Airport Timez – Feeling Frisky
I don’t think I’ve ever been frisked so many times in my life. I came through the metal detector at José Maria Córdova, and the girl on the other side was kind and respectful. She smiled and said “Muchisimas gracias” when she was done. The next guy also spoke native Spanish to me, but from his tone, he may as well have been speaking in grunts.
“So. ¿You’ve been studying here ey? ¿What HAVE YOU BEEN STUDYING?”
“Spanish for foreigners,” I smiled.
“¿How long did you study here?”
“Two weeks.”
“¿TWO WEEKS?”
“Yes, two weeks.”
“¿TWO WEEKS?” I suppose he thinks considering I only spent two weeks studying, it gave me time enough for a six week cocaine-fueled bender.
“Yes, it was definitely two weeks. The rest of the time I’ve been on holidays.”
“Hmrmrehgh.”
I’m not really sure what was supposed to be gained from this conversation. I pictured myself saying: “Yeah, I was in school for a while. The rest of the time I was banging rocks, banging prepagos, and sticking them all up my ass to get them past you.” Wonder how much the prepago would charge?
“Oh… in that case, we may have to detain you,” he might say. Though he might phrase it in a different way, using his baton to tap out some morse code on my skull.
He used a metal detector on me, frisked me, and let me go.
I was frisked again, not sure if that was by airport staff or just a dirty old man. When I reached the gate, they opened my bag and poked around in a way that didn’t reveal anything but my underwear. Then I was frisked once more.
Before she started touching me, I considered saying “¿Find anything you like?” but thought better of it – I’m sure her job was hard enough feeling people up all day without an asshole like me making a sexually harassing crack.
I anticipated a nine-hour flight. It was an eleven-hour flight. The change in time-zones had given me false hope. For two hours I sat on the edge of my seat expecting an announcement at any second.
I got into Los Angeles, and the aeroplane was taxiing. A black fellow behind me got up to check his baggage in the overhead. A friendly steward put his hand on the guy’s shoulder and said “Sir, I’ll just need you to sit down for a few more minutes.”
“Hey, don’t touch me man!”
“I’m sorry sir. It’s just that you’re actually breaking the law by standing. If you can wait in your seat, we’ll be in dock very soon.”
“Whatever man, say what you need to say – just don’t touch me!”
“But – you’re breaking the law!”
The steward was flustered. He ducked off, and the passenger remained standing.
“Hey!” said another passenger a few rows back. “You’re gonna get busted you know.”
“Mind yo’ business man.”
“You’ll get into trouble.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Mind yo’ business.”
“Hey, I’ve got kids on this plane and it is my business when you say things like that!”
I thought of what Tommy Angelo said about the “Chain of Complain”, and smiled to myself.
As we were exiting, “Why are you standing here when you could be standing there?” said the old wog to the old hippie. “We have to get off too you know!”
I waited calmly as the line slowly moved ahead. A lady in front of me struggled with her luggage. So I said: “Do you need a hand?”
