I woke to the sound of the world ending.
The cold, thinly carpeted ground shook as a loud, mechanic rumble overpowered “For Emma, Forever Ago.” Bon Iver’s album is my go-to for a sleep soundtrack; it whispers me to sleep in new, scary environments like it did when I was a teenager enjoying the cozy comforts of my bed(room). It coddled me on the ferry ride from Helsinki to Stockholm; it cut out the drunks on the overnight bus ride from Krakow to Budapest; it lulled me to sleep each time I slept in a new bed.
It was playing when I pulled a dress over my body as a blanket and a t-shirt over my head as an eye mask. My leather duffel serving as a semi-squishy, somewhat comfortable pillow. The Charlotte Douglas International Airport runs air conditioning through the night. They don’t turn the lights off after the last flight lands. Of course not. That’s when the cleaning crew comes through.
Which is why I woke up at 1:34 a.m. to the obnoxious sound of the world’s demise. Rumble-tumble. Boom boom boom. Unusual loud squeaky sounds.
*ground shakes*
*snoring man groans*
*snoring continues*
I groan and lift the t-shirt, revealing my right eye, then my left. I needed both eyes, groggy from ground-sleep, to realize that a cherry picker was rolling through the check-in atrium. A man. In a basket crane. Inside.
And you know what he was doing? I’ll give you two guesses. He wasn’t cherry picking.
He was dusting the ceiling. That’s what was happening at 1:34 on a Tuesday morning. Of course it was. When else were the ceiling and giant letter C hanging on the wall going to be dusted?
I can’t be mad at Mr. Ceiling Duster. He was merely doing his job; a loud, 30-minute dusting job, but still his job. I was mad about sleeping on the floor. And before you say “but why didn’t you sleep on a bench/in a chair” let me tell you that 1) I can rarely sleep sitting up and 2) all of the bench-like furniture in the atrium had arm rests between each seat. I am not skinny enough to snuggle under them.
Oh, and now you’re asking about why I was on the floor in the first place? Right. Context. Sorry.
I flew to Nashville to spend time with my best friends and family. Hannah showed me Germantown, where we peaked in the windows of an abandoned home, scoffed at over-priced boutiques and ate a Nash-Ago deep dish from 312 Pizza (and flirted with the waiter). We splashed in the Tennessee Rivers fountains and rode home in a car that smelled oddly like a motel room.
Eric cashed in on his Christmas present. Yes, I know, I’m an awful older sister. Nine months later, three weeks before his birthday, I finally delivered on my promise to take him to Grimey’s and buy him a record. At least I helped him find what he wanted (Brand New’s Deja Entendu.) We didn’t stop there, though. Eric is the coolest one in the family, so I tried to show him cool Nashville things. We stopped by Retro Snow, where he got a Citrus Sunrise “so you can’t have any, ‘cuz you’re allergic to oranges.” Thank you, Eric. We poked around in some thrift stores and Hillsboro Village, and then stopped by Local Honey before heading home.
I spent Labor Day with great company. Liv served spicy Bloody Mary’s, and we played beer pong in the pool. It was, what I assumed, the ending to a perfect trip to Nashville. The Nashville bit was perfect, but then I landed in the Charlotte airport and had to say “excuse me” 5,000 times before getting to my next gate.
All the flights were oversold, and since it was a holiday weekend, everyone was there to claim their seats. It was mayhem. And as a non revenue guest (I fly standby, when there’s an opening), I was on the bottom of the priority list. I had hoped to catch the last flight to DC, but when that didn’t happen, I curled up on the ground and waited for the 6 a.m. flight. Then the 7:30, the 8:30, the 9:45.
I texted my boss. I wasn’t going to make it to work.
I was laying on the floor, outside gate C17, under an out-of-order charging station. To my left was a 2-year-old Hispanic toddler, straining to touch my head with her right hand but her father tightly held the left hand as her mother velcroed the stray shoe back on to her foot. To my right was a group of tattooed and gold chain wearing men. They looked as tired as I felt. The one who wasn’t asleep started taking photos of his friends, chuckling to himself about the obvious hilarity.
My fingers crossed, my spirits low, I drifted in and out of sleep.
“Cather, please come to the desk for your seat assignment.”
I lept to my feet. Stars flashed before my eyes, that’s how fast I got up. Finally, I was going home. PRAISE THE UNIVERSE. Finally.
And that’s the story of me sleeping on the ground.
Not the first time, probably not the last.
Stay tuned.
xo, hc
