Adventures in Washington Dulles Airport December 2015

My adventures in Washington Dulles Airport December 2015

I am flying home from Virginia after spending a fortnight with my daughter and three grandchildren over the Thanksgiving Holidays. We had spent a lovely Thanksgiving Day with Dr. Thomas Albert (Carolyn’s music director) and his family. We had been to see rock n’ roll artist Patrick Sweany at the Bright Box in Old Town, Winchester, Romeo and Juliet at the Shenandoah Theatre and visited the Museum of Shenandoah Valley to view costumes from the British movies on loan from BAFTA. This was my favorite worn by Mrs. Barry in the movie, Finding Neverland.   

My daughter teaches at noon so I am dropped off early at 10:30 a.m. for a 5.30 p.m. flight, but I do not mind because I look forward to meeting interesting people at the airport. I discovered my interest in foreign and different people when I hitchhiked around Europe a couple of times with my cousin Marigold when we were in our early twenties, and it is while traveling that one finds exotic people.

I try to check my bag but there is a new procedure and I am sent to go to one of the new machines in the terminal. You punch in details of flight and a label is printed out to go on luggage. Then the bag goes over to the bag checker. More automation, soon there will be less and less jobs at the airport.

 I am off on my adventure through the airport. “Where do I go?” I ask the assistant standing in a central position. “I’ll get you a wheel chair,” she offers. “No, No, I don’t want a wheel chair, I have five hours to find my way through the airport” I insist. The next guide at the entrance to gates points me in the direction of an elevator when I tell him “I don’t do escalators or stairs.” “Okay”, he says, “then punch in M for Monkey.” I suppose he thinks I will forget M for Main.

I find myself in a long cravenness area leading to the security checkpoint. The officer looks at my boarding pass, and gasps, “5.30 pm boarding time.” It is about 11:45 am. “I know,” I reply. “I did ask my granddaughter would I should do and she said, ‘Shop, Shop!’” He laughs. This the first time I have ever made a security guard laugh. “Well, there are some good eating places around the D gates.” He tells me.

Next stop, an attendant who points left or right to go through security checkpoint. I go left and find myself behind a tall foreign man trying to handle four pieces of baggage. He tries to balance the lighter ones on top of the carry-on suitcases while he looks for his boarding pass. Why has he four pieces of luggage I wonder and then I spy his wife, master or owner who glances occasionally back at him. He has great difficulty getting the four pieces of luggage on inspection trays and even more trouble balancing the smaller bag on top of carry-on bag to start his walk again. I am observing them and the woman gives me a glare – why does she remind me of an opera singer perhaps it is her haughty gaze. She is quite elegant; obviously, she should not have to carry even her handbag, which this poor soul is trying to manage. He starts shuffling off, and his walk reminds me of the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz.  “This way,” She commands and they go off in a different direction to me.  

The next area has a donut shop and so I buy two. Then I see a newsagent, I will treat myself to a newspaper, I’ve always liked the Wall Street Journal - $3, the last time I bought a newspaper it was $1.50! A wheelchair goes past me, “I’ll come back for you,” The pusher insists. “No, No,” I insist. “I am okay.” Time for a ride on a train. There two different kinds of trains; I don’t know why sometimes one goes on the posh one and other times not.

We arrive at Gates D & C and I start up the slope to main area. “Let me get you a wheel chair,” an assistant offers. “No, No, I have loads of time.” I spy the Lancôme shop and go to investigate. Manage to contain myself and only purchase a lipstick for $12. 

Next to eat and I look at the menu at the first eating establishment, Bistro Atelier. An English breakfast catches my eye. There is a long bar and eating area. A couple of waiters wander around so I guess this is how you get food. A tall angular man in his fifties guides me to table at front of entrance but I would rather sit behind in the corner so I can watch people walk by. The breakfast comes and it is enormous, must have been 4 eggs scrambled and 4 rasher of bacon and a pile of French fries. He brings me coffee and a large glass of water. I hear an accent and I ask where he is from. I am born in the States he says, but then admits that Greek is his first language – he had a mother who insisted he speak Greek so he could understand the culture. He also speaks, French, Italian and Spanish. He tells me about his father, who was born in 1901 and immigrated to the States and their early life. He works at this eating establishment until noon and then on to another and another. He obviously has it down to a fine art and works when the trade is busy. It is very quiet now, the early morning travelers are gone. I attempt to refill my water bottle from the glass of water, but he insists of filling it from the tap at the bar. I read my newspaper and watch the world go by. He gets a $4 tip and so my breakfast was $18.

