We shuffled along the line at Stansted Airport, checking our watches with growing concern. Stansted isn't exactly known for its lightning-fast service, it’s suited for budget travelers like us. We normally pride ourselves on punctuality – and this time planned to arrive two hours early for a mere hour and a half flight. We even prepped by pre-weighing our luggage and attempting online check-in (which, for my foreign Canadian passport, proved impossible).
Our bus, however, arrived fifteen minutes late. By the time we reached the check-in desks, it was 11:20, with our flight departing at 1:00. We strategically chose the shortest line – "the line" – confident in our early arrival.
Minutes bled into an eternity as the other lines steadily processed passengers while ours remained stubbornly stagnant. We contemplated switching lines, but a strange loyalty, or perhaps inertia, kept us rooted.
Jamie, ever the pragmatist, decided to drop off his luggage at the automated kiosk, ensuring the plane wouldn't leave without him (or at least his clothes). Left alone in "the line," I found amusement in the diverse crowd around me. There were people in burkas, business suits, pajamas – a microcosm of the world united by the purgatory of airport queues.
The man in front of me, with his spiky hair and two earrings, exuded a seasoned traveler's confidence. I imagined him as a beloved music or art professor contemplating early retirement. Behind me, a couple began to panic. "We're going to miss our flight!" they fretted, their rising stress a welcome distraction from my own simmering impatience.
They opted to switch lines, their desperation palatable. Intrigued by the potential for a "butterfly effect," I couldn't help but wonder what fate awaited us if we had left THE line. Now, here they were beside me, their anxiety escalating with each passing minute.
The spiky-haired man, with a charming German accent, noticed their distress and struck up a conversation. "What time is your flight?" he inquired.
I thought I heard the answer of 1:00 and my mind raced – should I have factored in more security time? Was I underestimating Stansted's legendary inefficiency?
The conversation revealed their flight was to Hungary, thankfully further away than ours. Nonetheless, my heart rate had increased.
Their panic intensified. "We'll definitely miss it – it leaves in ten minutes!" one exclaimed.
Wait, what? Did I miss a time announcement? A frantic check of my watch, phone, and even Google confirmed it was still 11:47. Perhaps they hadn't adjusted for a time zone change? Maybe their flight was actually at 12:00 and I'd misheard?
Their distress was palpable. The kind stranger, sensing their plight, offered a selfless solution. "Go ahead of me," he said, "my flight isn't until 2:00."
My initial reaction was pure admiration. Then came the sobering realization – "in front of him" meant "in front of me too." Yikes.
Still, if their flight was at 12:00, they deserved the spot– after all, it was just two people, right?
"Thank you so much!" they gushed, relief flooding their faces. "Our parents are here too – they can't stand for long, but they'll join us now." My eyes followed their wave to a couple fifty meters away who were now gathering their belongings and shuffling towards our ever-growing line in front of me.
Now close enough to see the bottleneck, I discovered the culprit – an attendant clearly in training. I silently debated warning the people just joining THE line about the impending delay.
Finally, by 12:05, the frantic couple, their parents, and the German gentleman were processed. My turn had arrived. What bureaucratic hurdles awaited, ones that online check-in couldn't handle? A very brief glance at my passport, a nod, and I was directed to send my suitcase on its conveyor belt journey. It was 12:10.
At the security line up I could see the Hungarian crew, about ten people ahead. As we snaked through the switchbacks, our paths crossed in opposite directions. They seemed remarkably relaxed, a stark contrast to their earlier meltdown. I couldn't resist attempting to glimpse their boarding pass.
Three attempts later, my snooping yielded no results. I resorted to Stansted's flight tracker. Flights to Hungary... 9:05, 1:40, and 2:10. Did their flight miss making the roster? Did I mishear the country?
I breeze through security by 12:45, but Jamie's bag gets flagged for a closer look, stuck behind a mountain of luggage. After 10 minutes of waiting, security doesn’t even check the bag and lets it go. We weave through the throngs of duty-free shoppers, hungry travelers, and ambling pedestrians in a flurry of activity and arrive at the blessed sight of a line at our gate! Exhausted but relieved, we reach the back, only to see our Hungarian friends strolling by, whistling a carefree tune, Pret a Manger bags in hand, searching for comfy seats. As they settle into their wait with smiles, the full weight of my naivety slams into me.
I'll always extend the benefit of the doubt, even if it means getting outsmarted sometimes.
With (occasionally misplaced) trust,
Harmony