In Limbo on Long Island

It’s 3:45am EST on Monday, January 8th. I sit on cool tiles, leaning my head against a paneled wall in the lobby of The Andrew Hotel in Great Neck, New York. The lobby is packed with the passengers of flight UX92 to Madrid which was scheduled to take off at 10:05pm on Saturday. A few of us pace, some of us have phones in our hands, listening to the same “you are on hold” music we’ve heard for the past 24 hours. Most of us have relinquished any hope, control, and anger by this point in time. Those of us who are still awake stare, fatigued, at the snow whipping the glass panes, not truly expecting to see the airport bus roll up but not sure where else to look. 

One passenger opens the door and enters from outside, letting in a gust of frozen air. He shakes snow and ice off of his jacket and then unzips it to reveal two boxes of Munchkins which he has purchased for us all to share. As we pass around the donut holes, smiles and chatter sweep the room for a few minutes. It settles back to exhausted silence as we dust powdered sugar off of our fingers. On the other side of the glass, the blizzard rages on.  

Through the blizzard, two thousand miles to the west, lies SeaTac Airport where, on Thursday, I hugged my mother goodbye, full of excitement. Dragging my suitcase through the airport, I was buzzing with excitement to be embarking on the dream I had prepared for through six years of studying Spanish language. I could not wait to explore a foreign city and settle in, make new friends, try new food, and explore art museums in Madrid. My only worry was that six years had not sufficiently prepared me for daily life let alone classes in a foreign language. Five days later, I find myself comfortable on tile floors, with no clue where my suitcase is, dreaming only of clean socks. 

Through the blizzard, three thousand miles to the east, my new classmates have started orientation. I imagine them, wearing clean socks and surrounded by dry air, riding the metro, exploring the city, starting life long friendships. 

In the middle of the blizzard, I am in neither place. I no longer feel the adrenaline rush of leaving but my heart hasn’t yet sped up in anticipation of arrival. 

The phone rings at the front desk of The Andrew. It’s 6:00am now. The man behind the counter answers it. “Ok… Ok… Ok… Yes… Thank you.” He hangs up and looks into the room of groggy travelers to make an announcement. I hurriedly translate to the family next to me and unlock my phone, assuming my role on the team marooned in a blizzard on Long Island. I am one of only two passengers in The Andrew’s lobby who can sufficiently speak both English and Spanish.  

“El vuelo no ha despegado. Hay un autobús en camino. No le dijeron cuándo llegaría. Tenemos que seguir esperando…” I type into the whatsapp group. A wave of grumbling passes through the room. This is the ninth time our flight has been delayed. This is the fourth time we have been told a bus is on the way. Waiting is no surprise. No one stands in anticipation of the bus’ arrival. 

I’ve heard that sometimes travel is about the journey, not the destination. But when the journey has involved spending five days in the same socks, witnessing two planes slide into each other on the ice coating the tarmac, digging through what seemed to be a mile wide pile of unorganized luggage just to attempt to drag my bag through a two million square foot airport which has reached fire capacity only to check it and be put on a bus to Long Island with a group of strangers who don’t speak my native language, it’s hard to imagine the journey beating the destination. It becomes even harder after spending two nights in The Andrew, phone ringing every few hours for the front desk to tell me the departure time has been delayed another couple of hours while the newscast tells me Terminal 4 is flooded, giving me no hope that I’ll arrive in Madrid in time to make new friends at orientation. 

The physical journey has not covered many miles. Yet, here I find myself cozy on a tile floor, speaking Spanish confidently, comfortable being alone, and allowing things to happen out of my control with relative ease. 

Never again will I pack a carryon bag without finding a way to shove in at least five pairs of socks.