Queues

There is a distinction in the realm of airports between high-cost and class facilities carrying reputable airlines and low-cost and class ones carrying airlines of less repute with funky names displayed in bright neon colors.

My wife and I went on a day trip to London and took one of the latter airlines, arriving at the corresponding airport in Eindhoven at seven in the morning.

Queues.

Shops selling jewelry and electronics, packaged sandwiches and beer.

We were not in a rush. Drank a coffee. Waited. My wife had forgotten to bring a book, so we purchased a handheld Tetris console. The lady who sold it to us was older and appeared intent on keeping her shop clean. This was apparent by the way she would instantly leave the counter to straighten a pile of books or take the vacuum cleaner from out back, vacuum for a moment, and then leave the vacuum to help customers at a locked jewelry window to allow them to try on a ring or a necklace. She was working alone. She swiftly scanned the device, we paid and she smiled momentarily, before again jumping from the cash register to pick up her vacuum and continue. It was only after we sat down in the waiting room that we discovered the console had no batteries. Happy, if anything, to kill some time, we waded back through a throng of travelers headed towards the gates. There was a clear path to follow. First the shops, then the restrooms and restaurants, then the gates with chairs where some were slouched over upon, peacefully asleep hugging their backpacks.

The shop assistant was more frantic than before. The crowd had doubled since ten minutes earlier. People were impatient on account of their impending flights. At one point, three people were queued at her counter while she was helping a customer select a dress. The shop sold everything.

I joined the queue and watched the lady work. She was deliberate, fast. That did not stop the man, a wafery fellow wearing outdoor gear, from complaining to himself at full volume. His complaint jostled the others, subdued by their phones just a second before, to look around for the screens showing the departures. A restlessness came over this crowd as the lady, in matador-like fashion, arranged herself back at the counter to help the next customer. The man ahead of me huffed and did his very best to appear as rushed on the outside as he felt on the inside. The shop assistant worked handily through the first two customers, yet the queue grew behind me.

Finally, the man ahead of me said.

The shop assistant said nothing. She would be here all day, I thought. This man would hardly be the worst of them.

He hiked off, and I was next. I handed over a set of batteries.

Do you have a small screwdriver by any chance? I asked. The device needed to be unscrewed.

Of course, she said briefly.

Behind me, a crowd started gathering. The shop assistant handed me a screwdriver used to adjust glasses. They also sold sunglasses at the shop. My hand was shaking. It was early, I’d been hopped up on coffee since five, and people were watching with Olympic intensity my screwing performance. Judging aspects ranging from dexterity to speed.

The shop assistant took it over from me, and with a few quick movements, the batteries were installed. Have a nice flight, she said, and shot me a professional, courteous smile.

We were headed to London, which required us to go through customs. Another queue. The customs stalls only opened based on impending international flights. Two officers now stepped into a single stall with two windows. They sat down next to each other. The television screens above their windows flickered and showed ALL PASSPORTS on one and EU/EEA/CH passports on the other.

The customs officer at the EU window was young, and for every third or fourth passport, he asked his neighbor for assistance. They would assess a passport together, confer, and the more seasoned customs officer would explain what he should look for in identifying a false or a real passport.

The queue began to shape like a bowel. It took up much of the small airport lounge until it was so large it appeared impossible for anyone to make their flight. We had twenty minutes left. Eight people were ahead of us and roughly three hundred behind us, getting more agitated by the second.

The young lad in his EU customs booth stayed calm, however. I heard him explain to an elderly lady that she had a British passport and was not supposed to use that stall. EU only, he said. I voted remain, the lady replied. Some people close to her chuckled. The lad smiled, too, and his colleague told him it was fine.

I have to go to London! A woman’s voice called from the three hundred or so behind us. Who else is going to London? Our flight leaves in twenty minutes! We’re going to miss our flight.

Another voice yelled: I’m calling the airline now.

Another: Jesus hurry up will you?

The seasoned customs officer looked up from his passport at the rabble growing impatient. He, too, took his phone and called someone while clearing another passenger. Like the shop assistant, he would be here all day.

When she asked who else was going to London, my wife and I raised our hands, more out of excitement and perhaps some stress, too. Would they leave without us? We wondered.

Of course they wouldn’t. We were duly excreted onto a runway of passengers boarding neon-colored planes that appeared to say: life is about as good as you can afford it to be.