Prague: 2: Layover, Frankfurt, Germany

I am in the Frankfurt airport, where I have tucked myself away in a corner of relatively isolated benches. To my left, seated at a cluster of small round tables, businessmen chat over their open laptops and two woman take up as much space as they can manage. The locals seem to think that it is mid-morning, when I - in fact - know that it is actually the absurd hour of not-even-4-am. According to our pilot, we made excellent time on our way here. The flight from Chicago to Frankfurt was - in total - under 8 hours. While this may be true, it might as well not be. When sleep is not accessible, it is a well-known fact that time moves miserably slowly. I calculate that I have slept somewhere in the vicinity of 2 1/2 hours, albeit fitfully. Fortunately, my seatmate - a young Frenchman - and I got on smashingly, which made the long hours much more bearable.

The Frankfurt airport is insanely confusing to traverse, something that I had managed to forget until my arrival. The signs are seemingly contradictory, resulting in clusters of people muttering in assorted languages and asking the people next to them if they are in the right line. Generally, those people were about to ask the exact same question, creating an instant bond. The brethren of confusion, as it were. Fortunately, this "early arrival" has allowed plenty of time for me to wait patiently in various lines, including a long security line, where the German security officers tear apart the luggage of each individual that appears to be of foreign soil. I watch as an official and a Norwegian traveler engage in a heated argument over a boxed set of "spa products." In the end, the official removes one of the items - which does not pass his inspection - as the Norwegian man rants about the 'trouble with Germans.' He repeats his accusations, directing the comments at each of us in line for emphasis. I smile politely.

The German security guards shrug, unconcerned with this opinion. As if to spite him, they promptly wave the next two people through with barely a glance at their luggage. I am one of those people, much to the annoyance of the Norwegian man, who has now discovered his missing cell phone. As I step away, I can hear voices rising behind me as he builds in preparation for the accusation of theft that I suspect is coming.

I walk...and walk...and walk, following misleading signs and completely ignoring the departure board. I had discovered, earlier, that - while it lists the flight that I am taking to Prague - it does not actually list the gate that the flight departs from. This is exactly the sort of minor detail that the Frankfurt airport does not concern itself with. Instead, there is a steady stream of announcements overhead as people are constantly called to the gate of their soon-to-depart flight; flights - I'm sure - that they've been wandering around in search of for hours.

I am slightly headachy and slightly melancholy. Both of these attributes are typical for me when I have not had enough sleep. Sleep, at present, is not an option, so I opt for my longtime allies of caffeine and sugar, and then for a quiet place to consume them. Thus, I find myself here, in this nook. I have devoured a croissant (how I miss the European bakeries when I am at home!) and a latte (I had managed to forget - also - how small and bitter the coffees and espressos are in Europe) and - to ensure the proper amount of sugar - have consumed nearly an entire package of malted milk balls, purchased in Chicago. It's working, for now, though I know the dark shadow looms: I am certain that I shall crash - without grace - from this sugar and caffeine mountain that I have ascended. It will not be pretty when it happens. I find myself hoping that I will be in my hotel room by that time.

Unfortunately, I can already feel the sleepiness pushing at the edges of my vision, and my stomach is objecting to the treatment to which it has already been subjected. It was unhappy with the in-flight vegetarian food selections, and it's even more unhappy after the caffeine and sugar invasion. As I consider this feeling, and the potential implications, I am momentarily distracted by the flurry of activity that accompanies the woman taking a seat to my right. The strong scent of wool hangs in the air about her, which prompts my curiousity enough that I begin a clandestine evaluation of her. She is sporting what appears to be riding apparel, which is accented with a wool cape - undoubtedly the source of the fragrance that accompanies her. She is, I notice, covered in bits of wool. I am fascinated. Why is she wearing riding apparel? Where is she going?

The woman leans toward me and begins asking a series of questions about internet access. After a succession of brief conversations, which do not have the satisfactory result of getting her computer connected to the internet but do have the satisfactory result of allowing me to see that her computer speaks Spanish, she abruptly packs up her computer and begins picking wool off her pants. Perhaps realizing the impossibility of the task, she desists after a few seconds and resumes adjusting her bags. Moments later she is furiously picking at the wool once again. She has an extraordinary talent for creating motion, I decide. Nothing that she does is quiet. For a reason that I can't identify, I am pleased by this.

This, I think to myself, is my life. I have removed myself from my normal element, I have pushed my senses to the point of over-fatigue, and now everything has taken on a surreal edge. Still, even through the slight haze, I can see well enough to know that I am in the right place.