With Christmas coming up I was looking forward to having a relaxing and enjoyable time before seeing my family. Knowing that I had limited funds, an experiment spending 24 hours in an airport could be my chance to get away.
I had expectations of seeing loving reunions, tearful goodbyes, and people missing flights and telling their loved ones through broken sentences they won’t be coming home for Christmas. Photo: Julian Vares
With all this enthusiasm I marched out into the surprisingly warm Christchurch morning with only one intention - to spend at least 24 hours in the Christchurch International Airport.
“This the bus to the airport?” I asked the tired backpackers at the bus stop. They responded only with slow nods, and dejected sighs. I should have taken this as a hint to run for my life, but I was foolish and filled with visions of delicious sandwiches and boarded my own personal boat of Charon.
“To the airport?” the bus driver cheerfully squeaked.
“Is that where everyone gets off?” I mumbled through breath heavy from the summer’s day walk.
I tried to erase any thoughts of “what a creep” by giving her my best smile. Only to be betrayed by some forehead sweat dripping onto my left eye, causing it to wink erratically.
In retrospect this might have been the reason she announced I had arrived at my holiday destination by slowly spitting out “You get out here now”.
"The building is specifically built for this too. It has comfort, sure: food, internet, even lighting and chairs, but it’s all priced just a little higher than it should be and nothing is homely." Photo: Julian Vares
The festive season had arrived at the airport, Christmas trees accentuated entranceways and some of the braver staff members wore ill-fitted green t-shirts while proudly wearing jiggling Christmas-tree antennas without a hint of cynicism or self-mockery.
I had expectations of seeing loving reunions, tearful goodbyes, and people missing flights and telling their loved ones through broken sentences they won’t be coming home for Christmas.
Instead people calmly walked around, almost in a state of Zen to the hypnotic public announcement of “we are a safety conscious airport, please do not let children play on the escalators” in amongst softly played classics like Las Ketchup Song.
In case you are unfamiliar with how airports work, they are just like train stations, doctor’s waiting rooms, bus stops, purgatory and your grandparents’ lounge: you go there to leave.
The building is specifically built for this too. It has comfort, sure. Food, internet, even lighting and chairs, but it’s all priced just a little higher than it should be and nothing is homely. You are not there to relax; you’re there to get out.
Eventually out of boredom and a desperate desire to have some kind of human contact, I decided I would partake in the airports offer to wrap a gift for a dollar. In this case my sister’s eftpos card, which I had accidentally picked up thinking it was my own. Slamming that puppy down I began my cheerful banter.
“So… ah… you guys… ah… gift wrap?”
The two bored teenagers blinked out of their daydreamer dazes and looked around at the wrappers that surrounded them, before one replied, “Primarily.”
I pounced on my chance to ask these two the hard journalistic questions.
“Busy day?”
“You’re our third customer today” said the unoccupied one.
“Oh. How would you kill some time here?”
“Oh there’s free wi-fi here, that’s how we kill time”
“What if you don’t get wi-fi on your computer?”
“Oh, wow. I guess I would just eat a lot.”
“Yeah, you can’t really do anything here, you wanna bow on this?” the gift-wrapper interjected.
I began the day with “just heading up to Auckland” to “I have to get up to Auckland to save my marriage” to “I’m going to Auckland to confront my pregnant wife about the sordid affair she is having with my twin brother Raymond”.
I left the two gift-wrappers to explore the airport a bit more and converse with other workers. It can’t be that bleak, after all they must see the wide breadth of humanity. Instead, each conversation alerted me to the fact that airports have an influence on people similar to the hotel in The Shining.
While the hotel helps to bring out the madness from within, airports bring out a nagging sense that we spend our lives occupying ourselves against the inevitable.
After nine hours of being in the airport I start trying to have fun. This purgatory had arcade games scattered around the airport, after all.
I played a masculine game of virtual hunting, and played mechanical arm games for the chance to win chocolate or an iPad. Failing to win at any of these childish games I decided to kill time the way any self-respecting adult does, with one dollar scratchies.
But the most damaging addiction I picked up was the lying. My lies during the day became more extravagant. Unlike most addictions lying becomes more delicious with each use. But like all addictions you tend to crave a bit more each time.
I began the day with “just heading up to Auckland” to “I have to get up to Auckland to save my marriage” to “I’m going to Auckland to confront my pregnant wife about the sordid affair she is having with my twin brother, Raymond”.
It didn’t matter what I told the smiling people behind the counter, they would never flinch or question it. They were stuck in the same airport as me, but they’ve been stuck here for a lot longer. They had reached a nirvana I will never be able to imagine.
The night finally arrived so I looked around for a suitable bench to spend the night. Only to be told I couldn’t sleep there. If, however I had an early enough flight I could pay five dollars and go into a nice lounge with a shower. This rule was put in place after the airport had trouble with ‘passengers’ putting up tents and hammocks in the terminal. At one point it got so out of control people started to cook meals on Bunsen burners indoors.
"After nine hours of being in the airport I start trying to have fun. This purgatory had ‘Time Out’ games scattered around the airport, after all." Photo: Julian Vares
Having no flight I was asked to leave, they had hotels on offer, and if that didn’t suit there was a McDonald's down the road. So that was it. After fifteen hours of trying to stay within a building that doesn’t want anyone in there, it finally got rid of me.
It was now raining outside and I sat in the cold for a few more hours before I took the hint from the multiple scowls from the night guards to retire to the nearby McDonald's. Oddly I felt human there. This was another type of waiting room, but the clear difference being I could just sit and reflect. No one asks where you’re going, because you’re just there to pause. To escape wherever you’ve been and wherever you’re going to.
“Has anyone ever pitched a tent in here before?” I asked the half-awake employee behind the counter. She just laughed and shook her head. I looked at this unexplored territory. Finally, I had found a place I could truly have a holiday.
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