De Terminal pt 2.

Giungo 22, 2008
Aeroporti di Roma
Roma, Italia
Italy: 3:28 AM
America: 6:28 PM
Days in Italy: 2
Hours in the Airport: 9.5

The people seem so much more easygoing here. Perhaps it's the indoor pigeons, but I don't think they're supposed to be here. I've been hanging out here in the airport all night, observing, taking spontaneous naps, brushing my teeth in the public bathroom, etc. I've been doing a lot of odd things. I remain the only one in the airport who goes to the bathroom carrying all his luggage, and most of the population here has witnessed me setting the camera timer to capture me trying to look candid.

The airport, for the most part, closed at about 24:00. Most people found places to sleep, whether in rows of chairs turned into beds/forts, on the floor of the food court, or the ledges near the bathrooms, people here are just finding anyplace to crash. As for myself, full of energy and boredom, I embark on another quest for an outlet (get it?), this time with all the stores and food court being closed. I find, in the center of the front lobby, hooked into an animal conservation exhibit a powersurge with my name on it (If you don't know, my middle name is De los Santos. Which is Spanish for "on"). So as people walk by they find an oddly dressed Asian boy squatting next to a lobby exhibit siphoning electricity and watching dance competition videos. Employees just stare, then keep walking; no harm being done here. In America, I realize now how much security unnecessarily prohibits things simply because it's uncouth.

I don't have a way of contacting anyone at the moment. Earlier I purchased a phone card from the cashier at the food court. I noticed they sold them, so I just pointed to it, and from his response all I gathered was the price. I walked up to a pay phone with corresponding pictures, but the reader wouldn't take my card. Alternatives were an equal bust, as the internet kiosk I put 3 euros into didn't even have working keys! On top of that, I watched an old man jack my bed of chairs right as I was returning.

I find another seat next to someone, and, after purchasing an orange Fanta, pull out a half-eaten last piece of the aforementioned pizza margherita. At this hour, it tastes like buttered gold; I make it last, savoring it by taking it in small bites and filling the remaining space in my mouth with the much-better-than-America's orange Fanta (different formula, this one actually has more orange juice than sugar)

Italy: 5:50 AM
America: 8:50 PM

I tried contacting people again. The internet kiosks are pretty impossible. I found another one, put in one euro to check it out, and it worked fine; working keys and it's responsive. Except in those 5 allotted minutes I realized that I, while I could type in g-chat messages, I couldn't actually send them! After minutes of contemplation, I put in 2 euros and attempt to, in those 10 minutes, contact Wes to perhaps get Jana's itinerary so I can find out when she arrives so I can catch her as she comes out of baggage claim. It's my only clear hope at this point. Wes isn't on g-chat, and I find the same sending problem when I try to contact Miguel on Facebook chat. I almost finish writing Wes a private message when...the kiosk ends my session 5 minutes prematurely. What???

"No, this cannot be the way the story of Julian Leong ends."

God will get me through this. He didn't take me this far to die in an airport! A little dramatic, I know, but it makes for a better story. Since I can't contact Jana, I figure I'll play it safe and just wait outside baggage claim. So now I'm here waiting by baggage claim, planning to look out for her during any of her possible arrival times.

Dang, these chairs are so comfortable now.

Italy: 6:30AM
America: 9:30 PM

Okay, this "watched pot" business can't be a good idea. I bet my nerves are going to go in shock from being so constantly alert...plus I don't think I'm breathing a whole lot. I give up on waiting for Jana and wonder if there's an information booth that can help me use the phone...I mean I'm sure some of them work, I just don't get it. A brisk stroll through the building and I find nothing but ticket relations, none of which have any interest in helping me out.

Oh Aeroporti, you conditional friend, you seasonal companion, you wish-wash! Once upon a time that little ticket granted me access to people, to places, to importance, to purpose. Now my worth to you has expired along with that blasted piece of paper. What once dictated my every move has now become nothing but a place to discard my ridiculously long-lasting Stride gum -- yeah, it's true what they say.

Alright, I just gotta figure this out. I face my fears and take on the phone a second time. I idiotically stuff my card into the reader again and again in equally futile attempts. I can't read anything written in the booth.

You should know, rest of the world, that us pompous Americans never bother learning your language so you might as well accommodate to us.

The pay phone refused to accept this truth, as it remained Italian.

But what's this? An icon of a card...the middle of three, that features a detached corner, possibly reflecting the perforation my card has in the very same corner! I snap it off, and try the card to again.

Victory! It works, and then something else...the part of my brain that remembers that in my Italy packet is a complete contact list fires up. Things just fall into place after that. I get in contact with Dory, who says she's scheduled to arrive at 9:30AM.

"I'll be wearing a red blazer at--"
"-- outside baggage claim?"
"Why yes, if you just go left to the f--"
"Food court? You mean the red one named 'Pizza & Vini?'"
"Well...yeah."
"I'll be there."

I know this place like the back of my hand...or should I say back of my head, since this place has gotten to know that part a lot better. God has really equipped me these past years. There was no doubt in my mind I would get through this, and that I would have a story worth telling. Also, I've been praying for the inspiration to write again...and man, did He deliver.

This reminded me that God doesn't hand us character; instead He gives us opportunities to build it.

Mission Tom Hanks Impression: Accomplished.