Departure

There are few things in life more exciting than driving to the airport for personal reasons. Winning the Super Bowl? Probably. Driving up to the space shuttle to be launched to the International Space Station? I’ll grant you that much. Airports, however, are more generally more accessible.

Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised by O’Hare’s accessibility. I have always only flown domestically through there during the winter months; the uniform experience has been of crowded and noisy lobbies, delayed planes, and dullish grey slush. The international terminal was far superior – this time, at least. There were only two or three airlines even operating flights this evening, lending a quietness rarely seen at O’Hare.

I got my belongings together and stepped into one of the three lines for Royal Jordanian.

This should be interesting, I thought. I had heard about the Jordanian view of queuing: everyone gets as close to the front of the line as possible, and the pushiest one wins. I was again pleasantly surprised that the lines went nice and smoothly….until the poor attendant came to me.

Accustomed to domestic flying, I had my printed receipt, driver’s license, and passport all ready. Experienced traveler here to check in, I thought smugly.

“Could I see your passport?” The attendant ignored my ticket receipt and license. I pulled it from the bottom of the stack as I battled my purse and trying to balance my large duffel. I didn’t want to put my checked luggage on the weight machine because often, the attendants have wanted to check me in first, and then weigh the baggage. No, “You can put your baggage on the balance,” he said. “You are checking just one bag?”

“Yes.”

“You are mumble mumble just one?”

“Yes, just one bag.”

He looked at me.

I looked at him. I held up my first finger and smiled. “Just one.”

He looked back at me and slowly repeated the question.

Apparently, “Amman” and “Just one” sound the same.

“Amman! Oh, yes, I am going to Amman.” I took my passport and twitched to put it in my purse.

“Wait, wait, don’t go!” He reached after me. “You need your boarding ticket.”

“Oh. Yes.” I look down. “I can’t really board without that, can I?”

“No.”

Silence.

He finally handed me the ticket. I turned to go. “Wait,” he has pity on the obviously naïve American girl who has never traveled internationally (ha! I fooled him. I have…..just years ago.) “See here? You are on this seat. It is an aisle seat. Here is your boarding gate, see?. You just go around the corner. Now, there is no food back there, so you might want to wait about an hour before going through security. Okay?”

“Okay.” I walk away.

“Have a good flight!”

“Thank you!” I stop myself before saying, “You, too.”

The rest of the pre-boarding was uneventful. I sat with my parents until an hour before boarding, and then passed through security far more efficiently and easily than I ever have flying domestically.

I went to the lobby area to wait for boarding while reading. I quickly realized I was the only non-Arab female on the flight. I also quickly realized that I am probably the first person to be reading Comus while waiting for a flight to Jordan. (Yes, the only non-school book I brought was a collection of Milton’s poems.)

Again, I was pleasantly surprised as boarding began before the scheduled time and there were no issues with amorphous queues. I was quickly on the Royal Jordanian 340, seated on the aisle with an older Jordanian man beside the window, and a set of parents with two sick young children and a grandmother. I settled in to enjoy my flight.