the herd mentality took over. We were still a step away from full on mob status, but that didn’t stop swarms of Spaniards from rushing for the hotel doors. To what, I don’t know.
A dazed look settled on my face, and after several false starts, I made my way out into the howling cold. The word in the parking lot was that another bus was on its way. Hotel #2 was a real possibility.
I was wrong again. Like my grounded flight, this bus sat in the parking lot of the infamous JFK Hotel for 20 minutes. By now a dark sense of humor had seeped into the bus. As the driver attempted to cram more and more people into the now gorged space, someone yelled out “Titanic!.” The bus puttered to life and crawled toward the next hotel, dutifully stopping for every red light and slowing down to a painful halt for every curve. We all laughed when one woman took over as “tour guide” on the bus. She handled us like a pro. Every line about a “parcela adosada” and “borough walkabout” set off another round of giggles. This was more of Far Rockaway than I ever expected or wanted to see.
Finally, we arrived. Hotel #2 was more grand than its predecessor. Cristal chandeliers and mirrored ceilings illuminated our under-eye circles and airplane hair (and this, before even getting on an airplane!). It was also smaller. Twenty minute into the wait, one self-appointed town crier announced that only 26 rooms remained. I did the mental math. No room for me.
That’s when my survival instinct kicked in to high gear. So far, I had remained rather amiable about the situation. I had stood placidly for two hours at the airport, taken the news of my flight’s delay with a saintly look, chuckled with the rest of my bus mates, and even scraped out a friendly comment here and there.
But now I’d had enough. I was jumping ship. I cornered a security guard and interrogated him over the arrival of the next airport-bound bus. I had given up on ever making it into an actual hotel room. When he feebly pointed to a white van sitting out front, I ran out the door and pushed my way into the ragtag crew of other homeless Air Europa victims already inside. As we sat there waiting for our now disappeared driver, another bus pulled up, dumping more confused travelers at the full hotel. Unlucky bastards. I hunkered down into my bench seat, frantically hoping they wouldn’t see us. “We don’t have room,” I thought. “Please, please, PLEASE, just get us back to the airport.”
Our driver, rather suspiciously clad in a military-patterned parka, returned. And just like that, we drove off. Back to JFK. Lil’ Wayne played on as our de facto holiday soundtrack.
So here I sit at JFK. Since starting to write this blog post, I have been kicked off my bar stool at the “Sea Food.” Apparently, they’re closed. I have taken up residency at a sticky table next door at Peet’s Coffee & Tea. The food court in which I sit is littered with the bodies of exhausted travelers. It’s like that scene in your stereotypical “end of the word” sci-fi film where everyone must flee to save their lives. Only in this case, the huddled bodies make the air stale and leave behind sticky tables piled with junk food debris.
I can see a line of drool slithering down the face of one oblivious sleeper. That you don’t see in the movies. Then again, neither do you see this: a couple lying in sleeping embrace on the cold marble floor. A boyfriend wistfully kissing his girlfriend goodbye and then pulling her close again in front of the TSA guard. Two veil-clad women saying their tearful goodbyes before setting off for homes, which I can only assume, are separated by thousands of miles.
From my perch at Peet’s, I can report that Christmas cheer is alive and well at the JFK airport. And if it changes, I will let you know. I’m not leaving anytime soon.
Merry Christmas!
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