Back to my Homework Series as I think of signing up for another writing class. This assignment was to write a story that happened in one scene in the space of about an hour. So this is my chaotic, shameful story of that time at the airport in Amsterdam when it was me. The bitch was me.
When I first set foot in the Amsterdam airport after a ten-hour flight, all I could think about was a bathroom. My husband and I, as blind people traveling with white canes this trip, had arranged to have assistance getting through to our next flight to Stockholm and only had about 2 hours to do it, as well as get through the customs line, so I was hoping that our help would be there and be useful.
But it was a no go. Our airport help came with a cart with one bench that he demanded we get on, but we had our 3 children with us, and we couldn’t all fit on the cart. Of course disabled people are not allowed to have children to deal with. We really just needed someone to walk along with us, but the cart was there and we were absolutely going to have to get on it and trust our children to run alongside or forgo this help. Our helper did not understand English at all. He was not native Dutch, he seemed to possibly originate from a possibly African nation. I don’t usually want to be the Ugly American who expects everyone to speak English for me and am usually fine finding a way to communicate with others who don’t share a language. But we were just getting nowhere here. He would not walk with us; he would not let my kids on the cart. He only wanted us to hand over our tickets to him, which I didn’t want to do. I only show these helpers my ticket, I don’t ever give it to them because, I learned, they have a tendency to walk off with it. I was not going to be separated from my kids in a very busy airport where none of us knew the language. Time and my bladder were throbbing on, we decided to go solo.
First mission: bathroom. My kids could read a bit, and so we IDed the bathroom signs and followed those. I was in one of those majorly distracted, overtired, overstimulated modes where all of my senses and internal compass and patience were failing me. I walked down what appeared to be a small side hall, the kind that might house public washrooms. I saw a lighted area, which usually means there is a door or an opening or a turn to make. I thought I would be going to the kind of public bathroom I was used to, where you walk into a door and then there are sinks and toilet stalls. But when I made the turn, all of the sudden the whole atmosphere changed and there was a peaceful silence and sense of being alone. I turned back where I had come from, and a sliding door opened a bit, then shut. Was I…in the bathroom? I felt around. Tile walls. My knees hit hard porcelain. A toilet seat. Oh! I was in. I am not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I did my thing.
When I got out, I heard sort of a loud mumble of anger or hostility. My husband was waiting. “Let’s go,” he says. “Before the mob comes for you.” Apparently, I did it wrong. Apparently, there was a whole line of people on the opposite wall of the hallway, waiting for these individual sliding doors to open so the next person in line could go in. In my frenzy, I had passed all of them and just gone into the first sliding door that opened before me. I’d pissed them all off. Ugly American, strike two.
My husband had done some social engineering already and found someone who was walking to the customs line, so after we collected everyone, we walked along with him to the line. Or I should say, lines. There were 4 lines, each for a different group of people, we figured out after a while of standing in whichever random line we found ourselves in. Some were for EU passports, some were for outside of EU passports, some were for other domestic flights. We were a bit of a challenge because we had both an EU passport and American passports. We decided to try to find the outside of EU line, because we had more of those,and it would likely be easier to accommodate my husband’s EU passport in that line than the other way around. But as we were asking the people around us which line was which, all of the sudden our whole line shifted to one side. A customs agent was yelling words I could not understand. My husband, who can speak Swedish, English, and a bit of Danish and Dutch, motioned to get his attention. The man then pulled him out and was taking him away. I physically held on to his arm and said in English that we were 5 and could not be separated. We would never find each other afterwards. Our cell phones did not work in Amsterdam. He then just wanted Nik and I to be pulled out. I figured it was because we were blind. As blind people we get pulled out of every single airport and customs security line we ever go through without exception for extra security checks. But it is usually when we get right up there, not so far back in line. Again, I said our children had to come with us. I’m saying this in English to the air. I am not sure who is listening or understanding me at this point. It was somewhat for the benefit for my husband and kids to know that this is the hill we die on. We are not getting separated. As I am talking, we are being pushed and shoved around. I grab my youngest kid and I tell all of my kids to stay close. They are crabby, but I demand it in my mean mom voice. At this point, everyone hates us. But we link and become one massive blob of people, which is not looked upon favorably by anyone trying to maneuver around us.
The customs agent takes us outside of all the lines. Someone steps on my husband’s white cane and it cracks, leaving him a cane of about 2 feet in length. Almost worthless for navigation now. I take the lead with my cane. Even though the customs agent is pulling him by his elbow, I know the vulnerability of not having any type of cane between you and walls, signs, poles, whatever might punch you in the face or trip you. Sighted guides really can’t be trusted with that sort of thing, especially one who has his own agenda. So, I give the agent my arm to grab. Its unpleasant to say the least.
He puts us in the front of the customs line. We are next to see the agent at the counter who will stamp our passports. We did not ask for this, and the man behind us is unhappy. He yells in broken English that he will miss his flight. I tell him to please go ahead of us. He doesn’t move. He yells. I gesture to him with my arm, please, please go ahead of us. Its fine. He doesn’t move. The counter is free, and we are up, I give up on the man and move ahead. One of my kids breaks from the pack. She is a rule follower and is horrified that we have been put up front and that this man is so mad at us. I am getting all this as a blow by blow from my other kid. She stays behind the angry man. We are all up at the counter. One by one, the agent examines us and stamps our passports. I tell my daughter to come up here, its fine. We just have to do what these agents say. She is frozen and doesn’t move. The man is yelling at us to hurry up. My husband is disoriented due to his cane and the loudness. I am more used to not hearing than he is. I am better at taking tactile and muffled cues. So, he has become temporarily worthless at this moment. I turn around and do my nastiest hiss at my daughter. “GET. UP. HERE. NOW.” Through gritted teeth. I feel my youngest child flinch. “That man just called you a F(*&^ing Blind American C*&#!” my child whispers in my ear. Strike 3 for the ugly American.
My reluctant, somewhat autistic newly transgender daughter, practically in tears and caving in on herself due to the loud bright unpleasantness, slowly comes up to the counter. She wears a hat, face mask, and heavy coat covering almost her entire head and face. The agent asks her to take off each layer so she can be compared to her passport photo (where she appears as her former male identity) and she slowly complies. The agent—bless her—is polite and lets us through.
On the other side of the customs milieu, we breathe a bit easier. We still don’t know where our next gate is, but Nik has recovered his bearings and I find an old folding cane in my backpack that I offer him. He social engineers us a walk to our next gate, and we have 30 minutes to spare. We sit in the hot airport and melt into an exhausted recovery. I want to give Amsterdam another try one day. A real visit, where I can show her people my nicer sides.
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