Orange Envelope

No deadlines. No other place to be. It’s a waiting place, and for this moment it’s okay. I’ve determined it’s okay because I see an end in sight. In seven hours my second flight of the day will take off from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam to Tokyo en route to Indianapolis with a necessary, albeit annoying, stop in Chicago. In thirty-one hours and fifty-three minutes the wonderfully squeaky landing gear will swerve me into Indiana and home sweet soft mattress home.

I looked forward to a full week forgetting about awaiting the perfect job and finding Mr. Wonderful and instead relaxing into warm spring weather. But somehow those things, those worries and expectations still, mysteriously, followed me halfway around the world. The reprieve I anticipated from my regular life’s waiting simply switched waiting rooms.

My sister and her husband teach English in the city of Da Nang in Vietnam. (Dang!) She took me to observe her classroom filled with exuberant, dark-eyed, students. Some were shy and stole sheepish peeks at their teacher’s sister while the bold ones asked questions uninhibited and with curious inflection.
“How old? are? you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Are? you married?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
And there goes my mind back to worrying about all the things I thought I’d left unpacked in my Indianapolis apartment.

My sister’s landlord asked too.
“Your sister. She not married?”
“No.”
“Why not? She is so beautiful.”
I was within earshot and rolled my eyes from the adjacent room. I’m pretty sure she meant ‘she is so very white’—which in Vietnam is strangely the same thing. If beauty had anything to do with it, I’d have checked to see what my chances were for a shorter layover.

Instead I wait. The man who runs the drink stand in the airport is waiting, smoking and shirtless. His daughter rests a few chairs away from me, covered with her father’s jacket, head resting on a hard textbook. Four travellers chat quietly in the darkened corner of the lobby, hands occasionally gesturing to aid in the telling of a story.

It’s nearly two a.m. and I’m still waiting. And the waiting won’t end at 6 a.m. or even once I touch ground in Indy. I know that. But sometimes it’d be nice to know when it would.

In the same breath I would also consider asking for a steady pace of non-waiting should the waiting end. It seems to me that it’s either hot or cold, famine or feast, all or nothing.

Fast forward to the plane landing in Chicago. I had one hour and twenty minutes to go through customs, pick up my checked bag, re-check my bag, take a train to another terminal, go through security, and make my way to the far end of terminal G to gate 20. My head told my feet to run while my legs relearned to walk after the eleven and six-hour plane rides.

Volunteers in bright orange vests waited as we exited the plane and yelled, pointing to the printed signs they held. “CONNECTING FLIGHTS TO BOSTON? MINNEAPOLIS? INDIANAPOLIS?” I slowed down, curious and breathless. “I’m flying to Indianapolis.” The girl about my age handed me an oversized, florescent orange envelope with my boarding pass tucked inside. “Keep this visible at all times. There will be workers who will help you get through the lines quickly.” Sweet.

Marked with the sign of grace, I ran to my first engagement. The customs official asked his questions quickly. I responded just as fast, panic rising in my throat. He stamped my passport and welcomed me to America. I nodded and ran to baggage claim, scanning each small, black bag for the squiggly, silver ribbon that marked it mine. And I waited. And waited.

The orange envelope could do nothing. I resigned myself to the fact that I would be spending the night in Chicago and felt tears form behind my overly tired eyes. I glanced up at the video monitor and realized I was standing at the wrong carousal. My heart fell as I began to check other monitors. An airport worker called out from behind me, “You’re at the right one. This one’s from Tokyo.” Apparently I don’t have a very good poker face.

My bag FINALLY arrived and I chastised it for its late arrival. Bag retrieved, I ran to another customs official. Passport checked, rechecked, lifted eyebrow. Clearly I look nothing like my passport photo. He let me through anyway and I hurried to recheck my bag. The woman there made certain that the sticker on my bag matched my boarding pass as I flashed the orange envelope not so discreetly. She looked at her watch and I was sure I heard her cluck her tongue.

The process seemed to never end. My wristwatch tired of me checking it and sped up its pace. By my calculations the plane to Indy had started boarding three minutes ago. I caught the train, and exited quickly only to be funneled onto one small escalator after another.

At the bottom of the never-ending escalator maze was another line, this time for security, which stretched back and forth and filled to the brim with weary travelers. Another orange-vested woman caught my eye, waved and beckoned me to her post. She opened a side aisle and I skipped to the front of the line. I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt. I think that’s what being over tired does to you.

And then it was time for the final sprint. I pushed my laptop and small liquid containers back into my backpack and crammed my aching feet into my shoes, leaving them untied. I’ve been running three times a week for the past two months; I guess I was unknowingly training for the O’Hare 3K. My heavy bag hit my back again and again as I zigzagged between waiting customers and cleaning crews along the never-ending terminal hallway. Perhaps the orange envelope should have moved the gate closer to security.

I arrived at gate G20 and the door was closed. I went up to the counter anyway hoping my frazzled looks would persuade the customer service representative to reopen the door for me. I placed my boarding pass, lucky orange envelope and passport on the counter. “Yes?” She asked, barely looking up from her computer. “I’m—going—to—In—In-di-an-apolis.” I huffed, barely able to speak. Eyes still on her computer she responded stone-faced: “You have to wait. We have eight minutes until we begin to board.”

Not only had I made it, with time to spare, but this woman didn’t even acknowledge or congratulate me on the crazy marathon I’d just been through. I guess my reward was rest. And to wait.

Good thing I’m used to waiting.