Last week I got stranded at the airport.
At the conclusion of what ended up being an almost ten-hour ordeal, I huddled in the corner of my room in a whimpering heap, my soul crushed and my idealism shattered.
I was broken.
Don’t roll your eyes. It had never happened to me before, so I had no idea about how bad things can get when you pull back the seedy curtain of life’s sparkly air-travel veneer. It’s bad behind there, you guys. Really bad.
I don’t travel a lot, so airplanes have always been a bit of a novelty to me. The food on little trays! The wheelie luggage! The only time I buy magazines! I’m the person who always accepts the headset and actually gets excited looking out the window.
At least, I was that person. (Squints and gazes into distance.)
It all started when I got dropped off at Brisbane Airport around 4pm. I had checked-in online and was ready for my flight at 4:45. Easy. My phone was only at 30% battery, but the flight to Sydney is only an hour, so I figured I was safe.
I was wrong.
I marched on into the lounge with a spring in my step and a sparkle in my eye.
Everything was still hopeful then. Still possible. I still saw beauty in the world.
Then I looked up at the departures board. There were a bunch of words that I’d never seen at the airport before, like ‘DELAYED’ and ‘CANCELLED’. But I was still so young, so naïve. I didn’t think that it could possibly have anything to do with my flight. My flight was going to be fun! It was leaving in half and hour and I would probably be served a sandwich!