Here's something in the way of Mike's legendary travel accounts (though not so legendary, I suspect) which I wrote for the Blog last night.
I’m flying to Lima via Panama City on Copa, an airline exiled from the Tom Bradshaw Intl. Terminal to far-flung Termianal 6. I admit that the last time I flew to Peru we ended up in Chile in the worst air travel nightmare of all, but at least LAN has it together at the terminal. Copa, not so much. Picture three stations, eight or so employees, all looking very very busy, and a line that just doesn’t move. It doesn’t move so much that I begin having fantasies of large brooms sweeping away the clusters of people cluttering the area in front of the counter. The four Russians directly before me in line have at least 15 bags of different colors between them. One of the bags is an old, leather sample case with straps holding it together, such as one would expect to fine in the trunk of a car also carrying material for a nuclear weapon. People tend to take vast numbers of suitcases, all of which must be weighed—some paid for, some not, but all negotiated—when they travel to Panama. Or they take dogs, or electronics, which also must be paid for and wrapped in cellophane (except the dogs). A couple who had purchased a miniature bulldog in the states for import to Panama stood at the counter taking up space and attention in one form or another for at least forty five minutes. At one point I looked behind me and half the line was seated on the floor. A gentleman who reminded me of Gabriel García Márquez began shouting at an one of the employees from the actual line.
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Sounds lovely. Especially the part about the Russians. Reminds me of a hot summer day when I was trying to get into the Prado. The line was long, barely moving, and standing in front of me was a shirtless middle-aged Eastern European man of indeterminate origin, beads of sweat glistening on each strand of a back so hairy that his pelt would have been right at home as part of Sarah Palin's office decor (rimshot). He was loud, and probably thought of himself as charmingly gregarious. When another man appeared to jump the line and enter the museum, the hairball protested loudly and urgently, glancing from side to side to make sure everyone in the line knew he was doing this on behalf of all of us. The interloper turned and showed a laminated pass clipped to his shirt and said "pero es que soy guía." But, having inflated himself into full cockfight stance (I swear, every one of his glistening back hairs was standing on end), the furry one continued to pace and grumble as the guide entered the museum, like a schoolyard bully who continues making empty chest thrusts after a would-be opponent has refused to fight him.
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