“I don’t think you fly today.” When I close my eyes, I can still hear the Kazakh immigrations agent informing us that we’d neglected to get an extra stamp from the regional police office before departing and, as a result, we were going to have to miss our flight. We’d already slept in the airport and exhausted all our connections in Almaty; we’d also been traveling through Central Asia for over a month in the summer and we were very tired. “I don’t think you fly today.” It was a pithy statement that managed to condense every possible disappointment we’d faced along the way. All the visas, embassies, checkpoints, etc. had ultimately brought us here. To face this somewhat sympathetic, but implacable agent. For a moment, there seemed to be nothing to do but give up.
And yet, somehow, they let us go. I’m not sure why, maybe they realized that excessive rules were meant to be broken or just that the consequences of breaking them weren’t really that stiff. Either way, at some point, someone with authority decided to wave us through. We gloated our way through security and joined the sad-eyed crush in the airport’s smoking lounge where we toasted mini bottles of champagne to celebrate the end of our trip and triumph over pointless bureaucracy. It was a great feeling of exhaustion and elation and though it’s been over ten years, I’m still thankful to whoever decided to let us go.
But the sense that bureaucracy could slam down without warning, especially while traveling, has remained with me. At ever border, outside every airport, I’ve become terrified of forgetting some crucial piece. Of missing some vital Kafkaesque step in the entering/exiting process and being turned away to watch the clock run out or to await an uncertain tomorrow. Perhaps, this fear is innate in all of us and only needs the right experience to activate it and turn it into an outright phobia.
Knowing this aspect of myself, I can only blame my botched visit to Frankfurt on 12 hours of flight disorientation and maybe the dammed adventurism in my immigrant veins that constantly prods me into new experiences with a sort of “nothing ventured, nothing gained” mentality. Especially as I am now quite old enough to know that ‘venturing’ can lead to a more profound kind of loss than standing still.
…
The flight from SFO to Frankfurt wasn’t terrible, considering it was a full flight and loaded with the sounds, smells and associated discomfitures of 100s of people in a very limited space for a substantial amount of time. They’d given me plenty to eat and when I’d roused myself from my torpor—the sort of twilight sleep one enters on overnight flights when one is seated between two other passengers with very little leg room— we’d only had an hour left of our flight. For a ten-hour flight, it had gone well enough, but I will still anxious to stretch my legs a little after being cooped up for such an unnatural period, especially as I was connecting to a five-hour flight to finish my journey.
Five hours is an awful time for a layover. It’s just long enough to tempt you away from the airport, but short enough so that you have very little time to enjoy yourself wherever you intend to go. So, it’s either, slink around the airport, basically indulging in the same environment you were just in the on the plane, or fry your mind with the stress of making a mad dash into a new city with only enough time to make the round trip journey and buy a quick souvenir—if you’re the type that buys such things. Me? I buy coffee everywhere I go, which only makes things much worse.
I had a coffee in the airport and perhaps that’s what hastened my terrible decision to visit Frankfurt. After the coffee, I had no other plans and I couldn’t bring myself to settle down with the Ovid I’d brought with me for the next five hours. Also, just getting off the plane and having a sip of coffee, I felt a sort of resurrection and I was anxious to make use of it. Staying in the airport seemed the coward’s way out. Not for me! I would go into the city! I all but scoffed at those waiting at gates on my way to the exit and baggage claim.
I probably should’ve been tipped off by the German immigration agents supercilious looks. “You’re going where? How much time do you have?” When I inquired if they thought I’d be alright they only added. “Don’t be late.” I dismissed all this as so much worry-wortism and passed from the limbo of the airport to a vibrant German mall that, was, well, much like the airport, but dirtier. There was a McDonald’s and some kind of ‘wurst’ place and the vague sewage smell such subterranean malls have. Surprisingly, I made it to the train platform before my anxiety was triggered. Even as I left the familiarity of the airport and made my way through the mall, I didn’t balk, but, at the platform, looking over the map, listening to the roar of multiple trains arriving and departing at once, I realized this damn train had more lines than the NYC subway and I didn’t know where I was going nor what line and platform it would be on. I also didn’t have much time to figure it out. The clock was already ticking.
My sole experience with Germany previous to this had been in Berlin, largely in the company of a German citizen. In Berlin, I’d heard more English on the street than German. In Frankfurt, I was already hearing a lot more German. I stood by the train ticket machine, looking dumbfounded until a man came up behind me. I stepped aside for him and asked what I needed to buy to get to the center. He suggested I get a month pass. “It’s the same price as a day pass” he argued. What the hell? I thought this place was supposed to be efficient. That didn’t make any sense. Neither did the way of buying the ticket on the machine. He shrugged and walked away. So much for his help.
I approached another guy on the platform. He spoke English well; he could have been British, but, as he was speaking, his train arrived, and he darted off with apologies—which made me confirm my assumption that he was British. I don’t think an American, even from the friendly Midwest of genteel South would apologize for such an obvious thing. Thank God there’s another group out there that apologizes more than us.
