My Trip to KLM Transfer Line #4

Dear KLM Customer Care:

I left Athens at 2pm on Thursday to make my 4:45pm flight to Schipol, to transfer at 9pm to Edinburgh. Being an admirer of clogs and Heineken, I was rather excited by the idea of flying through such a hub as Amsterdam.

But as the adage goes, be careful of what you wish for. I spent more than 24 hours in Schiphol, and had more than just my toes stepped on by the deceivingly cheery-blue uniforms of the KLM attendants. And so after a succession of "DELAYED" statuses, repeated on the hour, every hour until 8pm the following day, KLM realized that they wouldn't be able to get me to Edinburgh in time to allow me even a 24 hour stay. So, they sent me home.

Airports, especially the gray metal of Schiphol, usually represent cold and austere receptacles to me, built merely to house planes for passengers that say nary a word during three hour flights. But this relationship with Schiphol, thrust upon me like one receives lumpy baked beans in a middle school cafeteria, exposed me to the plethora of life in the underbelly.

The aggression of the nicest mothers, the kindness of the most-tattooed boy in the room, the shoeless old woman being berated by the 6'5", possibly 6'6" if you count the vertical of perfectly-fashioned hair, Dutch attendant. The chain smokers congregated in the glass room, simultaneously separating them and exposing them to judgment, the babies sound asleep in the stroller than inches forward with each digit change on the LCD, the hesitant smiles exchanged by the Japanese grandmother and German man as they bump shoulder and elbow, respectively. (In case that was too subtle, Germans are tall, whereas Asians are not. I'd never felt so miniature before!)

I met two women whose friendship will outlast those mere 24 hours we spent together however. An Iranian-born-German-raised museum curator, a Sudanese-born-Scottish-raised grandmother and a Chinese-born-American-raised college student all sat in a Starbucks, drinking gingerbread lattes for four hours. I hope you can somewhat envision it.

And so this post, ironically enough (in light of my last post), again reminds me how glad I am to be home. But also, how much happier I'd be if I'd made it to Scotland.

Sincerely,
Disgruntled & Disheveled