6 Ways of Looking at O’Hare

By Andrea Scarpino

 

1. From below: people rushing, running, bumping into you with roller bags and overstuffed purses. Disembodied announcements, ceaseless—unattended luggage will be destroyed, do not accept items, shoes left at security, church services, now boarding, final boarding. Golf carts trying to maneuver the crowds by beeping their horns incessantly. Sobbing babies. Somewhere: an inconsolable cat, howling.

 

1. From above: rooftop garden. Tall plastic columns of plants under fluorescent lights—green onions, chives, habanero chilis, green peppers, salad greens, basil, edible flowers. The calm of it—rectangle of color, water rushing into the planters each hour, heat from artificial suns. Large windows: gray sky, blowing snow. And a garden, growing.

 

1. In hunger. Frontera: fresh tortas and homemade salsa, Greek yogurt bar, salads with creamy dressing and avocado. Wolfgang Puck: roasted beet salad, wood-fired pizza with fresh mozzarella. Cappuccinos on every corner. Carefully brewed Argo tea. Frozen  yogurt with chocolate sprinkles.

 

1. In kindness: the gate agent who searches for other flights when yours has been cancelled, the server who lets you sit most of the afternoon ordering nothing but Diet Coke, the security agent who pats you down, how she nods, “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t go through those machines either.”

 

1. In exasperation: flights cancelled 30 minutes before they’re due to take-off. Mixed messages: you’ll have to call the 1-800 number; you’ll have to speak to the gate agent. Bathrooms miles down the hall from where you’re sitting. The cab driver who swears non-stop and charges you double to drive you 8 minutes down the highway.

 

1. In kindness: your partner and friend who search online for a hotel while you’re still standing in line at the gate of your cancelled flight, who research rental cars, who offer to drive six hours to pick you up. The friend who knows you’re stuck, finds your hotel online, and calls the bar to order two shots, brought to your room by room service. You’re angry, annoyed, watching stupid television, watching people do stupid things on television, and there’s a knock at your door. You open it: two shots of whipped-cream topped alcohol on a silver tray. A smiling room-service man. You sit in your overstuffed bed with your drinks and sip them joyfully.

 

 Poet and essayist Andrea Scarpino is a frequent contributor to POTB. You can visit her at:

www.andreascarpino.com