Washington DC Dulles International Airport

Since it must be slightly after midnight, I’m thinking the date is now technically February 20, 2008. It’s about a quarter after in this time zone—I moved my watch forward one hour.
This place is weird and confusing and apparently a huge airport. Maybe I’ll wait till the ticketing opens in the morning and then ask how to get to the Qatar Airlines terminal form here. I got off the plane and went searching for a bathroom but found a computer with Internet access and used it before using the bathroom; apparently I was charged a dollar a minute, because the computer charged me $7.16! Eek. I’ll probably use another one before I leave this airport, because I’ll be here all day and all night.

I’d like to call the White House and say, “I’ll hate you slightly less if you send me a chauffeur, let me spend the night in a beautiful room in the White House, and have the chauffeur take me back to the airport.” I am, after all, in Washington, DC.

Anyway, I had no e-mail reply from Bina, but the travel agent in Nepal had copied me to an e-mail that rather gave me the impression that my fax didn’t go through to her but did go through to Bina. I hope it went through to somebody.

After I got off the computer, I wandered down the hall and soon came to a restroom, and I ultimately washed not only my hands but also my face, without drying it off. It felt good. By the time I was done with all this, the other people who had been on my flight were gone, and I followed the signs saying “Shuttle to Main Terminal.” I thought I was so prepared for the trip, but I’d totally forgotten to check all the flight information online—like which gates and all that; I’m sure I would have remembered if I had ordered the tickets online like usual, rather than using a travel agent.

There’s something bizarre and surreal about traveling by plane. Even when I was very nervous upon learning that the flight from KC was delayed, I felt like I was in some weird dream.
Most of the people around here are cleaning staff. I’ve seen a few passengers with bags on wheels, but now they’re all gone and just a couple people are here cleaning the light grey tile floors and such. I see plenty of gated and locked entrances. There’s some weird form of transportation, someone rides it and it sweeps the floor; the one a few yards from me has weird flashing yellow lights.

Oh, yes, I haven’t mentioned that after getting off the plane, I followed signs saying “Shuttle to Main Terminal.” I came to a row of black doors that led to the shuttles. Some of the black doors were closed and had a “Do Not Enter” sign, but I very cautiously entered the one that was open and led directly into, yes, a shuttle. I was the only one there and was puzzled and nervous, but I climbed aboard anyway. A digital screen in front informed me that it was February 19 11:54 pm. I got out a book, and soon—to my relief—many other people, some pulling wheeled suitcases, arrived, and in a short time the place was lively with people talking. It was full, and many people stood.

The shuttle took us to the “Main Terminal” and I’ve found a row of seats near the currently deserted “Air Canada, United, Ted” ticket counters. I’m thinking that looks like a good place to ask for info—namely where I need to go for my flight with Qatar Airlines—in the morning, when the place is open for business. Since they might not get more than one flight a day to Qatar, maybe this United ticket counter is the place I need to go. I’ll know soon enough.

I just saw something that conjured the thought: Isn’t that from a Star Wars movie?” A guy who works here was standing straight up, holding handles like on a bicycle, and riding a two-wheeled contraption. Very weird. Maybe he’s auditioning for another Star Wars movie.

This place is a major bummer. It’s called Washington Dulles because it’s dull. I’d rather be sleeping in the White House. But it’s OK—I just have to remember the people sleeping on the floor at the Lucknow train station. I guess what happens, under those circumstances, is that people show up and order their tickets on the spot, and then they stay to wait for the ride. That happens even if there was no delay and rebooking.

It occurs to me that there could be pick pockets, rapists, or even a serial killer in the airport. But I’m taking the chance and going to sleep anyway. I have my passport bag around my neck, and hidden by my oversized velvet shirt, and my luggage is under my jacket.