Athens Airport, August 26: A Not-So-Helpful Record of How to Travel Before Dawn

At three o’clock in the morning, the Athens airport looks about the same as any given Athens street: littered with strays. Everyone is folded up on a bench or sprawled on the floor. People-puppy-piles rest on backpacks, friend curled into friend. This is the best time to travel—before the rush, before the slog, before the delays. This is when the mighty [read: foolish, cheap, or unable to read with confidence] — yes, those who power through the night and fly into the morning—stake their claim to destiny and a window seat.

I arrive with alcohol and espresso on my breath and the Med in my hair. You never sleep before a flight at 3, 4, 5, or 6 in the morning unless you’re leaving from home. The only time I’ve ever missed a flight in my life was when my mother insisted I sleep after the club in Sevilla. I never made the mistake of listening to my mother again. No, if you’re flying early, it’s three glasses of wine or two cocktails spread throughout the evening, followed by an espresso an hour before the cab. Listen to me, not your mother.

When I arrive, I am sweating in a way that is blatantly unattractive, but so is everyone else. The check-in booths aren’t open yet, and my phone won’t download the boarding pass, so I sit in line behind a family from Pakistan and a couple from Texas. Rolling luggage makes a good chair for thirteen minutes, and then the floor beckons.

It seems I’m not the only one with travel troubles this early in the morning. Through the quiet airport echoes the groan of site malfunctions, unconfirmed tickets, check-ins refusing to cooperate. I’d noted the scene before I found my seat in line— this line, that is— the line where I was waiting for the check-in booths. Before, I was in a separate line, in which I was waiting for my turn at the information desk, to pay homage to the small, tan woman who clearly drew the short straw when it came to picking shifts.

In line in front of me was a dark-skinned woman with eyeliner that was far too meticulous for 2:26 AM. She had certainly reapplied it on her way to the airport or performed the most exceptional priming routine I’d ever not-witnessed. She was flying Lufthansa to Frankfurt, but she couldn’t get her ticket to show up on the app.

“See? It says unconfirmed.” She showed the agent, who looked dutifully and nodded. “There’s no one at the desk. I don’t know what to do.”

“The desk will open at three, and your flight doesn’t leave until six.” The agent was wonderfully reassuring. “I assure you, you’ll have plenty of time to make your flight.”

This quelled the woman as much as possible (which was not very much—no one is truly calm in an airport until their mid-40s, and sometimes not even then), and she rolled her luggage to wait with the collection of strays that had gathered along the far wall.

I wasn’t sure if I should say good morning or good evening, or if I even remembered either phrase in my piecemeal Greek, so I nodded to the woman and approached the bench for judgment.

“I’m flying KLM, booked through Delta, to Amsterdam.”

“Yes, the 5:45 flight.”

“Yes. But their app won’t let me download my boarding pass.”

“I understand. If you wait to the left, their check-in opens at three. You can get your boarding pass there.”

I’d learned long ago that there’s something in the air at airports that makes sense make less sense. And it’s never language or culture that twists logic sideways, but rather the liminal nature of the space. You’ll notice it in the way that you’ll ask airport security if you should take your boots off, and they’ll say no, and then when you get in line for the metal detector, they’ll call you back over like a child in need of chastising and demand those boots as some sort of shame payment. No, I’m not speaking from experience— and I promise, you’ll notice it too. Either way, I decided long ago that in matters of great importance, such as take-off times for connecting flights, I would have to get my answers more than once. For the sake of my sanity. And lack of memory.

Therefore:

“I can get my boarding pass there?”

“You can get your boarding pass there.”

“Even though the app won’t let me check in?”

“Even though the app won’t let you check in, yes.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“I figured that might be it. I remember my parents going to get boarding passes from real people at the check-in desks. It’s just that I’ve always checked in on my phone, and I was worried that if the app wasn’t working, I wouldn’t be able to give them my flight details and they wouldn’t be able to check me in, but you’re saying they can check me in anyway. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

You see? Very clear.

I’m still sitting on the floor. It’s 2:47. The man in front of me saw someone behind the counter and got up in anticipation. The ignorance to assume anything at an airport would happen early. This is the Tantalus plane—where you’re expected three hours early and your flight always leaves late, even when you think you can reach out the window and spin the turbines yourself. He’s sat back down now; realism brought him to his knees, like the rest of us. But he’s bought himself a fresh thirteen minutes on his luggage. I guess that’s optimism’s reward.

I wonder if the Lufthansa woman will make her flight. I hope she doesn’t have to make a connection at the Frankfurt airport— it is a dreadful place. That was where I started my trip, a month ago, almost to the hour. It was the only time since I left home that I felt the deep, terrifying sting of regret. That I might’ve spent three years of savings on an adventure I’d only half enjoy.

It’s impossible to navigate that airport. There’s a stretch of it that takes you ten minutes to walk—just an endless, windowless corridor. I hope she doesn’t have a connection. I hope she makes her flight.

The family from Pakistan is getting antsy. I’m glad the children aren’t too young—for their sake as much as mine. Toddlers shouldn’t exist at three in the morning.

Apparently, the office doesn’t open until 3:15. Half of the Texan couple claims to have known this and also claims to have told their partner thirty minutes earlier. They fight, quietly.

“Okay, fine. Let’s end the vacation like that,” says the other half, and the first half walks away. She’ll come back at 3:10 silently, and they’ll continue quietly until they reach their destination, at which point it will be like the fight never happened.

They’re setting up the counters now. It’s 3:01. The pack is staring at every move, waiting, waiting. The sun won’t rise until we do, and the luggage is uncomfortable.