The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 2}

If you look at a map of the routes United Airlines flies, and imagine taking a flight from Denver to Newark, it seems a pretty straightforward path.  See Example A:

But it turns out, NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. (This is the potential title of a book made up of dreadful travel stories that may be compiled at a future date.)

It took us for stinkin' ever just to get out of the Denver airport. 

The baggage was slow being loaded. 

There were passengers from a connecting flight that we needed to wait for.

There were other planes in front of us.

The pilot forgot to brush his teeth, so had to exit the plane to do so. 

(Not really, but it was starting to seem that that sort of thing was happening)

When we finally DID get out of Denver, the sun was beginning to set behind the Flatirons and this was the view from my seat...

(I know. There will be die-hard Denver Broncos fans that will point out the colors of the sunset match their team colors...blah, blah, blah. Years past I would be able to say something in retaliation like "Yeah, but just just like the sun, your team is going DOWN."  Not this year. *sniffle*)

Now then.

Back to the flight.

Look at the map one more time and trace with your finger the route from Denver to Newark.

Did you happen to go through Canada or over any of the Great Lakes?

No?

Well, WE did. 

I can only assume the pilots were trying to end up in Quebec instead of Newark because

NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. 

And I'll tell you why.

(You knew I would, didn't you?)

The Newark Airport is some sort of crazy, discombobulating, scuzzy, coffee-less/food-less/soul-less landing place after 11 p.m. until 5 a.m. the next day.  

We straggled off our "international" flight from Denver around 11:30 p.m., EST. There were about 3 stores or eateries open, but no one really felt like eating 8 hour old pizza. (Except Doc, and he got a screaming deal on it.) 

As Jenny found a place to nest with the kids and charge various devices, Ivan and I headed to have a glass of wine at the one likely place, Oeno Wine Bar. The only reason it was still open, I discovered after ordering a $15 glass of Chardonnay, was because of the MLB World Series playoff game between the LA Dodgers and New York Mets.

(Incidentally, the Mets won, 3-1, in which case the three Mets fans stood up, stretched, exited the joint and the lights started dimming.)

(But SERIOUSLY...who goes to a WINE BAR to watch baseball??? It would be like going to a steak house to watch opera. It can be done, but probably shouldn't be.)

So that was midnight. 

We only had nine hours to go before our flight left for Bonaire!

Nine of the longest hours of my life.

Don't tell my mom this (because she'll react as though someone just called a 23-19), but...

I slept on the nasty floor in a corner of one of the seating areas, with my head on my purse and my sarong for a blanket. It was only for maybe 20 minutes...long enough to get chilled to the core and want a cup of coffee desperately.

There's no coffee to be had in the Newark Airport at 2 a.m. 

I don't care if you're Batman or the Queen of England or Tom Brady, you won't be getting coffee.

You'll get lots of things....like "lost", "dirty looks", or "ignored", but you won't get coffee. 

(Ivan and I set off on a grand discovery tour around the concourse and got all those things. At one point, we encountered a custodian with a piping hot cup of fresh coffee. I asked him in a quavery, desperate voice where he'd managed to find it and he gestured toward the window..."Out thay-ah. Sorry."  Also, I think we may have set off an alarm in a weird, open kiosk that didn't look like a kiosk, but we'll never know.)

Finally (and this is by now only three and a half hours into a nine hour layover), a kid in a black hooded sweatshirt who was hanging around the central food court asked Ivan if we needed anything. Ivan replied rather hopelessly and glumly that we were seeking coffee and the kid said "I'll get you some."

(I'd like to say at this juncture that I believe in angels from God, and I believe this young man was one of them.)

As we were following him through the maze of stands, a rather stout black woman  pushing an empty (as it would turn out) coffee canister stopped our young savior and asked where he was going. He told her he was fetching us coffee, and she said something to the effect of "Ain't no damned coffee made 'til 5, fool." to which he said, "Yes there is. I made some."  I got the distinct impression that this was not his job or place, but like I said, I'm pretty sure he was an angel sent for me. (Because Ivan doesn't drink coffee, you see. He was just in it for the active distraction from sitting in the waiting area for 9 hours.)

Black Hoody led us to a closed coffee stand, went behind the counter, grabbed a big cardboard cup and asked if I wanted regular or decaf.  I almost wept with gratitude. 

"Regular, PLEASE and thank you so very, very much!" 

"No problem."

After he handed me the gorgeous beverage, I asked how much and he said, "I'll be right back" and vanished into the maze of stands again. 

So there I was, standing next to the counter with my contraband cup of joe when another traveler with the same haunted, hungry eyes approached and asked where I'd managed to get the life-giving elixir. I gestured with my head to the other side of the counter, "Back there. Some guy got it for me and now I'm waiting to pay him." 

The traveler said, "Where is he?!? Where did he go?!?!"

"I don't know!"was the truthful reply.

"They said there was no coffee until 5 a.m.!!!"

"I know."

"But YOU have coffee!"

Indeed. 

(Dear reader, you may be thinking that the Christian thing to do in this moment would be to grab another cup and split the booty with the other desperate traveler, but I will confess that although the thought flitted through my mind, I immediately and selfishly rebuked it, hoping my Newark story would not include being mugged for 10 ounces of caffeine that may or may not have been stolen. Let him find his own angel in a black hoody. Or something.)

After a short time, the other traveler gave up and left the scene. Moments later, Black Hoody angel reappeared, said "I got the code. Follow me." which I did unthinkingly. He led me about 10 paces to a pay kiosk, entered the super secret pass code (I should have paid more attention to THAT), took my 5 bucks, deposited it, carefully retrieved the 50 cents in change and handed it back to me. 

"Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH! I can't tell you how much I appreciate this!"

"No problem."

And he vanished into the airport.