Precisely the Wrong Airport

I knew I’d have to leave very swiftly, get a cab in a few minutes and be lucky with traffic to make this flight.  And everything was prompt.  I got down the elevator without many side conversations.  I wasn’t going anywhere without money for the cab.  The ATM had cash and didn’t give my foreign card any grief.  The first cab I noticed pulled right up.  I asked him to please drive swiftly.  And he was a reasonable guy who drove at a brisk, yet sane clip.  All the things I’d quietly invested a few seconds here and a few seconds there fretting about passed by without a hitch. 

I dove into one phone call and then another.  Looking up I’d noticed we’d crossed the Huang Pu River.  A sign suggested that the Pu Dong airport was still twenty-nine kilometers away.  This seemed long, but I was making good time.  It crossed my mind to double check the terminal number.  I’d told the guy Terminal 2, automatically.   But usually I’m heading back to Beijing and the international terminal may well be different. 

I took out my phone, enjoying the calm that comes from knowing I’d be early.  We were passing an array of huge electric power towers.  I’ve photographed them before and figured I’d snap a few shots again.  Fiddling with my email app I found the Ctrip communiqué which confirmed the Terminal number and that I was speeding along to precisely the wrong airport. 

Well then.  I explained my goof to the good driver.   I laughed and confirmed that at least this meant he’d make some good money on the trip.  He rolled with it, got off the next off ramp scooted under the highway and had me speeding back the way I’d come in no time.  I might still make it, but there was no room for traffic, wrong turns, or any further mistakes.  One call and then another to take my mind off my calamity and with thirty minutes to spare I saw a sign suggesting the airport was only twelve kilometers away.  This time luck was with me.  I made it with five minutes to spare. 

I walked into the main hall of the Hong Qiao international terminal, which I don’t often visit.  It is the old airport, without the newer terminal’s conveniences and amenities.  It has the advantage of being haunted though.  I can remember saying a long good bye to the woman who would later become my wife, here as we stood before immigration, heading back to the U.S., not sure if I’d ever return, some twenty-three years ago.  Later in the lounge they had various things, which didn’t appeal and a cauldron of sweet and sour soup, which actually wasn’t bad. 

Beside me in the bulkhead here are two women with a baby.  The child was crying and I wanted to suggest to them that the short-sleeved mite was probably balling about how cold he was.  But I kept to myself and continued to grade papers.