I check the screens and my flight is still going from Gate D1, which is way down the corridor. So maybe I should start to walk.  

I love the felt carpeting, which is so much easier to walk on than shiny marble floors at Sacramento Airport. At one point, there is a steep slope and I rest for a while. I remember Gate D1, I have left from there before and it is very quiet. I look around for somewhere to sleep and notice there are already two women lying down along the side walls, and so this must be the place.  

I find a place along the outer wall in-between the other two sleepers and lay down. It is amazing how much more rest you get when lying down rather than sitting up. An hour or so goes by and I hear the announcement for boarding for Denver. I sit up and look around. I see there is a man sitting near me, next to the sleeping woman. I look accusingly at him, and ask, “Are you going to Sacramento?” Yes, he replied and explained he and his wife had a dreadful delayed journey from Nashville because of the heavy rain. Nashville! I think. What a delicious accent. He is willing to talk. He is going to officiate at a funeral of a very dear friend who had just died of cancer. He is a “preacher man” from the South. How marvelous, I think, and we talk for an hour. He first had a funeral business and then sold it to his brother. Now he is a stonemason making the headstones for all over the area. He shows me examples of his work on his phone and covers a wide area up to Tennessee. His son is in the business with him. He likes this better because he can control his time better. He seems to have always been in the death business but is remarkably cheerful. I ask him, do you feel there is a life after death? “Yes” he nods. His wife wakes up and smiles kindly at us. She has heard these stories before.

We both lay down to rest again.  It is nearing boarding time and I realize I should have found something to eat because we have a five-hour flight but there is only pizza nearby so I will have to buy something on the plane. I take off for the bathroom, “Do you want a ride?” says a cheerful chap in a buggy. “This is a pretty good job you have” I remark, “riding around the airport giving people rides.” He grins.

The flight is unremarkable. I do talk to a Chinese couple seated behind me who have been here since 1949 but look as if they had just got off the boat. When we disembark, there is only one wheel chair; I think the Chinese woman needs it more than I do and insist on walking out. Nevertheless, the attendant orders another one for me and a young student from Pakistan wheels us both down to baggage claim. He tells my new Chinese friends he spent 10 months in China and loved it. He has cousins in England. A big family contingent meets my Chinese friends and so the student wheels me out to area where the limo is waiting. I turn to look at him and marvel at his hairstyle. Cut very short sides and back with a big pile on top of his head.  How did you manage that I ask. When I blow-dry it, I spray it with hair spray. Must be one of the new styles for young men, I think!

Trip nearly over. But not quite. I board the limo and driver picks up a “walker”, this is the name given to a casual pick-up. Yes, he is a student but busy picking people up and dropping them off -five passengers. There is one woman left on the van as we take off on Highway 80, she lives in Dixon and we turn into the country. He drives purposely as if he knew the area although I could see he was using a GPS. I compliment him on his navigation skills and the woman who was being dropped off agreed laughing, commenting that it was easier in the daylight.

We are alone, perhaps now he will talk. “What are you studying,” I ask. “Sociology” he replies. Interesting I think. Then he starts talking, telling me that he started in Astrology Engineering, but he hated it; then he took Economics and had more negatives things to say about that discipline. Then he found Sociology. I ask what his parents thought of these changes. They had never been to college and didn’t really understand. However, I did because I discovered Anthropology when taking a Physical Anthropology class for my degree at the University of San Francisco. By this time, we are at my house and I am signing charge bill. “So what will you do with this education,” I ask. “I hope to do something to help the poor.” My goodness, how wonderful, I reply and I wish him well.

Thank you to the people who made my trip so much more interesting!