- Destination Updates
- Testing the Compression Straps
- Auspicious Beginnings
- Even Old New York was Once New Amsterdam
- Accidentally in Asia
- European Capital of Culture
- Father of the Turks
- Morning in Cappadocia
- Ask an Imam
- Cleaning Up
- The Cast
- The Long Goodbye
- Our Fearless Leader
- Survivor: Istanbul Finalists
- Asia Minor Gallery
- Istanbul Notes
- Ankara Notes
- Cappadocia Notes
- Antalya Notes
- Konya Notes
- Ephesus Notes
Torrents of rain in our departure city. A near miss – with two planes in midair coming within 100 feet of each other – at the airport just hours before our flight was due to leave. These events, combined with our feeling of general unease – that we are forgetting something big and obvious – made our departure mood less than buoyant.
But nothing can kill the spirit of adventure like departing from Terminal 5 at Chicago O’Hare. Indeed, the feel of the place evoked less of “Terminal” as a noun and more of its meaning as an adjective. Its gray and gray color scheme – gray walls, worn gray pinstripe carpeting – suggested a morgue, but without the cheer.
Getting to our plane was a dreary march past empty gates, shuttered stores, and abandoned kiosks. A coffee stand, with its promise of the invigorating aroma of espresso, was pushed behind a pillar to be forgotten. It sad logo – chipped and faded – looked out from the tarpaulin that had been used to bury it.
Wide corridors hinting at the worst excesses of Soviet Constructuralist architecture highlighted the teeming masses of travelers that do not exist. Overhead, only one of every seven florescent bulbs shimmered unenthusiastically. This aura was not improved by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows broadcasting the early evening which heralds the onset of fall.
One of the few open shops was the duty free store. Even though it was well-lit and catered to popular vices, the surrounding gloom made the lure of its corrupting wares about as appealing as a well-thumbed men’s magazine in a downtown bus station.
Missing from this departure was the sense of excitement or thrill that an international flight – and certainly an international terminal – can bring. Gone was the energy of people returning home or off to begin new adventures. The churning eddys of people shuffling in anticipation was replaced by rows of people fidgeting on gray faux-leather seats staring into an ill-lit evening at nothing in particular.
While the bright turquoise seats in the plane was a pleasant departure from the dismal terminal, the mood brightened considerably with the arrival of our fellow passenger. She was about 6 months old, clad in a sharp pink onesie, sporting two teeth and a pompadour of large, brown curls. Tucked under her mother’s arm, she had a perfect perch with which to view her the others on her flight. For some unknown reason, she was glad to see me. Very glad: the arms shook, the feet clapped together, the entire face was a visage of unadulterated pleasure.
Things began to improve. Our young traveler was well-behaved the whole flight, we were fed and entertained, and arrived in one piece. All in all, a fairly uneventful flight…
… with the exception of the time they called over the PA system to see if there was a doctor on board. Still not sure what that was about.