That was when I got the shock. Here I was, already hopelessly confused, and I hadn’t even left the airport station. This didn’t bode well. If it was like this to leave, what would it be like to return? But, again, my restless legs took hold. It was a mutiny. They refused to stay still for the next five hours or pace the airport concourse. I found another—working—ticket vending machine (or perhaps my legs did), bought the month pass and crossed the tracks to the side where I’d seen a lot more people. I got on the next train when I saw the word “Central”. It was an RE3 train. Oh, Deutschland! What the hell kind of name for a train is RE3?
About 20 minutes down the line, I casually got off at the central station with half the city. We all came streaming out of the grand European station with the arched ceilings, trapped birds, and marble lions. Each with our own purposeful expression, and many, like me, with no idea what they were doing. We darted in and out and around each other, jockeying for positions of purposefulness. Nothing like travel to give you a fresh perspective on the absurdity of modern human rhythms.
Near the station, I mean right outside it, was the migrant crisis. Well, the tame side anyway. No one was risking life and limb to cross the Mediterranean or the Sahara; no one was being threatened by Kalashnikoved checkpoint guards, they were just hanging around smoking, chatting. Staying as close to their home as they could by leaning against the walls of the train station, as if, at a moment’s notice they might receive word they could return to their respective homelands and they didn’t want to waste time getting across town or perhaps they were all waiting (Quixotically or no) for their homelands to come to them via the RE3.
The streets had German names, but everyone in them was from somewhere else. I hadn’t been in such a thoroughly international place in years and years. Even San Francisco seemed a Des Moines by comparison. One place, I swear, was a Uyghur pizza place and it was busy! Everything was. On a Tuesday afternoon, every café table was filled with clients from Bosnia, Afghanistan and Lebanon (judging by the signs I’d seen around the neighborhood). There were Germans, too, but even the proverbial dudes on the corner drinking beer were speaking another language.
Interesting place, but by the time I got down to the river (only about five blocks away from the train station), I figured, it was late enough and that I should start heading back. I was dizzy from the heat and carrying too much stuff. I still had a damn Target bag in my hand filled with plane snacks for god’s sake. What business did such a transit passenger have doing anything of meaning here in what was, so obviously, just a stop-over location? I also felt—how can I put this?—disinterested seems the only word. I had no particular interest in this place. And it was proving to be of rather more a complicated level of enjoyment than I had anticipated. Also, every yell, every call from a child that came echoing through that warren of streets (and there were many) reminded me of home and my kids. What were they doing now? This question boomeranged back to me. What was I doing? I reflected by the water a moment and realized I honestly didn’t know, so I went back to the train station.
The earlier crowds swarming in and out of trains seemed to have doubled in the short time I’d wandered around. Oh yeah. Duh. Rush hour by now. Well, no matter. I’ll go back to the track I got off at. Hmm. No RE3 train. No mention of the airport. No matter, I’ll check out some other tracks. Here’s one. Hmmm; looks like this is the one but it’s not leaving for another half an hour. Is that right? I thought German trains left every 2 and ¾ minutes. I should probably get out of here before half an hour passes. Almost six now. Flight leaves at 9. Still have to go through immigration and security. And right there, in the middle of those considerations I heard that chilling voice, summoned from the Almaty airport of my reckless youth: “I think you might not fly today.” The voice intoned and, despite the heat, I began to shiver. The consequences of missing my flight were too myriad and devastating to contemplate. I steeled myself and dashed down the line of platforms with all the other silly heedless people.
“Excuse me,” I said to a woman waiting, sweaty and a little flushed by now, “Spreken zee English?” She nodded. “Airport?” I asked pointing to the train like Tarzan in the act of naming something. I half expected the woman to say. “No honey, that’s a train, not an airport.” But she simply nodded. I got on. But, after a minute or two, I suddenly had a thought. I turned to another woman (the first had gone) and made the same inquiry about English. “Yes?” she replied hesitantly, like I was asking for her phone number or something. Not that I blame her; I must’ve looked pretty disheveled by this point and anxiety, I think, produces a pheromone that people instinctively avoid. I held up my month pass. “Can I use this pass on this train?” She frowned. “No. That’s only for local transport.” “Well,” I tried, “could I make it to the airport without being checked?” The airport was, after all, the first stop listed. She gave this question the answer it deserved and simply shrugged. Well, the answer the question really deserved was “how the hell should I know!” But, well, you know these Germans. So polite.
So, I jumped from that train and ran, lunged, ran-lunged, through the crowd to another train. The RE2 which mentioned the airport on its itinerary. Of course, I was terrified that I might wind up at the wrong airport. Was there more than one? Why didn’t I check before? Also, what if this was some kind of behemoth local train that would stop at every blade of grass between here and the airport? Once I made a decision and left the central train station, I wouldn’t have time to turn back and start again.
It’s important to note that I hadn’t brushed my teeth in over 12 hours—or was it 24?—and that I was, by now, soaked with that bad pheromone anxiety sweat. I also had the battered Target back in my hand and a huge backpack on.
