I know Berlin airport like the back of my hand.
You’ve got a question about BER? You name it, I’ll know it.
Best place to get coffee? Haferkater
Best snack? Salted pretzel from bar next to the currency exchange
Best place to kill time? The bookshop, and if your flight gets delayed further, the apotheke next door.
Best sparkling water for a flight? The Red Vio (hardest bubbles)
Cleanest restroom? A secret ;)
Oh no I’m in the wrong terminal? Not to fret, you can walk. The separate entrances are just performative.
At this point, I should be considered a full time staff member as the airport concierge.
This time around I had a flight to Singapore. Everything was going as it always had, down to the extra ten minutes allocated to hugging my boyfriend goodbye. After tucking me into an Uber, we parted ways — everything was still going as expected.
But then things started to get weird. My driver was all over the place (who can blame him though, the Uber Maps view has a terrible UX and is always a few beats behind). I felt a cauldron of nerves begin to bubble.
There wasn’t much else to do but wait, but rather than counting down the minutes on the Google Maps screen, I figured dozing off would be a better use of my time. Upon waking, I saw that my flight had been delayed by two hours. There was no use in turning back now, so onwards we went.
My original itinerary included an intentional six hour layover in Singapore for the sole purpose of airport exploration. I had never been before, and wanted to take advantage of the connection. But alas, that reality was diminishing by the minute, so I figured I may as well call the understudy in.
I don’t trust the internet so after checking in and hitting all my landmarks (hand wash, coffee, sparkling water and magazine pickup) I went straight to the source: Gate D3. I needed to see the news for myself.
Unfortunately the lack of aircraft and the quivering notice of delay on the screen confirmed the fact that the delay was in fact real.
I looked around at my fellow travellers and saw the disappointed looks on peoples faces. These were the faces of those who had purposefully set out for an early day, only to have that time be wasted due to factors beyond their control. People were either sucked into their screens or staring aimlessly out the large windows in an attempt to summon the plane to appear before us.
I began to feel a string of unspoken companionship weave its way through the crowd of fellow TR721 travellers. Whether we liked it or not, we were about to spend a lot of time with one another.
The terminal was silent, besides some cries and coos from a baby resting in the arms of tired-looking parents, there were no announcements to cut through the air. I don’t know why but I offered to take a photo of the three of them in front of the plane that had not yet arrived. After a few cheeses and photos (always better to take more than less), I handed the father back his Samsung Galaxy flip phones (such a crazy device) and took my place back at my stoop at the opposing check in counter desk.
The silence breaks when the Scoot associate take a step away from the crowd of angry travellers congregating in front of the check in desk to announce that all travellers will be given a ten euro voucher to spend on refreshments.
I admire airline staff: to deal with impatient travellers is no easy feat. Especially when they are all probably asking the same three questions, all of which she, also, does not know the answer to.
Immediately, Germans did as Germans do, and assembled themselves into queue formation, babies and all. The foreigners stuck out like sore thumbs, still confused at German culture despite having spent a week there on holiday.
Then, as if programmed to do so, upon receiving their voucher, everyone (babies and all) made a beeline to Laggner’s Bistro. Note: we had already crossed the customs threshold, meaning that our options were limited to Heinemann Duty Free shop, a Hudson Newsstand, or the Lamy shop. Meaning that Laggner’s was our only hope for something warm.
It was only a matter of time that queue 1 would copy past itself into queue 2: right in front of the German bistro. Same line-neighbours and all.
I didn’t know what to order, but I got in the queue anyway, these were my people after all.
While waiting, I listened to Recipes for Life’s newest podcast on coconut bread — my mind wandered off to the thought of coconuts (which always leads to good things), and next thing you know I’m next in line.
No progress had been made on my ordering-front, so I panicked thinking of the hurdle of mental math I would have to power through. My phone calculator wouldn’t cut it — the people behind me would know exactly what I was doing.
The contenders:
Water: 4 euros
Sparkling water: (Pellegrino) 4.5 euros
Tea (they charge for hot water in BER, so may as well go for it): 4.5 euros
Side of fried egg: 1.5 euros
(I had a slice of spanakopita from Bekarei waiting in my bag, hence the egg).
The computations:
4.5 + 4.5 + 1.5 (sparkling water, tea, side of fried egg — SOFE from now on) = 10.5 so that wouldn’t work….
