(no subject)
I can't say I am a frequent long distance traveler - I'll even say more: it is a worthless task to try to calculate my frequent traveler miles, but the last days of this spring saw me traversing one of the hemispheres quite a bit. I am usually a reserved and suave traveler, I mind my own travel-related business without hustling anybody. Well, rare occurrences of slightly inebriated friendly streaks of socializing with randomly picked voyagers or deserved castigation of slothful service personnel do not cloud the skies but quite on the contrary, bring a lot of gregarious pleasure to yours faithfully.
This blood-curdling event happened within the marble expanses of the central airport in one unnamed country. Tying my camel to the first lamppost I pitched my camp right by Gate 5 from which a beautiful silver metal bird promised to take me to Hong Kong, and perched myself in a well-positioned second floor bar which offered nice strategic view of both the gate and the TV screen. I like TVs, - not unlike a window to the world they usually show me various spectacular things. I breathed in a couple of beers and lo and behold, they started showing tear-jerking stuff on the screen, which now filled me with pride, now threw me into the abyss of inexplicable sadness. The feeble souls that occupied nearby tables did not share my deeply felt emotions no matter how hard I threw my fiery and tear-filled wide-eyed looks at them from behind my fogged spectacles. They would hide their shameless eyes in their despisable grub troughs the second my ardent gazes scorched against them.
It is no secret that two clearly-chiseled personalities (among many smaller and obscure ones) cohabit within my statuesque body, one is the gregarious chap skillfully depicted above and the other is a suspicious jekyll-and-hyde-esque bastard who lurks within the shady dusty nooks of my complex individuality and jalousingly casts agly glances, mistrusting anyone and surmising the worst. It was he who was behind my elaborate scheme to tuck away under the table my faithful travel sack, providently filled up to the brim with slabs of bacon, a jar of melted lard and a loaf of rye bread against a starvation streak should one occur on the road, as well as a change of clean underwear and a complete subscription of the Seventeen magazine for the year 1994, which I for many years now am trying to peruse to finally crack the mystery of the weaker sex ab their ovo, so to say. In between the regular sips of beer I repeatedly checked the sack with my ankle and eyeballed anyone passing by against any chances.
They moseyed in stealthily, I did not even register the moment they crossed the threshold of our small cozy tavern. One moment nothing disturbed the measured munching and sipping routine that had set in around the bar, and the next something intangible crystallized in the air, pushing it around with a gentle, but ever so present swish. I slowly turned my head and the alert personality in me squinted at the three middle-eastern guys as they studied the snacks in the display case. They placed their bulging sports bags on the floor. My leg involuntarily twitched to check my own dear carpetbag under the table. Two of them were tall and huge and their biceps made their black t-shirts creak at the seams. The other one was a squatty chubby guy with a worried look and a hairy chest which inquisitively peeped at the world from the unbuttoned crevice of his shirt. Shit, thought I a politically incorrect thought, guess I would not want these guys to share the beautiful silver bird with me, not with their sports bags as the cabin luggage and all. The sips of beer I drew became more nervous, along with the twitching of the ankle. To make matters worse, the three communicated in a hushed unidentified language, and that made me readjust the rifle on my shoulder wanna hide the fact that I was drinking alcohol.
But, true to an old adage, time is the best medicine, and within a couple of minutes and with a huge exertion of my tipsy will power I brushed off the xenophobic thoughts and instead started painting cheerful mental pictures of me fraternizing with those fellas, telling funny stories and slapping their shoulders.
As the people camping by Gate 5 starting shuffling and the time drew nigh, I emptied my pint and sprung to my feet. I was smiling at the world and at those three traveling friends in particular, - as I was passing them I even had to pull on the reins as my genial self was about to squeeze one pumped up shoulder. In my content amiability I tried to nod thanks to the bartender, but on noticing my invocatory glance she, - as it is customary in that country, - pretended to be busy with something else, leaving me smiling and nodding fatuously into an artificial vacuum impregnated with concealed awareness. Strangest things can be perceived through a mind loosened by legal mind-altering substances.
I merrily gamboled down the steps towards the gate when from somewhere up above I heard a voice - as dissonant with my state of mind as it was worried. The squatty Arab guy - one of the three - was looking down from the parapet and he seemed to be more agitated than before. "Sir, you left your bag..." - he repeated more questioningly than affirmatively, and the air around him suggested readiness to bolt at any moment.
"Dang, I really left my bag up there near the table," - was my first thought which sent chills down my stomach with the idea of possible aftereffects. As I turned on my heels the second thought enveloping me was about the legal and other consequences one might face at our uncertain times after leaving his luggage unattended while briskly skipping away from it. But the third one made me imagine the state of mind of those poor Arab guys in a not exactly friendly country after seeing a macho like myself, - full of beer and a tear in his eye, - hightailing it from a bag covertly left in a public place.
I wanted to ask the alarmist to throw my bag down to me, but thought better of it. As I passed the guys on the way back to my table, I wanted to crack a good one about the potency of this whole situation to scare the living sh*t outta anyone, but my dry tongue was soldered to the palate, and I only managed to mutter thanks through my wryly smiling lips.
