in transit

No one could tell me about Abu Dhabi. In my true prepared fashion I had a google in the car on the way to Brisbane International. The website boasted sleeping pods. Not only does the word ‘pod’ immediately make me feel like I’m IN THE FUTURE, not only do I fancy the thought of curling up like a seed, but also I suspected the concept of sleep might become increasingly appealing after the first 16 hours in transit. I was right, of course. For the small price of my first born child, i could spend a nice comfortable evening snoring in a plastic egg. Unfortunately, my immediate family prospects looking grim, I was destined to be turned away by the pod-guards.

After eight hours we touched down in Singapore and were shunted off the plane so the crew could tidy our nasty mess. Singapore airport groans under the weight of ten million indoor faux garden beds. They flower out of every corner, and occupy any patch of floor space that isn’t taken up by thick lounges and snooze couches. It’s an awkward amount of fake flora no matter how you spin it, but is rather endearing against the glass and gunmetal every-airport décor. The rubbery shrubbery look creates an interesting juxtaposition with the casino-style lighting. The place has serious playgrounds, for goodness’ sake.

     Also, this.

From the safety of a balcony, we observed what appeared to be the flashy glowing love child of a funhouse and a casino. I had high hopes for our 10 hour layover at the UAE capital. Bring on my snooze lounge, thanks.

***

Alas, Abu Dhabi is the epitome of white, light, clean, and uncomfortable. Rows upon rows of unforgiving plastic chairs greeted us as we toddled from the air bridge. We walked a while, possibly in circles (like, I’m sure we’ve seen that row of chairs before) trying to find a cushion for the tush, but to no avail. What sleeper benches are available at Abu Dhabi are crafted from the same speckled plastic as the chairs, and don’t quite make it to the reclining angle at which one would actually want to sleep. Not only are these totally useless, but they’re scattered randomly and sparsely amidst the other seating, as if the designers were trying to inspire free evening entertainment involving ratty tired travellers snarling at each other and competing for who has had the most traumatic journey and the longest layover.

The absence of a sleeping place led me to the food court. Our long layover entitled us to a courtesy meal, and comfort food seemed in order. I had the delightful pleasure of heaving my guts up 4000ft over Indonesia, and my stomach was about ready for a (free!) feed.

To get to the food court we walked through familiar clean tunnels of perfumes and boxed chocolate. Every duty free shopping mall I have ever encountered looks the same. The food court was thoroughly unimpressive to a vegetarian gluten-freak like myself. I’ve never favoured the idea of open-air buffets, and the one sporting rice noodles was particularly luke-warm.

Fed up and badly fed, we attempted the old traveller’s favourite: sleeping on the airport floor. I arranged myself in the looming shadow of a gigantic pot plant near the windows, which turned out to be a kind of self-punishment in the form of watching everyone else get to LEAVE the airport in big ol’ jumbo jets. This endeavour lasted all of an hour due to sub-zero air-conditioning and my companion’s disagreement with the carpet.

One thing led to another and we ended up napping on the benches at Burger King at 4am. They were cushioned. That’s all I need to say about that.

Abu Dhabi has, as far as I’m concerned, two redeeming features. The first is this building, seen through a screen of desert sand. Im not even sure that it’s part of the airport, but I’ll grant it.

The second? They have an excellent system to deal with bad habits.

On the way to the food court, opposite another sterile departure lounge, a 2 meter square glass box holds a hazy press of bodies. Enclosed in this tiny space, every smoker in the terminal pulls and puffs and carefully avoids the eyes of passers-by. This peculiar shaming exercise is one I’ve heard about but never seen. It was hard to look away from the poor smoky specimens gazing at their toes, wedged so close they risked burns. I’m still deciding whether this is the most brilliant or cruel social experiment I have ever encountered.

We’ll call it brilliant, just because I want to have something nice to say.

Let's face it: I was destined to despise Abu Dhabi airport. The thrill of the journey wore off somewhere over India, and when I discovered it wasn't the plush Singaporean Eden I had anticipated, it had no way to redeem itself.