An Unexpected Night in Newark Airport

I was supposed to spend the first night of my trip to Scotland in a window seat on an airplane hovering somewhere thousands of feet over the Atlantic Ocean. Instead, I was huddled in a corner somewhere near gate C90 in Newark Airport. How the hell did this happen?

A series of unfortunate events

It’s no single person’s fault really. My night at Newark Airport was simply the result of a series of unfortunate events. Just days before I was set to depart on my two week jaunt around Scotland, a little hurricane named Irene blew through my neck of the woods, leaving my entire neighborhood without power for three days. Those three days should have been time spent preparing for my trip, doing things like confirming my reservations, charging batteries, and doing laundry.

Don’t get me wrong–I almost enjoyed being without power. I ate dinner by candlelight (thank goodness for a gas stove), saw bold, bright stars in the dark night sky, spent time reading under the ministrations of the little travel booklight my older brother gave me years ago. Disconnecting from the internet and television were a pleasant break from the ordinary. And those three days were so refreshing that I almost forgot that I was due to travel within 72 hours.

Things fall apart

In the days and hours leading up to my departure, I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, taking care of  last minute items up through the night before I was scheduled to leave. Surrounded by suitcases, multiple sets of mismatched shoes, and piles of wrinkled clothing, I spent the night packing and repacking, trying to make sense of what I’d really need during the two weeks that lay ahead. What that meant? No sleep. None. Not even a little nappy-poo to take the edge off. By the time I left work I was a delirious mess.

And then I realized I’d forgotten the extra lens for my camera. And my water bottle. And a host of other things I hadn’t even thought about. Leaving work early, I got home, quickly collected the missing items, and called my taxi for the train station. The driver’d be there in ten minutes, the dispatcher said.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Where was my taxi? It was hot and I was starting to feel lightheaded and nauseated from a lack of sleep. Exactly twenty-three minutes later, I was calling the taxi service again. I got the “Oh, he showed up and you weren’t there” story. True, my apartment is somewhat hard to find and I had stepped away from my phone for a brief moment or two. There was no point in getting angry. “Send him back,” I said.

Not fifteen minutes later, the taxi had arrived and soon we were speeding toward the train station through tree-lined back roads I’d never traveled on before. My driver was young and seemed pleasant, but I had no time for small talk. From the way he was driving, he didn’t seem to have much of an appetite for it either. With minutes to spare before the train I’d planned on taking was due to arrive, we pulled into the station parking lot. I practically threw him a twenty-dollar bill, told him to keep the change, and took off with my rollaboard suitcase dragging noisily behind me.

My breathing and heart began to slow again after I purchased my train ticket and stepped up onto the platform. Relief–the train hadn’t arrived yet. I stood and waited a few minutes more when an automated voice crackled over the loudspeaker. The train–my train–was running late.

As time progressed, the voice continued making similar announcements, adding a few minutes each time to the delay. Soon, my train was a full half-hour off-schedule. I sweetened my language with healthy sprinklings of “fudge” and “sugar” as I waited. At roughly four-thirty, thirty minutes later than scheduled, the train pulled into the station. Half an hour late wasn’t too bad, right? My flight was scheduled to leave at 7:25pm and I’d get to the airport by five-thirty. I knew I’d be cutting it reeeaaallly close but two hours was more than enough time to get checked in, get through security and make my flight, right?

Wrong.

The Domino Effect

At five-thirty, my train pulled into Newark Airport station and I hurried to the AirTrain, a monorail system which shuttles passengers between the train station and the terminals. Everything went smoothly and within fifteen minutes, I was riding an escalator up to the check-in counter. When I arrived, the counter was practically mobbed, with people and luggage snaking a line at least five turns deep. I remained calm, though. In the hands of a professional and efficient staff, a line like this could disappear in fifteen minutes. Or so I thought.

It took me over 45 minutes to get through the queue to check in. Forty-five minutes! I’d never seen such a stellar example of utter incompetence as I did that day. The Continental check-in attendants were painfully inefficient, coupled with inept passengers who simply didn’t have their acts together. I should have known then that I was doomed.

When I finally approached the check-in counter and worked my way through a few screens at the kiosk, I was stopped short by the words on the screen: “This kiosk is unable to check you in at this time. Please see an attendant for more information.” Or something like that.

Damn!

After trying to get an attendant’s attention for a minute or two, a short, heavyset woman approached. When I explained my situation to her, she looked up my reservation. What did she tell me? That I was too late. That I should have checked in an hour ago. That there was nothing she could do. I was confused. It was all of 6:30 pm. My flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for another 55 minutes.

The whole story? My flight had been overbooked and because I hadn’t checked in in at least an hour before departure time, the airline (cough–Continental–cough) gave my seat away. Bastards.

The check-in attendant tried to appease me by putting me on the standby list for the next flight, trying to slake my growing annoyance with false promises that I’d get on the next Heathrow-bound plane. The realization that I missed my flight hit me suddenly in the stomach like a sucker punch. And then I felt numb. So numb, in fact, that I didn’t even realize when she took my suitcase from my hands, tagged it, and sent it down the conveyor belt.

I took my standby boarding pass and made it through security quickly (adding insult to injury) and then I waited. Through one standby flight and then another. But the truth is that the disruptions caused by Hurricane Irene earlier in the week left every flight packed to the gills. I was out of luck.

Reality sets in

When the last flight for Heathrow departed that night, the crowds dissipated and soon, I was one of only a few people left roaming the terminals of the airport. At almost midnight, I was a strange mixture of anger, hunger, and fatigue when I had myself put on the standby list for the first available Heathrow-bound flight the next morning.

I could have gone home, I suppose, or spent the night in a nearby hotel but I was, at this point, paranoid about missing any opportunity to catch that next flight, so I found a clean corner of Terminal C, curled up near a row of chairs, and went to sleep.

And so I spent a full night in Newark Airport, cold, alone, and missing out on the start of what should have been one of the most memorable experiences of my life.