Why, “Beer Please,” May Not Be the Most Important Phrase to Know Whilst Traveling: Part Deux

This is a sequel to last week’s post, “Why, “Beer Please,” May Not Be the Most Important Phrase to Know Whilst Traveling.”

I fight the tears forming in my eyes and am filled immediately with fear at the thought I’m never going to make it to Africa and I just flew around the world to eat some Nutella crepes and look at a famous painting of an ugly woman who is hardly smiling.

I trudge over to the customer service desk, my shoulders slumping more from the weight of dejection and failure than from my thirty pound backpack.

The tears threaten to fall as I tell my story to the customer service agent.  Either my charm or the look on my face that says, “I’m-about-to-have-an-all-out-american-style-emotional-breakdown-right-here-in-front-of-your-customer-service-desk-if-you-don’t-help-me,” convinces the nice man to get his supervisor.

Apparently, I look pathetic enough…or scary enough, that after a stern lecture on the virtues of timeliness, the manager escorts me to the ticket counter and orders my boarding pass to be printed.  I give the mean ticket lady a nice smile as she unhappily hands me my ticket.

I grab my ticket and rush off, only to be stopped by a mob of people camped out on the airport floor like it’s the site where JK Rowling is going to distribute a surprise Harry Potter sequel.  I slowly pick my way through the maze of people and belongings, and break into a run as I exit the hoard.

I enter the beginning of the security checkpoints and see the only sign in English I’ve seen all day.  It says, “One Bag Only!” This is quite the conundrum considering I have clothes/supplies for a ten day trip to Africa stuffed into TWO bags.

Ignorance is bliss so I ignored it.

Thirty-eight people want to see my passport, none of them customs or immigration.  I get my bags ready to go through the x-ray machine, and the security lady tells me I need a new bag for my liquids.

Not because mine is too big, too small, or not appropriately clear, but because mine is old and worn.  She proceeds to take out each bottle, and one by one puts them into my new, shiny, plastic bag.

Apparently, the French haven’t heard of recycling and/or they hate this planet.

I stand there throwing imaginary darts at her with my eyes, praying the x-ray reader guy does not spot the extra toiletries I’ve skillfully hidden throughout my luggage.  What? You try to get 10 days worth of toiletries into a tiny little bag.

Turns out, I would make an exceptionally good terrorist.  I am excellent at hiding things from security, and if the Al-queda were smart, they’d try to recruit me.

I squeeze past a very slow man who doesn’t know how to put his belt on, and yank my stuff off the conveyor belt and start running to the gate.

As I’m rushing past the row of duty-free and chocolate shops towards my gate, my huge backpack bounces up and down on my back as my over sized shoulder bag attempts to break my femur with each bounce on my leg.

I arrive at the gate covered in sweat and more short of breath than when I ran that half marathon with no training.  The man at the gate says the most soothing words to me I’ve ever heard in my life, “Relax…take a deep breath, you made it.”

I board the aircraft one minute before it is supposed to leave and sink into my seat with relief.  I take a big whiff of the air surrounding me and am gratefully reminded that yes, this flight is indeed going to Africa, and I am on the right plane.

I tell myself that I probably shouldn’t be too discriminating when it comes to body odor considering my dress is now soaked with sweat. My dress that I’ve been wearing for three days straight.

Me and Africa are gonna get along just fine.

I sigh and pray our plane doesn’t crash, and keep in mind, my day could’ve been much, much, much worse…Because I originally was planning on showing up to the wrong airport

 

 

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Tagged as: Africa, France, Travel