Fun in Frankfurt

Not being able to travel was one of the worst parts of the pandemic for me, as it was for many regular travelers. As the restrictions dragged on and on, I started pining for the calming surge of takeoff and the refreshment of a completely new environment. As soon as restrictions allowed, I booked two trips to Newcastle in the United Kingdom (reasons for which will not be addressed at this time). Air travel during the pandemic was like heading into uncharted territory. All sorts of unexpected things happened. For example, I became much more familiar with Frankfurt Airport than I wanted.

Newcastle is like Albuquerque in that it is a small airport with very limited connections. Both my trips consisted of Albuquerque – Chicago – Frankfurt – Newcastle. That route no longer appears to exist, but at the time, it was pretty much the only option. All four layovers in Frankfurt were fraught with unpleasantness of some kind. I feel sort of bad saying that, because I loved my forays into Munich and have some German heritage. But unfortunately, memories of Frankfurt Airport are not happy occurrences.

The four layovers exist clearly in my memory, but in dream-like fragments rather than linear progression. I do know that the first layover was one hour, one was 23 hours, and at least one was eight hours. The airport was under construction for all that time. Inter-terminal transit was via busses, and there were an inordinate number of bare concrete staircases to climb. Signage was poor, and I seemed to wind up where I had begun on several occasions.

On the one-hour layover, I arrived at the bus stop for flight connection after this labyrinthine journey. I knew that the flight crew would know I had a tight connection and would hopefully wait for me. Also at the bus stop were two young North American men. I heard them explain to the bus conductor that their flight left in twenty minutes, as did mine. The conductor was one of those employees who seemed permanently irritable. He dramatically pointed to his watch and indicated that the bus left in one minute, and not before. The two North Americans and I knew there was no point in complaining, so we just stood in the bus, waiting. As the conductor looked at his watch again, and started signaling the driver to leave, there was a commotion at the bottom of the staircase. I watched with horror as a large family group arrived. The group was broken into two parts. One part consisted of an elderly woman in a wheelchair and several attendants. The other consisted of a woman struggling with a baby stroller, a toddler, and a few family members. It took a solid five minutes for them all to get on the bus.

Still banking on the flight crew holding the plane, I moved as fast as I could through the terminal to the flight. To use the term “running” is a bit ambitious, but I moved as fast as I possibly could. I thought there was a good chance I would have a heart attack. I had gotten chubby over the years, and generally got very little exercise.  I slowed down only enough to try to get my lungs to fill more fully with air. Sure enough, as I flopped through the barriers, I heard the attendant tell his colleague via walkie-talkie that I was on my way.  I made the flight, but my luggage did not. It arrived four days later, which was how frequently the Frankfurt – Newcastle flight operated.

The first layover on the second trip was 23 hours. By then it was impossible to book the combination with the one hour layover, not that I would have wanted to risk cardiac arrest again or have no luggage for four days. Leaving the secure airport jurisdiction was not an option. That would have involved navigating German pandemic requirements as well as those for the US and UK (another inconvenience resulting from Brexit). Instead, I acted quickly and was able to get a room at the one hotel that is within secure air space. You pay by the hour, and I treated myself to eight. It was worth every penny for the novelty, luxury, and solitude. The room was not luxurious, but to have a bed and a shower to yourself was. My German was not quite good enough to follow a local television drama but combined with the images I was able to follow along well enough. I felt like a local.

In some ways, the eight hour layovers were worse. They were far too long for normal airport activities, but without the novelty of the hotel. Usually, I can occupy a fair bit of time shopping. I exhausted the large duty-free shop, which had an impressive selection of Swiss herbal lozenges and teas. I was so tired that I left my passport at the register. Luckily, the cashier was able to flag me down to return it before I wandered off too far. The only other retail area was the usual boring array of souvenir shops, everything in black, red, and gold.

Enjoying a good meal could have been another option, but all the restaurants were closed. The only food available seemed to consist of either meat or bread. The baked goods looked lovely, but I was barely eating carbs at that point. Being shy, I surreptitiously looked at the meat carts from a distance to assess what I may need to translate. I saw that they all sold the exact same assortment of schnitzels and brats. Large bottles of condiments hung from the top of the carts, in shades of red, brown, and off-white. Each bottle ended in a huge, elongated nipple dangling below, presumably for easy application onto a meat cutlet. Having breast fed my son for two years, I found this revolting. 

Men wearing football (soccer) shirts and strong cologne seemed to be the largest segment of the traveling population. This caused a minefield-type situation for me, because I am pathologically sensitive to scent. I realized I could better avoid the olfactory assaults if I stopped walking around. It was also time to try to snooze if I could. I headed for a special “relaxation” area consisting of Z shaped recliners. I was the oldest person in this area by far, it being otherwise occupied by Gen Z on gaming devices. Although the seating looked comfortable from a distance, it turned out that it was not, due to the recliners being completely immobile.

On one segment, I made a colossal mistake. I was so determined to get some sleep on the flight from Chicago that I took an herbal sleeping pill. I donned an eye mask and played Deep Sleep binaural beats/brainwave frequency on my earphones. I fell into a deep stupor, but did not actually sleep. However, the eight-hour flight was not enough time for the sleeping pill to lose its effect. I drifted into a truly horrible state between waking and sleep.

In the terminal, I tried as frantically as I could in my compromised state to get to a place where I could nap. Sleep, however, was still elusive. I then tried the strong coffee route. Unfortunately, it was too late to become fully awake, either. I found myself sitting on a chair, half-drunk espresso in one hand, staring off into space, unable to move. It reminded me of when I was a teenager and dabbled in drugs. Sometimes, you would take something with an unexpected result, or a bad combination of things, and feel terrible. But there is not a single thing you can do about it. You just have to wait it out until the substance(s) get out of your bloodstream. That is how I spent the last two hours of the layover. Mercifully, I slept like a rock as soon as I boarded the flight to Newcastle.

So in addition to Newcastle itself, I feel I got another city in the bargain: Frankfurt. To form a fair impression, I should visit it again sometime; but next time, I will be sure to leave the airport.