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“No, thanks. I got it.”
I disembarked and used my cane to find the dimensions of the tunnel that led from plane to gate. It was quiet in the tunnel. Safe. Then it ended and the Vienna International Airport opened up before me. Right away I knew, with that famous Harlan certainty, that I was utterly fucked.
A wall of sound. No, acavernof sound. Sounds pummeling me from a million different directions and angles, distorting the dimension of the space and completely obliterating any hope I had of navigation.
I froze. My chest tightened, and my palms clutching the cane were sweaty. How in the ever-loving hell did I think this was a good idea? That I could do this? Icouldn’tdo this. I wasn’t off the plane thirty seconds, and already I was done. It was impossible.
No!I inhaled through my nose and tried to ignore how I felt almost exactly the same as I had standing on the ledge in La Quebrada, mustering the nerve to dive.
A soft hand on my arm startled me.
“You are on Level 3,” said the woman, the flight attendant from the plane. “The level is one wide but straight hallway. Customs is at the end. Beyond that, the elevators. You will need to go down to the first level. There is baggage claim and then you can find the train or…?”
“Taxi,” I said, swallowing down my panic.
“Taxi, yes. But please. Let me call an attendant to help you.”
“No, no, thanks,” I said, feeling better already now that I had at least the smallest of ideas of the layout. “I can do it. Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble, really.”
Irritation flared. My old nemesis. It was laughing at me, showing its teeth.You think you can beat me? Just wait.
“I can do it,” I said through my own clenched teeth, then forced myself to smile. But Christ, the distance from where I was and where I needed to be for Charlotte was a line so long and so deep, evenIcould see it from a mile away.
The flight attendant let go. “If you insist, sir. Enjoy your stay in Vienna.”
I can do it. Just do it. Like the ad says.
I started to walk.
My cane tapped from side to side, unobstructed, but the sheer size of the airport was overwhelming. I felt it open above and all around me, and my skin broke out in gooseflesh and sweat at the same time. I don’t know what you called the anxiety that gripped me: the opposite of claustrophobia but with the same panicky overtones. Overhead speakers made announcements in German, French, and English. Conversations, close and far, were a background hum, though some whizzed past, growing loud and fading as people walked by. Many people. Too many fucking people. My flight had been a red-eye; it was nine in the morning in Austria. A new day. And it sounded as if the entire country were bustling about the echoing halls of this airport.
I found Customs, but only because I bumped into the guy at the end of one of the lines. And waiting in line, I came to learn, was another contingency I hadn’t prepared for. It seems like the easiest thing in the world: you stand in line. The line moves up, you move with it. Except that I had no way of knowing when the line moved. I stood as close as I dared to the guy in front of me; a man who smelled of leather, coffee, and the sterilized airplane cabin. I’m sure I looked like a skulking creep, towering over him, but it worked. When I felt him move, I moved, carefully using my cane at his heels to keep a sense of distance. Finally, it was my turn.
“Passport, sir.”
I’d already had it clutched in my hand for fear of holding up the line by fumbling through my carry-on. I went to offer it up and smacked my hand into the bullet-proof partition that separated me from the Customs guy. I felt my neck burn as I found the little space below where you slide your documents.
“Are you visiting Austria for the purposes of business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure,” I said, though I knew already that was a big fat lie.
“Anything to declare?” he asked.
“Only my pride.”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, nothing. Nothing to declare.”
I heard him stamp my passport and then felt it touch my fingers. “Elevators are to your left. Enjoy your stay.”
I moved left—or what I thought was left. My sense of direction was shit. What I thought of as ‘left’ was often not left enough or too much. I had countless barked shins from my townhouse days to prove it.
I found a wall and a drinking fountain instead of a bank of elevators. I almost bent to take a drink, as if to show I’d meant to be there—and to quench my blazing humiliation. But that would be too pathetic, even for me.
I felt around for my phone, hoping the street navigation might somehow work in here. I could ask it to find the nearest Starbucks—there’s always a Starbucks—and then ask a barista where the damn baggage claim was. I could even be bold and buy a coffee while I was at it.
