On sleeping in airports

Sleeping in airports can be a bad idea. I learned this the hard way.

After a completely restless 12-hour flight, it was hard to ignore the impeccable international terminal in Tokyo. It was silent. And empty. I curled up on a couple empty chairs by my gate and sank into comatose sleep, occasionally blinking into conscious delirium like a trauma patient.

Nearby conversations and announcements on the PA jarred me here and there, but I was at my gate, boarding pass in hand, right where I was supposed to be.

Except that I wasn't. Individual names were called to new gates in thick accents over the PA, barely distinguishable to their owners. Listing names seemed to be preferable to announcing the actual gate change, perhaps to make it more personalized. Why weren't they announcing gates, too? Or were they? I don't know, I was sleeping.

And then they called my name. I shot up like a rifle on a soldier's shoulder and looked down at my watch. 6:15. My plane was scheduled to depart in 5 minutes. A stewardess caught my eye and grabbed my sleeve, asked my name. Holding my gaze, she spoke rapid fire into her walkie talkie and pushed me towards my gate, a mere 12 numbers up.

Now, I don't know much about designing airports, but I was a little surprised that this gate change was in a completely different terminal, accessible only by train. All the stress of my life could have been condensed to those 45 seconds listening to muzak while waiting for the doors of that shuttle to close. I must have ground a millimeter or two of my teeth down as a polite voice announced the doors closing in several languages

When the doors finally slid open to the right terminal, a tiny woman in heels was there waiting for me, walkie talkie in hand. She commanded me to start running. Turns out the gate was at the opposite end of the terminal.

We sprinted through the outstretched hallway towards the last gate tucked away in the farthest corner. She kept looked over her shoulder to make sure I was still within view.

"Please, miss. We must hurry." I couldn't have run faster if we were being chased by cops and a pack of dogs.

A half-marathon later we could see the gate, and several stewardesses running towards us. They grabbed my passport, checking my boarding pass as we kept running, one using her free hand to steady her cap. I reached the plane and was hustled through the aisle to my seat. I looked at my watch. 6:25.

The jets roared and the captain's voice filled the cabin. "We apologize for the delay. We were waiting for a passenger."

I slunk down in my seat, hoping no one would notice.

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