As unexpected as it sounds, they fed us on board, again. The lard proved to be - once again - unneeded, and I had to give it to the covey of kids that flocked at the gates of the passenger depot, pressing their smutty faces against the steel wire of the fence.
This blood-curdling event happened within the marble expanses of the central airport in one unnamed country. Tying my camel to the first lamppost I pitched my camp right by Gate 5 from which a beautiful silver metal bird promised to take me to Hong Kong, and perched myself in a well-positioned second floor bar which offered nice strategic view of both the gate and the TV screen. I like TVs, - not unlike a window to the world they usually show me various spectacular things. I breathed in a couple of beers and lo and behold, they started showing tear-jerking stuff on the screen, which now filled me with pride, now threw me into the abyss of inexplicable sadness. The feeble souls that occupied nearby tables did not share my deeply felt emotions no matter how hard I threw my fiery and tear-filled wide-eyed looks at them from behind my fogged spectacles. They would hide their shameless eyes in their despisable grub troughs the second my ardent gazes scorched against them.
It is no secret that two clearly-chiseled personalities (among many smaller and obscure ones) cohabit within my statuesque body, one is the gregarious chap skillfully depicted above and the other is a suspicious jekyll-and-hyde-esque bastard who lurks within the shady dusty nooks of my complex individuality and jalousingly casts agly glances, mistrusting anyone and surmising the worst. It was he who was behind my elaborate scheme to tuck away under the table my faithful travel sack, providently filled up to the brim with slabs of bacon, a jar of melted lard and a loaf of rye bread against a starvation streak should one occur on the road, as well as a change of clean underwear and a complete subscription of the Seventeen magazine for the year 1994, which I for many years now am trying to peruse to finally crack the mystery of the weaker sex ab their ovo, so to say. In between the regular sips of beer I repeatedly checked the sack with my ankle and eyeballed anyone passing by against any chances.
They moseyed in stealthily, I did not even register the moment they crossed the threshold of our small cozy tavern. One moment nothing disturbed the measured munching and sipping routine that had set in around the bar, and the next something intangible crystallized in the air, pushing it around with a gentle, but ever so present swish. I slowly turned my head and the alert personality in me squinted at the three middle-eastern guys as they studied the snacks in the display case. They placed their bulging sports bags on the floor. My leg involuntarily twitched to check my own dear carpetbag under the table. Two of them were tall and huge and their biceps made their black t-shirts creak at the seams. The other one was a squatty chubby guy with a worried look and a hairy chest which inquisitively peeped at the world from the unbuttoned crevice of his shirt. Shit, thought I a politically incorrect thought, guess I would not want these guys to share the beautiful silver bird with me, not with their sports bags as the cabin luggage and all. The sips of beer I drew became more nervous, along with the twitching of the ankle. To make matters worse, the three communicated in a hushed unidentified language, and that made me readjust the rifle on my shoulder wanna hide the fact that I was drinking alcohol.
But, true to an old adage, time is the best medicine, and within a couple of minutes and with a huge exertion of my tipsy will power I brushed off the xenophobic thoughts and instead started painting cheerful mental pictures of me fraternizing with those fellas, telling funny stories and slapping their shoulders.
As the people camping by Gate 5 starting shuffling and the time drew nigh, I emptied my pint and sprung to my feet. I was smiling at the world and at those three traveling friends in particular, - as I was passing them I even had to pull on the reins as my genial self was about to squeeze one pumped up shoulder. In my content amiability I tried to nod thanks to the bartender, but on noticing my invocatory glance she, - as it is customary in that country, - pretended to be busy with something else, leaving me smiling and nodding fatuously into an artificial vacuum impregnated with concealed awareness. Strangest things can be perceived through a mind loosened by legal mind-altering substances.
I merrily gamboled down the steps towards the gate when from somewhere up above I heard a voice - as dissonant with my state of mind as it was worried. The squatty Arab guy - one of the three - was looking down from the parapet and he seemed to be more agitated than before. "Sir, you left your bag..." - he repeated more questioningly than affirmatively, and the air around him suggested readiness to bolt at any moment.
"Dang, I really left my bag up there near the table," - was my first thought which sent chills down my stomach with the idea of possible aftereffects. As I turned on my heels the second thought enveloping me was about the legal and other consequences one might face at our uncertain times after leaving his luggage unattended while briskly skipping away from it. But the third one made me imagine the state of mind of those poor Arab guys in a not exactly friendly country after seeing a macho like myself, - full of beer and a tear in his eye, - hightailing it from a bag covertly left in a public place.
I wanted to ask the alarmist to throw my bag down to me, but thought better of it. As I passed the guys on the way back to my table, I wanted to crack a good one about the potency of this whole situation to scare the living sh*t outta anyone, but my dry tongue was soldered to the palate, and I only managed to mutter thanks through my wryly smiling lips.
As unexpected as it sounds, they fed us on board, again. The lard proved to be - once again - unneeded, and I had to give it to the covey of kids that flocked at the gates of the passenger depot, pressing their smutty faces against the steel wire of the fence.