Concourse D

As is my usual experience at the airport, Sanjeev and I find that our flight is delayed more than an hour. Instead of immediately getting into the cattle line known as “security”, we use the benefit of this knowledge to grab some dinner at the La Carreta restaurant next to Concourse D. Surprisingly to me, the sweet plantains, chicken, and yellow rice we eat will not be served in Dominican Republic.

The security officer presumes that we are very nearly late for our flight, and rushes us into a first class line. I, dressed in my jeans and t-shirt, am standing among men and women in business suits. Many have BlackBerrys surgically glued to their ears. Some wear looks of irritation at the thought of having to take their shoes and belts off to get on yet another airplane.

It is at this point that I realize that Sanjeev is also dressed in business attire, with a blue jacket, khaki pants, and a tie.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable to travel in a suit?” I ask.

Sanjeev gives me a look as though he might agree, but qualifies his wardrobe. “I found out a long time ago that, if I dress like this, people take me much more seriously. Wearing a suit at the airport has saved me more than a few unnecessary encounters with security.”

It suddenly becomes clear that it is much easier for me, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed American to go unnoticed at the airport than Sanjeev, an Indian man with an Indian passport. The illogic of pulling aside Sanjeev instead of me because of security concerns is striking: It was I who was carrying the bazooka-shaped bag that contains the tripod. But in this case, I have the benefit of being white.

 

It’s nearly 8:30pm by the time we get through security.

Once at our gate, I meet Paola, a graduate student who will accompany us on this trip. She is Brazilian and she speaks Spanish, which will be a major benefit to Sanjeev and me, who had a hard enough time ordering at La Carreta. I could only imagine the two of us alone in a Spanish-speaking nation.

It is after a short introduction that we learn our flight is further delayed. Some repair is being made to the plane, and as is the usual airport fare, no one can decide what to do: get a new plane, or take the time to fix the old one. And really, I’m not sure anyone from American Airlines cares what is being done, since they already have our money and we’re not going to take a cruise ship to Santo Domingo.

We decide to pass the time by having a drink. A small airport bar is at the end of the terminal. The bar is decorated along a Key West theme, with pictures of palm trees and islands, and a cabana-looking roof overhanging the bar. I order vodka lemonade, a drink that I think fits reasonably with the décor of the bar.

For a while we sit and talk about what we are going to do, what work we have done, my current gig with MTV. It is shortly after I have finished my drink that I notice an employee pulling closed a flexible gate in front of the bar. He gives me a look as though this is a common example of exemplary airport service. A look at my watch indicates that it is 9pm.

“Not so subtle about closing shop, huh?” observes Paola.

“You don’t know, we may have to stay here,” Sanjeev jokes.

“I mean, I just think it’s a little early,” I commiserate.

The rest of the terminal is still open and alive, and there are plenty of travelers about.

“Let’s go before we are expected to clean up, too,” Sanjeev says, rising.

On my trip, I would learn that there is a state-mandated curfew for night clubs in Dominican Republic. It is well after 9pm, and even later on weekends. As we leave the bar, all I can think is, “Nine o’clock, and eighty-sixed.”

 

By 11:10pm we are finally boarding the plane. It will be the first time I have used this passport, and the first time in 14 years that I have left the country.