4.5 + 1.5 would definitely work (sparkling water, SOFE) Bingo. We got it — I figured limiting the liquid intake would be a good call considering my window seat slot in two hours.
“BITTE !?” It’s my turn to play. Quick, do I go German mode or American mode?
I boot up the latter because I have a sinking feeling that the SODE would cause some problems — best to play the foreigner card to cushion the blow.
My prediction is right, the SODE is a problem (I’m getting the hang of my pickiness), so I panic and just order the water. The lady looks at me with raised eyebrows, as if to say, “you don’t know this yet, but you’re going to want something more.” It definitely wasn’t her first time seeing the ten euro vouchers from Scoot.
“How about a coffee?” She sends another signal, so I ask her if she has oat milk.
Uninspired by my drink, I make my way back towards my people, excited to see if there was any new action.
A few words about Scoot airlines:
The cabin crew referred to us (the passengers, our group, so to speak) as Scooties, which I felt was a bit off.
Food was a solid 5/10 rating — I cheated, however, and jazzed up my dish with some olives on top.
The planes are pretty cute though:
However many hours later, the plane arrived, and we began to board. All tired, but we united in our optimism. The airline staff were also beaming to see us finally go.
A magazine later we landed in our first stop: Athens. This was where we, bags and all (even those of us heading to Singapore) had to debord, wait an hour, then return to our original seats with a few new sunburnt friends.
Feeling a bit bored by my journey, I decided to leave my unopened bottle of Pellegrino in the seat pocket in front of me. Maybe it would be there if I returned, but maybe not..
We made our way out of the tunnel and followed the instructions of an airport employee who separated us by final destination: Athens or Singapore. We had no choice but to show our true colours and reveal who was in it for the long haul. After being spat into gate A3, we who remained looked amongst ourselves, calibrating which team members we had lost. The baby was no longer with us, it hurt to not even get a goodbye.
I felt like Cinderella at the ball, eager to see as many hellenic treasures as possible before being whisked back to where I came from. I looked with glee as soft music (think jazz and Sade) bubbled into my ears from the airport loudspeakers. A Starbucks!? A Duty Free shop!? Not one but THREE different Greek delis. You could even get a Cinnabon if you wanted to.
Nothing beat the chip selection though, specifically the oregano flavoured ruffle chips.
I was a kid in a candy store, but I knew I was on the clock, so I wove my way through the terminal, taking the budget route – making mental notes of the nooks and crannies to explore on my return. I began to hear commotion and beeps at our meeting point, and after doing some more calculations I decided on a bag of oregano chips, some olives (ta da!), a bottle of San Pellegrino (for insurance) and a chai latte because the boarding queue was still too long for my liking.
By the time I returned from my journey, the balloon of people in front of the gate had begun to deflate. Before long, it was just me, the vegan Australian snacking on a rice cake (still not wearing shoes), a new family (delayed by their son’s lost headphones), and a man and a woman who came to the gate as strangers but were now deep in a tête-à-tête about their favourite Southeast Asian travel destinations. Love was in the air. He frequented Thailand and so did she. He loved to surf and she always wanted to try.
Unfortunately fate intervened and their trajectory from strangers to airline lovers came crashing to an end when he showed his cards and she showed him hers. Seat 32K and 14B… it wasn’t meant to be.
As I returned to the seat I now called home, my welcome back was a somber one. Expecting to be met by an old friend, I was greeted solely by the safety card in the seat pocket in front of me. My heart sank. It’s a good thing I had insurance (and what to do in case of an emergency), but it just wasn’t the same.
After that, a pretty typical flight unfolded and we all made it to Singapore in one piece. After spending fifteen hours together, our time as a little group together had come to a close: bumps in the road allow for our relationship to get stronger.
Lucky for us Scooties, there was just the right amount of turbulence: enough to remind you that it’s there, but not too much to cause a scene.
The seat belt sign pinged off, and we gathered our belongings. No goodbyes were said, but they were felt as we stepped off the plane and continued on our separate journeys.
Nothing was left behind…
… except for my Pellegrino bottle, wherever she went.
Did she make it to Singapore? I guess I’ll never know.
🥰 safe travels !!
You’re a Japanese at heart leaving your things behind😁