9.jun.97

Flying to Luxembourg to revisit our favorite vacation spots! But there's something wrong with my ticket. To Nora: go ahead and board; if I can't get on this flight I'll meet you at Hotel Carlton tomorrow.

"OK, I have something for you." I hand the agent my credit card, and a fat sheaf of tickets thuds from the printer. "OK, you'll transfer in Bogota, San Salvador, and Fez. Travel time is 26 hours, and there's a two-week social-service work-camp in San Salvador." I argue. She placates. We will try again after this flight has departed, so I won't be holding up the line.

It's getting late, and the airport is very quiet. The ticket agent joins me at the coffee shop where I've been waiting. She's very young, kind of plump, round face, dark blonde hair. Her name starts with, um, C, A... Cassie? Back to the ticket counter.

"OK, here's one, leaves in an hour, you'll transfer in San Francisco." San Francisco? But that's almost as far away as Luxembourg, and in the wrong direction. Still, I have to get there somehow. I almost go off again when I see the price - 28,000 - but, no, that must have been something else. The price is $1009. Oh well, what can I expect for a last minute ticket?

The flight is on another airline, and Cassie accompanies me to the competitor's gates. On the way I think of what I should have remembered an hour ago. Did you know that there's a Luxembourg Airline? Did you check with them? "Um, no." But she will, and, taking my earlier tickets so she can cancel them, she runs off in search of a terminal. After all this, my initial antipathy towards her as the source of all my travel troubles is being replaced by a growing fondness.

She can't use the competitor's terminals, but it's too far to run back to her own station in another wing of the airport. Flashing a badge, she slips through one of those mysterious doors that lead to the tarmac. I see her, briefly, down among the plane-tugs and baggage handlers, before she's hidden by the curve of the building. I run down another corridor, but there's no windows, just half-finished walls and exposed wires and pipes. At the end of a long, gentle curve there's a sort of hatch which lets me out near the top of a small artificial hill or sand dune covered with bumpy succulent groundcover. I scramble to the bottom but there's nothing to see but desert.

Back up the hill -- I'm tired now, and I have to take it one step at a time -- just climb halfway, okay, another few steps, just a couple more, and in the hatch. This time I have to cross a vast, yellow-lit warehouse before I'm back in the dim corridor. Just as my eyes adjust to the darkness I'm blinded by the glare of the airport terminal again, but not before I notice a small door I hadn't seen before. There's a bathroom, and a naked woman -- I look away. I call from around the corner: Cassie? Is that you? I'm not looking! Cassie? ...and Cassie comes out.