The terminal was wide and echoing, full of rows of dark check-in desks and the hum of industrial air scrubbers overhead.

At counter section B, a lone Lufthansa agent stood behind a tall glass partition in a dark navy blazer with thin silver braid on the cuffs.

He glanced up from his screen as my shoes clicked over the polished granite floor.

“Guten Abend,” he said, taking my blue American passport in both hands.

“I need the fastest way to Columbus, Ohio,” I said, my thumb tapping my index finger in three sharp beats against the edge of his baggage scale.

“Direct or connecting, whatever puts me on a plane soonest.”