365 True Things: 98/Waiting

I do not like to wait—in a checkout line, at the doctor's, for cars to finally start moving after the light has been green for what seems like minutes already.

And yet a travel day is essentially a very long exercise in just that: waiting, waiting, and waiting some more.

This morning, it started with a short wait at the T-bane for a train to the central station, followed by a fifteen-minute wait for the NSB train to the airport. A short wait to check in, and another relatively short wait to get through security (where I was randomly chosen for a search—waiting in the spread eagle position, my favorite).

Waiting at airplane gates is always trying: all those "groups," where you distinctly feel like part of a class-divided herd of cattle. But this morning's wait wasn't too bad, maybe because I was simply happy that the flight was on time. Plus, the actual herd wasn't in the main terminal, it was in a second waiting room, so I was tricked into thinking there was no line! It worked!

Sitting squashed in an economy airplane seat can be a very long wait. Today I spent the first leg, from Oslo to Newark (eight hours), fairly enjoyably, watching The Woman in Gold and Interstellar—two very different movies, but both good. It's also easier when the longer leg is the first one, the shorter leg the second.

Then there's the long wait as everyone stands in the aisle or crouched over the seats, clutching their carryons and gazing longingly toward the door until finally, oh so very slowly, the shuffling begins—a wait that's even longer if you're at the very back of the plane, which we were on both legs today.

Waiting for the bags in Newark

In Newark, we had to go through customs, so there was the wait for our luggage—it seemed interminable! The last time I remember a customs official actually taking an interest in my or my companions' luggage was in around 1969, so I 've never understood this ridiculous formality: collect bags, haul them past the customs guy, then return them to the baggage handlers. And of course it means you have to go through security again: another wait.

In Newark, we had enough time for a drink and olive hors d'oeuvres, which certainly made the waiting easier. But then the six-hour Newark–San Francisco leg involved pay-to-view TV, i.e. essentially zilch in the way of entertaining distraction. Fortunately, the sudokus in the in-flight magazine were still pristine, and I had a couple of Harpers magazines. Somehow, I survived.

Finally, there was the wait for the airport shuttle, and the two-plus-hour drive to Monterey—during most of which, blessedly, I slept. After all, it was about 5:30 a.m. Oslo time when we got picked up. We'd been up all night! Except it was only 8:30 p.m. California time.

All of this waiting I did more or less graciously. Just the tiniest bit of grumbling when it seemed to take forever for the luggage to start churning around the carousel. In both airports. But otherwise, I took it all in stride, I'd say. I'm so grown up.

And now I'm home: no more waiting! But I did need to get this blog post polished off before hitting the hay. It's fifteen minutes short of midnight (or 9 a.m. Oslo time). I just hope I don't have one of those too-exhausted-to-fall-asleep moments—and have to wait for slumber to take me over! Fingers crossed.