The last time I passed through the frantic mandibles of LAX, it was Christmas Day, 2007. My flight didn't depart until the next day of business, preventing me from checking my bags or crossing security. I found a corner on the second floor of the International terminal where I could wait and sleep.
This time, my layover is a comparitively small four hours. I feel experienced. My immaculate geography tells me that Los Angeles to Guatemala City is an international flight, and I begin walking to the familiar terminal.
It's frantic inside. A multitude of languages echo over the intercom. The check-in lineups are enormous and ethnically divided. Mexicans wait for Air Mexicana, and hundreds of Chinese wait patiently at several airlines. The amount of cowboy hats in the Air Mexicana line is staggering. Many of the Chinese passengers clutch to large carts filled with large boxes, mostly electronics that are heavily taped and ready to make the flight back to where they were probably assembled.
Hanging from the ceiling, in the corner is a gigantic, non-digital departure chart. When a flight departs, it dissapears from the top of the chart, and the remaining flights move one slot up. Hundreds of white placard letters flip over in unison. The sound is antiquated and defiant to the digital age.
I watch the bottom of the chart. 1:00 AM to San Jose, Costa Rica. The 1:30 to Guatemala City should appear any second as the 12:15 Lima vanishes. Flip. 1:45 Mexico City.
What the fuck?
I claw for my boarding pass. I search the ticket booths for anything that mentions my airline. My confidence for navigating LAX is disintegrating. I don't want to spend a second longer here than I have to. An old black man senses my confusion. He has white hair and glasses.
"You look lost young man."
I explain my situation to him.
"Your flight should be right here. It seems every city except the one you need is up on that chart."
He laughs for a few seconds. He finds no reason to be stressed, and I find this reassuring.
"I wish I could help you more son, but I think your safest bet is to talk to one of those pretty Mexican ladies over there."
He points to the Air Mexicana greeters, smiling in their red skirts. I thank him and ask his name.
"My name is Richard. I've volunteered at this airport for 8 years, collecting funds for disadvantaged youth in Los Angeles. I don't want you to think I only offer my help for donations, but if you have anything you can give it's greatly appreciated. We accept any currency, but not coins."
He's wearing an ID badge around his neck that declares his organization, and airport security clearance.
"What about Canadian coins?"
"Oh yes, we take the one and two dollar coins."
I give my last six Canadian dollars. They won't be any use to me in a few hours. Richard's words and laughter have been calming. He thanks me with a firm handshake and wide smile.
I approach one of the Air Mexican women. I'm excited to use my first Spanish.
I mumble something intended to mean: 'excuse me, where are flights for this airline located.'
It comes out closer to: 'I don't know my airplane.'
The woman stares at me. She's gorgeous and reaches for my ticket. In unaccented English she infroms me that the airline has been moved to terminal 5.
I don't remember if I said thank you or gracias. Either way she thought I was an idiot.
I hustled along, and on to Guatemala City.
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