February 9th, 2007, 9:29 pm

Airport Angstipation

GATWICK AIRPORT, London, England, February 9, 2007

There are no flights left today; the only mark on the Departures board a cancelled flight to Strasburg.

So we, this little tribe of travelers, stuck in historic snow in London’s Gatwick - are here for the night, staking claims to benches and sets of chairs, warding off the chill with winter coats and hats. The shops around us have slowly lowered their iron gates; first Glorious Britain, Accessorize, WHSmith, the Body Shop.

McDonald’s has changed its menu twice in the ten hours I’ve sat here, alternating fever with chills, sleep and reading. I’ve at least twelve hours more to go.

My nascent cold, fed by last night’s margaritas and dancing, has bloomed; scratchy voice, sore throat, dry, hollow coughs.

This morning I left Europe the only way I could; still drunk, hastily tossing remaining items into my backpack, slapping dirty, cut feet against St. Catarina’s wet hills, racing to catch the only taxi awake at that hour in Lisboa. Jen packed me into the taxi - if it wasn’t for her, I would be there yet. Slowly, I came to consciousness in the cab - my flight was now, essentially - I had definitely missed it.

I booked another for 65 euros, and made my way through security, where a charming man named Miguel - or Manuel? - anyways, he was charming - told me I had to drink it if I wanted it. And so I slammed a litre of strawberry juice, flirting shamelessly; Miguel/Manuel also knew Incognito, the club where I had danced. He laughed at my jokes about returning to America as unseen bags passed him on the xray machine. His boss came by - not to yell at him, but also to talk, to the still-drunk, completely hoarse, be-hatted, be-scarved American girl.

The flight was another matter - a rolling, wretching, vicious battle to fill small plastic bags with just enough puked-up strawberry juice so that they wouldn’t overflow. The first I brought up shamefully to the attendants, who gave me a larger bag to place it in. The next, they asked me to bring to the back of the plane, which I did, weaving and bobbing, trying not to spill the bag or puke again.

I returned to my seat to find a stack of plastic bags, which I dutifully filled, one after another, this time double wrapping them and placing them in the seatback in front of me. I spent the flight prostrate; no one asked me to return my armrests to their original position, even as we landed with a screaming thud; as my right eardrum protested the agony of pressure.

Delta’s counter had shut by the time I found it; passing from South to North Terminal on a train over snow. A phone call later; I had rebooked my missed flight for the next day; and I’ve been sitting here ever since, in the interminable purgatory of terminal.

The lights are bright, and it’s air-conditioning cold. Slowly, my former life returns to me. I hear snippets of American accents; buy McDonald’s with my VISA, drop a euro into the slot to make a short call to my friend Liz: “Listen, I can’t talk long, but I’m stuck here until at least tomorrow, I think I’ll be there around 4 but who knows so I’ll call you in America, and I fucking hate London with snow and it’s so fucking expensive and this morning I was so sick that I was filling BAGS with strawberry juice puke and …”

Cut off.

Now it’s just me and my little band of stranded passengers, resting in a netherland that’s Europe but yet not.

I’ll be returning as the girl who is Laura but yet not me; at least not the old me. My arms and hands have new scars, my feet have developed a tolerance to pain and cold and fear. I say things like “eh?” “surry” and “no worries,” I feel more patient and friendlier; with the knowledge that I’ve learned to dance adding more swing to my hips.

Eleven and a half hours to go til the flight; ten more until I land. There’s much to do when I return. And so for now, I’m content, to exist in this stasis, this uncomfortable bubble of bench and backpacks.

“For security reasons, please do not leave your baggage unattended. Baggage left unattended may be removed and may be destroyed.”

That word echoes in the growing silence.

Destroyed. It seems so very permanent, doesn’t it?

Puke Bags, courtesy TAP airlines

Meal #2 from McDonald’s, Gatwick Airport

Delta’s Pesto Chicken with Orzo

Delta snack: Ice Cream!

Delta snack: Pizza

First meal in America: Pulled Pork Sandwich at the Local, natch