January 17th 2016 the journey begins. I am 22 and freshly out of college. I am about to reunite with T. I’ve never been one for comfort, but my itinerary to Bali is just a joke. Three days in between airports and international skies.
The hellish route: Mexico City–Houston–San Antonio–Minneapolis–Narita–Singapore–Bali. Yes. Shit.
By the time I touch down in San Antonio, I feel like I’ve already served a five-day sentence in a prison cell. My last two nights in Mexico have been sleepless. Maybe it’s the relentless partying at Patrick Miller, or maybe it’s the weight of my farewell with O. Either way, exhaustion is beyond limits and my energy is below zero.
I’ve hardly ever, if ever, spent the night in an airport. Definitely, San Antonio’s is not the perfect one to do it. A tiny, frozen terminal with nothing open 24 hours where you can waste time.
Still, I manage to spend my four-hour layover in an armchair, surrounded by a Korean family, a Native American man with long silver hair, and a Hispanic woman who I can’t tell if she is homeless or just a traveler without luggage.
At 4 a.m., the airport starts moving. A squad of young recruits heading for the military passes me by, all with fresh buzz cuts and olive-green duffels.
I watch the people around me and wonder where they’re headed. Could someone else here be on the same itinerary from hell? Do people even go to Bali at the start of the year?
We board for Minneapolis.
The flight disappears in an instant. The exhaustion takes over, and as soon as I sit down, I start dreaming.
When I opened my eyes, we were definitely far from the tropic. Everything is white. Snow covers the world outside. It’s beautiful.
Minneapolis Airport is living proof that the farther north you go in the U.S., the more civilized everything gets.
It’s a very modern airport. iPads at every seat, trendy restaurants and charming stores. All feeding your need to consume. The nice face of capitalism. And I am not an exception.
I buy a sausage-and-maple “eggwich”, a black coffee, and a Greek yogurt with a colorful wrapper boasting only 90 calories. Instant joy.
There’s an atmosphere of docility in the air. Everyone is glued to the airport’s complimentary iPads. I guess when people have Facebook access, they complain less abut airport inefficiency. God bless America.
The next flight marks the farthest I’ve ever been from home.
For a moment, I forget exhaustion. And for the first time since leaving Mexico City, I feel free. I realize I’m already gone.
To fuel an early melancholy, I put on my “Mexico” playlist—a collection of treasures from Los Ángeles Azules to La Arrolladora Banda Limón, passing through El Gran Silencio and other masters of « la gozadera ». It makes me happy.
Minneapolis is at -7°C. The cold seeps through the jet bridge as we board the next flight.
The plane feels more like a flying train—three columns of seats, two wide aisles. My seat: middle section, end row, right behind the bathroom. Thank God.
Miraculously, the person next to me gets reassigned to sit next to their companion. Two seats, all for me. Luck. I do what I always do, fill the space with my belongings: books, notebooks, my laptop.
Across the aisle, my neighbor is a gringo who looks vaguely tormented. He’s on the phone with someone named Mayra, telling her how much he loves her in a very poor Spanish. He keeps glancing at me. Maybe I remind him of Mayra.
On the plane, I read M Train by Patti Smith and watched a movie whose title I forget the second it ends.
They lose my suitcase in Minneapolis. I don’t even want to write about it.
The flight to Narita was very comfortable. Japan looks fun. I definitely need to come back and not just for a layover.
Eight hours more from Narita to Singapore. I slept the entire way. A ridiculously charming flight attendant reminds me of Los Amantes Pasajeros by Almodóvar—chubby, enthusiastically chatty and just a little bit gay.
Thankfully, the seat next to me stays empty.
So far airports have been fine, excluding San Antonio’s, but the best? Changi, Singapore.
Rest areas, 24/7 food, high-speed internet, massive bathrooms, giant TVs.
Changi’s airport is a self-contained city.
Shops, restaurants, and pointless little trains zipping people from one end to another because apparently, walking is outdated. Everything is luminous. People are kind.
My suitcase is still missing. Will they send it later? Refund me? It’s a mess. But I’m over it. I’ll figure it out in Bali.
One last flight—Bali. Just three more hours. The anxiety of meeting T. starts to kick in.
The moment I step onto the Garuda’s Airlines plane, the tropical vibes hits. The flight attendants wear vibrant two-piece uniforms with floral patterns.
The plane is small. Many Indian passengers. The Asians here are strikingly beautiful, so different from what I’m used to. The meal is a mix of noodles, vegetables, and a bit of meat.
Looking back, the journey didn’t feel as exhausting as I expected. We’re good.
Indonesia is an island, or rather, a collection of them. As we descend, everything looks small. No towering buildings, just light blue water stretching to the horizon.
The sky is cloudy.
As I stepped out the airport, I quickly realize that here, people have real needs. You can see poverty at every corner. And yet, the rest of the world spend their lives obsessing over little details. What nonsense.
You come to a place like this and realize that all those so-called needs in our lives are no more than trivialities.
I prepare myself to see T. It’s been a long time since I don’t see him. I feel excited.
