Vondelpark was the highpoint of the week. Bustling with cyclists, joggers, dog-walkers, and babysitters, it was a welcome reprieve from the tourist-centric sites we had been normally visiting. Absent were the sluggish tour groups, randy teenage boys ogling window fronts in the Red-light District, and marauding engagement parties executing a planned weekend of debauchery. Even though we weren’t the only tourists walking the winding paths of the sublime green space, it did seem mostly populated by locals, hanging out with friends, enjoying a picnic, having a drink or toke—in short, taking a break from the swarm of tourists infiltrating their city on a daily basis.
I was standing against a plate glass window waiting for our plane to arrive at our gate. We had been in Amsterdam a week to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary—a milestone deserving of this time away. My wife and I were both enthralled by our visit to the Netherlands. Each day we had walked for hours along the ancient cobblestone streets, checking off our to-see list while accommodating flights of fancy and random detours. In my mind, I was still on those streets, perusing a menu at a restaurant’s entrance, marveling at the centuries-old architecture, studying Van Gogh’s paint strokes on Wheatfield with Crows.
I glanced around where I really stood: inside a small lounge on the lower level of the main terminal, other travelers packed in alongside, all of us waiting patiently. Most people bided their time either scrolling through their phones, chatting with fellow-travelers, or, like myself, gazing out through the windows flanking the lounge at the mundane goings-on on the tarmac.
There was a mid-size plane parked below where I had a prime view of the baggage handlers removing the luggage from its bowels. A train of carts had pulled up alongside and a forklift approached the open hatch at the front of the plane’s belly. A large enclosed luggage bin was slid out along a conveyor, its speed regulated by a worker at a nearby control panel. It was lowered out the hatch so the forklift could pick it up and carry it over to a cart where it was set down and left waiting for the remaining bins to be retrieved.
Each luggage bin was like a large fibreglass cube with beveled corners, each side measuring about eight feet by eight feet. It looked like it could withstand a tornado if need be, and called to mind a bingo ball cage cranked round and round, the suitcases, duffle bags, and valises inside all spinning and tumbling against one another.
The handlers worked quickly, seemingly racing with the dis-embarking passengers to see who would get to the baggage claim area first: the passengers or their luggage. The handlers weren’t reckless, but they did take advantage of the bins’ indestructibility, forcefully picking them up with the forklift and placing them onto each cart, jostling the other bins to make room, adding to their already numerous scuffs and dents. Still, it was worlds apart from the indifferent attitude toward a suitcase’s wellbeing during my first plane trip years ago to attend a high school music competition, whereupon looking out the window from my seat I witnessed an open saxophone case skidding across the tarmac, saxophone nowhere to be seen.
I continued watching the handlers as each additional bin was carried from the plane and placed onto the train of carts. There were maybe 11 or 12 bins all told; it didn’t seem the plane was large enough to hold even half that many.
And then the final item slid out onto the conveyor. Surprisingly, it wasn’t one of the unbreakable bins paraded out during the last 10 minutes. Emerging from the hatch was a large flat palette, about 10 feet by 10 feet square. And fastened down on top, perfectly positioned in the middle, was the unmistakable shape of a coffin. Two long straps connected the four corners of the palette, criss-crossing over the centre of the coffin, marking the entire apparatus with a large X. It reminded me of a king-size mattress, as though someone had brilliantly booked that for their flight so they could have a comfortable sleep without the hassle of an uncooperative seat or some languid passenger next to them oozing into their personal space.
The handlers and forklift approached the palette, but this time absent the brusque efficiency they had displayed with the luggage bins. Instead, they slid the palette out on the conveyor at a much slower speed, gradually decreasing to a crawl until it was freed from the cavernous belly of the plane. The forklift driver approached at the rate of a snail, making adjustments you could measure in inches, until each fork was perfectly aligned underneath and the entire palette was centred and stable prior to lifting. As it was carried away, workers walked along either side to ensure the palette stayed clear of any hazards until it was gently set onto its own separate cart for transporting to the terminal.
I thought about the person inside the coffin, first assuming they had returned home after some time away, maybe living a life far from where they had been raised. I considered grimly for a moment they might have been on a vacation (perhaps in celebration of a milestone?) that was cut short because of some fatal accident or sickness. Were they ready to return home? Was it sooner than they had planned, or perhaps much later? I wondered if they had once walked the same streets I had that previous week. Maybe they had studied Van Gogh’s paint strokes, returning again and again to appreciate their vitality and aching. No doubt they would have walked those same trails in Vondelpark as I had, on their way to meet friends for a picnic perhaps, to have a drink or maybe a toke and momentarily escape the throng of tourists infiltrating their city on a daily basis.
The solemnity with which the workers handled the coffin was palpable. Certainly, their gentle treatment could have been easily attributed to training they had received. But it felt more like the innate reverence elicited whenever a person is in proximity to death. They afforded whoever that person was the same courtesy anyone would hope to receive: recognition as a fellow human being, having lived their life and now deserving a simple show of respect, regardless the faults and foibles they might have exhibited during their time on earth.
Few people would ask for more than that.
And then, it was time for us to leave. Passengers collected their belongings after hearing the announcement for boarding. I approached the gate with my wife, walking out of view of the baggage handlers, soon finding myself seated on our plane, preparing to take-off, ready to go home ourselves. 