The Rapture That Wasn't

News of the expected "Rapture" on May 21, 2011 at 6 pm, wasn't big news in Europe. As best I could discern from the French headlines, the Swiss were more concerned about an altercation in Libya, a global financial crisis, and of course, the Royal Wedding.

Fortunately Facebook and a supply of American visitors alerted me to the fact that a homeless man in California with a colorful psychiatric history, had prophesied that we would all meet our judgment on this date, at this time.

I philosophically took the news with a casual shrug and another glass of wine. I was pleased to note that the Rapture had thoughtfully been scheduled to occur on my flight home from vacation, and not my outward bound flight. If I was going to burn in hellfire for all of eternity, at least my last week of life would be spent in Amsterdam.

Time sped by. For the record, Amsterdam was an absolutely brilliant place to spend a week, even if you aren't going to be immolated at the end of it.

The final day of vacation, and the alleged Rapture, came all too soon. I dragged myself and my burgeoning suitcases to Schiphol, and joined the Easy Jet cattle queue waiting to board the flight back to Geneve. As I stood with the rest of the unwashed masses, I idly pondered my chances of avoiding hell should the Rapture arrive.

Being a naturally cheerful person, I decided to ignore my long record of sins and instead look for hints of my eternal fate in the surrounding environment. It's not the most scientific approach, it's true, but why spend the last hour of my life depressed?

Gates for Easy Jet flights are always in the most barren of terminals. Schiphol was no exception. I scanned the area. Scarred linoleum floors. An aggressively intimate security screen. A pervasive odor. A total absence of amenities, including no coffee. This wasnt looking good. I sighed, and glanced around for an empty chair. I briefly met the eye of a handsome boy also waiting to board. He smiled at me.

Thirty three minutes later, the apathetic stewardess opened the gate, and a tide of travelers rushed the plane. Easy Jet doesnt assign seats, so it's survival of the fittest. I smugly launched myself into an ideal window seat and settled in. The plane rapidly filled up. A tall German folded his frame with a sigh of relief into the aisle seat of my row. The middle seat waited.

It's nearly impossible for me to stay awake on a plane. I'm not sure why, but the second I board, my eyes close, my head bobs, and I happily fall into a restful slumber until it's time to deplane. I was awakened however, when a passenger plopped into the middle seat. I cracked my eye open. Handsome Boy had just sat down next to me.

Interesting.

I always like to start planning my next trip as soon as the previous one ends, so my guidebook to Jordan was open on my lap. H.B noted the title and commented: "How funny, my father is from Jordan- I grew up there."

For the next five minutes the Rapture was really looking up. In addition to providing useful Jordan info, H.B was also a UN translator, and spoke five languages, including French. This has rapidly become a very, very attractive quality in a man.

Then it took a turn.

While telling me about his recent decision to quit working for the UN, I realized I was having a flashback to my medical student days when I rotated on psychiatry. Attractive hazel eyes, pupils slightly dilated, making eye contact for an uncomfortably long time. I pressed into the wall of the plane, and began to deeply regret eschewing the aisle seat.

In the next few minutes, H.B proceeded to relate that he's separated from his wife, but that they still have to pretend to be married for another ten years, so that she can get EU citizenship and not be shipped back to the Middle East. I nodded appropriately, maintained an impassive face, while internally I wondered if it was the blonde hair or the American accent that makes me seem stupid?

Honey, if you're "separated" from your wife, but no one, including your family knows it, then you're married. I promptly lost any remaining shred of interest in HB, despite his cute curly hair, height and ability to speak French. I'm moderately maniacal about monogamy and intensely intolerant of infidelity.

Thirty seconds later, I was able to feel self-righteous about being judgy.

H.B began relating all of the drugs he'd used in Amsterdam. Few things are more boring than listening to a complete stranger recount their hallucinogenic highs while locked into an uncomfortably small airplane seat. Without coffee. It has the same appeal of listening to your dentist expound upon their latest dream while giving you a root canal. Without anesthetic.

"Oh really, then the carrot you were eating grew legs and ran around the table singing Jefferson Airplane? OMG, that's soooo wierd...."

Yes, I understand the experience was profound, vivid, and resulted in transcendtal experiences of profound love for all mankind. It's called being high. No one is gonna award you the Nobel Peace Prize for your drug trip. I looked surreptitiously at my cell phone. Had the Rapture come and gone? Was I already in hell?

Then he offered me some ecstasy that he had left over in his pocket, and mentioned that he maintains a separate apartment from his wife. Now I see where we're going with the drug trip story.

I politely demured.

H.B suddenly remembered his manners. Heavens, we've shared so much together already, and he doesnt know my name! I give him my first name, for once thankful that I have an absurdly common name.

H.B:" My name is Osama."

Again the doctor training came in useful in maintaining a straight face.

I am well aware as an obstetrician of the unfortunate monikers parents are prone to saddle their helpless progeny with. I've known a perfectly adorable Atila, an apologetic Adolf (he went by his middle name) and heard tell of a shy Stalin. A name is just a name, and a more mature person than I would have just accepted this with a polite nod, well aware that 35 years ago at his birth, his parents couldnt have possibly forecast Osama bin Laden's nefarious actions. A kinder person than I would have dwelled on how bad it would suck to be named after a notorious terrorist.

Alas, being me, I suppressed a giggle, and started imagining all of the ways in which this was absolutely hilarious.

"Mom, this is my boyfriend Osama."
"Osama! How many times do I have to tell you? Put the seat down!"
"I'm sorry Osama, it's me, not you."

Variations of this game entertained me the rest of the flight, disembarking, and at baggage claim, where I finally managed to ditch Osama.