A Glimpse into Purgatory: On Waiting in Airports

The devil himself had probably redesigned Hell in the light of information he had gained from observing airport layouts.
Anthony Price

Purgatory: Date: 13th century. 1: an intermediate state after death for expiatory purification; specifically : a place or state of punishment wherein according to Roman Catholic doctrine the souls of those who die in God's grace may make satisfaction for past sins and so become fit for heaven; and, 2: a place or state of temporary suffering or misery.
Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary


I write this piece while sitting in Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. A pleasant male voice frequently reminds travelers, over the public announcement system, that it’s the world’s busiest airport, as if that were a good thing.

Glancing around, I see a swarming curtain of people. Like fish confined to a small space, they are trying not to bump into one another as they struggle against the human tide to get to the gates that will eventually take them to their final destinations.

The majority of us have two things in common: one, we are on our way elsewhere and, two, few of us, if any, really want to be here. Let’s face it, it’s not like every person around me woke up this morning and said, “I’d like to spend a good part of my day in Hartsfield-Jackson Airport.”

Yet, in a way, I’m here by choice. I far prefer being routed through Atlanta whenever I visit the States because the ordeal of going through customs is far more humane than when entering through Miami—the portal most Latin Americans use when traveling to the US.

Still, in spite of Atlanta’s relatively friendly reception, whenever I’m here—or any other airport, for that matter—waiting for my connecting flight, I believe I'm living a preview of purgatory: the sometimes long waits serving, at least in my imagination, as acts of penance.

I doubt that I would enjoy working in an airport, especially when a flight is delayed. It is during moments like these, those tortuous waits that seem eternal, that the passengers are left to stew in a distressing cauldron as a forewarning of what hell is like. What’s more, promises of release from this torment ring so uncertain—because of our disquieting and emotional urgency to get wherever we’re going—that the temporary dwellers of these halls of travel can, with unusual ease, become desperate and ill-tempered.

A few years ago, while waiting in the Atlanta airport, eager to return to Panamá, my flight was delayed for more than four hours. Under normal circumstances, Panamanians are gentle, mild-mannered, and patient people; but on this occasion, because of the delay, the beleaguered passengers became a discontented rabble. (Partly to blame for this was the airline personnel’s failure to provide an adequate explanation for the holdup.)

The disturbance began as a low murmur, like the growling of wolves. The buzz steadily increased until it boiled over into loud, individual shouts of protest. I could see in the eyes of the airline employees—who clung to the counter as if that scant barrier would protect them—that they feared for their safety. I expected a riot to ensue when a few of my frustrated co-passengers rose from their seats and headed toward the counter. Fortunately, just as the situation was reaching a boiling point, someone in a position of authority showed up and promised that we would be leaving within the hour.

Those few words were enough to soothe everyone’s frayed nerves during that brief, infernal flare-up. And, although we weren’t happy, the assurance that our suffering would soon end took us out of hell and placed us back into purgatory.

And that’s what airports sometimes become—places where we wait in quiet desperation, experiencing life on the edge, as we fervently hope that our flights leave on time.