worn out

Despite the delay, almost two hours by now, agony hasn't set it. Not even pain. The suffering is still at a level where it could easily be mistaken for tranquility. People are sitting peacefully, calmly passing time, looking left and right for encouragement and shreds of information. But periodic announcements, mumbled and muffled, don't shed light. Weary individuals congeal into a community of confusion.

A flight to London is announced for Gate A12. Heads turn, soliloquacious murmurs turn into muttered questions, just loud enough to be accidentally overheard by the nearest neighbor, just in case that person is interested in an exchange of words, in bits of conversation to break the tedium, to rupture the cocoon of lonesome travel. What did it say? Is it for us? Did you hear that? Should we go over there? The announcement was only a short burst of noise, all but inaudible over the soft chatter of tired travelers that's amplified by the low ceiling. A group of return missionaries of an evangelical sect on their way back to Denver have gathered in a far corner, their palaver a constant company of the passing minutes. At least they're not singing hymns. Then a reply from my neighbor: "They're not exactly trying to be clear."

And so the announcement, joyful but misleading – it wasn't for us, and maybe we had all misheard – causes no commotion, no stowing of belongings, no frantic grabbing of bags. There is no hectic rush; no one starts it, and everyone is happy not to follow. No one leaves his seat in waste of precious energy. Who knows how long the night will be? People tilted their heads with a hope they didn't really believe in and listened with forbearing. Now they slump back into their chairs and withdraw into their books, iPods, Kindles and newspapers, escaping into separate worlds where time doesn't stand still and life isn't suspended. And so the common wait continues almost unnoticed, and ignorant apathy is the defining condition rather than resignation. It has been so long already that no one feels energetic enough to resign. We just sit stoically on our seats doing what we've done over the course of the previous three hours – nothing.

A woman stretches out in exhaustion, turning three molded chairs, each seat an empty hollow, into a bench that can't possibly be comfortable. But her body is so tired it couldn't care less about comfort. Next to me, a Pakistani fellow starts a solitary fight. Exploding in wanton optimism, he starts filling in his UK landing card. It doesn't seem justified to me, given that we haven't left yet, that there isn't even a sign we will anytime soon. "You're sure you're not tempting fate?" I ask.

When I had made it across security, one of the first to do so because I was at the airport early, a great orange sunset spread under boiling clouds beyond the runway. The wet tarmac glistened brilliantly as it reflected the last rays of the sun. The beauty wasn't static. Flashes of lighting whipped low above the horizon and thunder rumbled on. A great show, but it didn't look good for a timely departure. "Due to the current weather situation, we are experiencing delays in take-off and landing," chirped the PA system without the least concern.

I logged off and dove into East of Eden, losing myself in the beauty of Steinbeck's gentle prose. At some point, the chain-link curtain around the duty-free shop to the left was noisily pulled back. Enough travelers had gathered to justify commercial activity. But duty-free is only a marketing term in Europe. Duty and taxes must be paid within the EU. You might as well buy the booze on sale in your local grocery store.

Three chapters down, the announcement that weather-related restrictions had been lifted at the airport passes without direct consequences for our trip. Words don't have the power to cut through the universal listlessness. Either there's a plane ready for us to board or there isn't. There isn't, but there's another announcement, louder this time, seemingly urgent and relevant: "We should be in the air in 20 minutes." But we're still at the gate, and the gate is still closed. Boarding hasn't started yet, and there's no apology.

Two rows down a toddler tirelessly attacks his dad's smart phone. The abused instrument reciprocates, to general consternation, with irritating sounds of exuberant farm animals, spring action and cartoon escapes. Acoustic torture rises above the carpet-bombing of bad smell. It was the warmest day of the year before the storm and is pretty hot even after it. The airport tries to be green and lets its air-conditioning run at half load, barely keeping the temperature in check. Sweat pours from faces and soaks into shirts and blouses. It isn't pretty.

By the time the boarding call came, it was so late that the lights in the main part of the airport had already been turned off. Activity had come to a halt. We were the only ones around, left like lost luggage. Blank eyes stared into infinity as a queue formed at the jet bridge. Mentally asleep I crossed the gate to the stairs down, so wasted that I didn't even realize that the agent who checked and tore my boarding pass handed me back the wrong end, the longer stub. He comes clambering behind me and catches me before I enter the bus to the plane.