Confessions of an airport lounger

by Yeoh Siew Hoon

So I am sitting at Schiphol Airport on my way to Cardiff. I am trying not to choke on the cigarette fumes that hang in the air in the KLM lounge as the only seat I could find, at 7am, is one close to the smoking section.

The Dutch smoke when they eat, talk, walk and drink. I am told some even smoke to sleep.

Anyway, I chose to transfer via Amsterdam because I gave explicit instructions to my travel agent to avoid Heathrow. After my last experience there, I had decided unless, absolutely unavoidable, I would give London’s mess of an airport a miss.
I am glad that London’s Mayor Ken Livingstone agrees with me. He called Heathrow a lot of names recently. And even Joan Collins has got stuck into the airport, saying, “the latest research reveals that travelling through Heathrow is more stressful than getting mugged at gunpoint”.

Only ever having been mugged at knifepoint, I get her point.

The quality of a country’s airport has a major influence on our decision on how we get to where we want. For example, in Europe, I’d rather transfer via Zurich than Frankfurt. And Charles de Gaulle is a last resort.

That leaves me, well, with Amsterdam this time. There are not many flights to Cardiff from major European gateways, really.

The girl who checked me in at Changi asked me where Cardiff was. Is it in London, she asked? I said, “Cardiff is the capital of Wales, which is part of the United Kingdom.”

“Is that GB,” she asked.

She only knew one type of language. SIN-AMS-CWL.

Schiphol is a nice, easy airport. My eyes light up when I see self-service transfer kiosks but unfortunately they are not yet operational. Coming soon.

The queue at the transfer desk is long and disorganised but fortunately I am in business class so I get to jump the queue.

How selfish we travellers are but when you are on the road, it’s survival of the fittest – every little bit of advantage helps.

I was hoping there’d be a massage service available since I have a three-hour layover but then I pinched myself and was reminded I am in old Europe where the notion of an in-airport massage has not quite arrived, and probably never will. No wonder Europeans throng the massage sevices when they are transiting in either Changi or Bangkok.

Unlike Perth (yes, you read about it as well in this column), there are plenty of shops and cafes open at this time of the morning. I also see signs for a casino and meditation centre but since I – despite my ethnicity – am in no mood to shop or gamble, or meditate, I head off to the lounge, which is where I am.

The lounge is like any airport lounge. Grey. Anonymous. A refuge for the transient. A place to kill time. There are more men than women among the loungers. The only women seem to be the ones behind the service desk. Funny how things are different, yet the same.

Funny too how time goes so slowly when you are in transit. Into my second cup of coffee, I read about an English teenager who had to be rushed to hospital after an overdose of caffeine.

While working in her father’s sandwich shop, she had guzzled seven double espressos. “My nerves were all over the place,” she said. “I was crying in front of the customers and had tears streaming down my face. I was drenched and burning up and hyperventilating. I was having palpitations, my heart was

Onboard the KLM Cityhopper flight, the inflight magazine is themed “The Green Issue”. There’s an article talking about how the airline industry is responding to the growing concerns “about the environmental impact of air travel” and how KLM itself is acting. It is developing its own carbon offset programme, for example, and renewing its fleet. Old planes emit more than new planes.

By the way, the aircraft I am on is a Fokker 100. It looks old. The Dutch stewardess is, well, tall. The food is grey. Anonymous.

It feels good to be back in Europe.

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