The plane rocked and rolled. Not the kind of experience you would like to have at 3000m above the ground, not when visibility was almost zero, and when the windows are constantly being lashed by large needles of rain. The cabin jolted, and one could almost hear a silent sigh of prayers as the little Lufthansa A320 attempted to break through the storm. Thick clouds, swirling and dense with turbulence. Thunder and lightning, and horrendous vibrations.
It was a relief to see the ground, which neared and neared until finally the wheels slammed onto the runway. Grind, screech, halt. Huge splashes of water flew off of the wing tip, as the engines powered reverse. Touchdown at Frankfurt Airport, an hour behind schedule.
The stewardess announced the gate numbers of connecting flights, and mentioned that the flight bound for Montreal was still at the Gate B46. I looked out of the window, and indeed saw the Air Canada Boeing 777-300 standing still at the gate. Peculiar, though, that the skybridge had already been withdrawn, and all the usual gathering of baggage carts and ground personnel were nowhere to be seen.
I stepped out into the rain, as my mind raced to be at the gate. But when you are in a hurry, everything seems to slow you down. Frankfurt this morning suffered sudden severe storms, and many planes like ours were told to circle the skies slowly to stall for time and for a landing slot. And due to the congested traffic, instead of being docked to a gate, our plane had been diverted to the tarmac, and we needed to be bussed to the terminal, which lost a good quarter of an hour. Once inside the terminal, I ran, and ran, following the arrows to the correct gate.
But it was empty. The display which would normally show the flight number and destination was blank. I looked outside the window, and saw the elongated Boeing 777, equipped with two of the most powerful Rolls Royce jet engines in the world, slowly pull away. It is bad enough to watch the train pull away from the platform, but when it is your connecting flight to another country, that is a whole different matter. My heart sunk, as I wondered how long I will have to be stuck at the airport. I was exhausted from the one hour sleep I got last night, and from having to wake up at half past three in the morning, but at that moment, watching the plane that I was supposed to be sitting on turn its back on me, I felt sick.
Deflated I dragged myself and my backpack to the ticket counter. A wait of almost an hour later, there seemed hope. I could be rebooked on a flight to Montreal, via Boston, the counter lady said. But I dreaded going through the US—with all its draconian security measures and baggage checks. There was another option, and that was through Paris, though it would mean a total waiting time of around six hours. Anything seemed better than not being able to arrive on time for my first day of classes tomorrow, so I took what was offered.
Who would have thought, or even imagined, that a simple trip to Montreal would take me through two different countries, with three different flights. But Paris was a welcome stopover, for it was the capital of the French-speaking world, while Montreal, my final destination, is labelled the second largest French-speaking city in the world (at least according to my trusted companion Lonely Planet). There is some meaning in everything I guess. And perhaps life is telling me to start refreshing my rusty French.
Outside, the sky is clear, as the Air France Boeing 747-400 soars towards the Arctic Circle, ready to curve down to Montreal. My journey to Canada is almost at an end. But a new life is just about to begin.
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