Considering this, it’s a wonder no one grimaced when I coughed out the panicky question. “Airport!?” to the entire RE2 car. “Airport!?” I repeated, exclamation and all, looking at the guy closest to me. He nodded. Just to be sure, I went up a car and asked someone else. They nodded. I walked through the train. I couldn’t sit still. I was way too pumped up from having nothing but a cup of coffee that morning, an airplane oatmeal and gallons of adrenaline pouring from my brain down my spine. I began to calm down slightly when I saw other people with luggage on the train. I sat down, but, almost as soon as I did, I was assailed with another fear, why weren’t we leaving? I’d already been on the train a few minutes. I went over and pleaded to someone else, a business man by the look. “What time do we leave?” I had now entirely dispensed with a formality of asking if anyone spoke English, merely locking my crazed eyes on anyone and belching out panicky questions. “A half hour ago” was the reply and, from somewhere else, a chuckled response. “There’s a delay.”
What! A delay! On a German train! Of course! Of course, but then, on the opposite platform, the RE3 just arriving! The same train I’d taken in and the one I knew to only take about 20 minutes. I turned back to the guy who’d mentioned the delay. “Do you think that one would be faster?” Again, the guy shrugged when he should have said ‘how the hell should I know?’
I jumped from one train and ran to the other. More suitcases. I grinned, nodded, and mouthed “airport” at the people, as if we were in some kind of club together. They stared back, probably thinking ‘do not engage, do not engage.’ I was really starting to lose it. I relaxed for about 5 seconds, before the anxiety returned with the crippling force of a migraine. Which train would leave first? Were either of them going to leave? The departure time was 5:42 and I watched as the clock passed 42, 43, 44, and at 48 past (!), my anxiety practically streaming out of my eyes, I noticed a bunch of people abandoning the opposite train (the one I’d previously been on). I watched them helplessly for a moment before finding some poor bastard to latch on to.
“What’s happening” I shouted from the door of the RE3—too reluctant to step off for fear it should depart as soon as I did. “Delay?” I asked. He shrugged and thought this would suffice. But for me, nothing would suffice. “Are the trains delayed? Is there another way to get to the airport?” I looked down the platform and noticed, to my abject horror, none of the trains were moving.
The man answered, but he was walking along. I couldn’t hear, but he seemed to indicate there was another way. I jumped off the train—the third one now—and followed him.
“What about a taxi?” I asked, clinging to him like a persistent beggar, trying to ferret out my last hope for reaching the airport on time.
“No way,” He answered, shaking his head as he walked, “it’s rush hour, it’ll take forever with the traffic. There’s the -- train or the -- line, but ----.” I was losing a lot of what he was saying as we moved through the crowd toward what looked like a subway station entrance. I ran ahead of him. At this point, totally heedless of where I was going. My mind reeling. How did I allow this to happen? Just a few hours ago, I was in the boring airport, now I was abandoning myself to unknown subway stations, just running around like a crazy person without a scrap of a plan. It was like a nightmare. So many options, and yet none of them going anywhere.
Down on the platform, was a subway train filled with people. I turned back to the man behind me. “Does that go to the airport?” I asked. I regret that when he answered in the affirmative, I’m not sure I even thanked him before dashing onto the train.
The bodies were packed in pretty well, but I used my gargantuan backpack to carve out a place for myself at the doors. I was the archetypal sweaty jerk with the backpack but, of course, when we’re the sweaty jerk with the backpack, we seldom care. It’s only an inconvenience when you’re the guy, minding your own business, having the awful thing thrust at you.
As I pushed aside other passengers, I caught a man’s eyes and made my desperate inquiry. “Airport!!?” “Yes; it does.” He said politely. “I’m getting off at the stop before. I can show you.” “Danke” I replied feebly. I didn’t entirely expect the train to depart. I assumed this, too was about to be delayed. But then, mercifully, the momentum I’d been searching for had finally found me and the train glided away from the station.
At each stop, as the train pulled away from yet another platform, I felt myself become less frantic. And I even relaxed enough to talk to my Samaritan a little. I asked where he was from. Told him I’d come from California and was going to Armenia. As the train chugged along, I reflected that he was the only one who got to see me as a human. Everyone else only saw me rushing up to and away from them, which doesn’t leave a human impression but rather the ghost of one. To go into a city and spend most of the time being a frantic ghost—what a strange thing to have done, not only to the people of Frankfurt, but to myself.
At one station the train emptied out—and for a moment I felt a catch in my throat, “why was everyone getting off?” but then the Samaritan told me that this was the stop for the stadium and that Coldplay was in town. It was then that I knew I had nothing to fear. If something as mundane as a Coldplay concert was happening, there could be no fear of missing flights and further delays and, thankfully, I was right. We pulled out of the station and at the next, I said goodbye to my Samaritan.
“Dankeshun” I said, as he went for the doors. I may have unconsciously put my hand over my heart to intensify my sentiment.
“The next time,” he said from the platform, “perhaps I’ll need your help in California.”
“I hope so.” I told him. It was all I had time for before the doors closed and we pulled out; next stop, The Airport. And it was if, all at once, I realized the chance to meet this person and feel this relief was almost reason enough to have come. Almost.
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