Stranded

This was not written in my free hotel room in Amsterdam

or in one of the endless lineups at the airport

or in the plane, waiting for another technical issue

to resolve itself.

("The problem has disappeared", announces the captain.

Am I supposed to feel relieved?)

I kept thinking: I have to write this down

I have to write about this

But I didn't.

I just wanted to get home.

So here it goes:

Thousands of people were probably thinking

the same thing as I was.

Or were they?

The bitch whom the attendant refused at the gate

So that I could get on the plane —

I felt bad, maybe for a minute,

before incredible relief kicked in.

Or that little lady with the broken English

Who inserted herself in front of me:

"I was here, I was here before. Ask the gentleman in front."

You're going to london anyway, I thought.

Heathrow is closed today and tomorrow,

Go get a hotel room.

Which is what I did in the end,

Besides, I was in the wrong line.

Humans become cattle

queuing, shuffling;

kicking their luggage around,

too lazy to pick it up,

dozing on the floor, against pillars;

everyone is a potential angered customer

and lineups are calculated in length of wait

(averaging around 2.5 hours).

Every so often they send someone

to calm people down with desperate smiles

and a fair amount of shoulder shrugging.

They hand out water bottles and chocolate bars.

(Damage control?)

I become a specialist of air travel lingo:

Misconnections, short connections,

re-bookings, flights cancelled or delayed,

luggage rushed, lost, or on-hold;

I know what it means to be stand by,

not to have a seat on that plane you see outside

until the very last second,

to be alone, yet constantly surrounded

by people with the same problem.

I know what it means to be

stranded.