Egypt, Ski Capital of the Ancient World

I sit in the designated waiting area, assured by the clerk that the shuttle will be here in less than twenty minutes. Shortly after I settle down in my chair, a middle-aged fellow, wearing jeans, a blue coat, a purple tuque, and carrying a large mushy-looking duffel bag, arrives at the shuttle desk. He’s swaying on his feet and has to lean against the counter for support, a clue to the identity of the main liquid ingredient of his lunch. Having given his name and destination to the clerk, he swivels around and weaves a path around imaginary objects, aiming toward where I’m sitting.

No, no, don’t sit next to me! I silently beg the Powers That Be. I close my eyes in an effort to augment the potency of my tacit prayer, and when I open them, the walking brewery is plonked in the seat next to mine, purple tuque askew, legs crossed, and feet propped on top of the duffel bag on the floor in front of him. 

There are twenty empty chairs in the waiting area and he has to pick the one right next to me. It figures. I’m a magnet for all the drunks, weirdos, and freaks this world has to offer. They’re drawn to me like moths to a flame, except that in my case, I have no capacity to incinerate those that get too close.

Don’t speak to me. Don’t even look at me. Maybe the Powers will grant me this small wish.

“Where you comin’ back from?” Purple Tuque intones, eyeing my suitcases and expelling alcohol fumes strong enough to dissolve concrete.

“Egypt,” I answer, hoping that my curt reply will discourage any further conversation.

He ruminates over my answer for a second before asking, “Is that where them Terracotta guys are?”

“Beg your pardon?” 

 “You know, all them warrior dudes. Hundreds of ‘em, all lined up in rows. Did you see ‘em?”

 “Hum, no. I believe those are in China,” I reply, wondering how he managed to associate Egypt with the Terracotta Army of Chinese Emperor Qin Shi Huang, even inebriated as he is. 

 “Oh yeah, yeah . . . Right . . . So you saw that Pant Anon then,” he volleys back. 

At my blank look, he prattles on, “You know, that thing with all them columns? On top of the Arco Police?”

Well, I’ve met my match in the eyebrow-raising department. Mine are about to depart my face permanently. “You mean the Parthenon on the Acropolis? In Greece?” I barely keep the sarcasm out of my voice, emphasizing the last word, for effect. I must remember that not everyone is blessed with a high school education. And even if they are, they weren’t necessarily awake during the history and geography lessons. 

“I didn’t get to Greece. I just stayed in Egypt,” I reiterate, then take out a book from my bag and pretend to read. Maybe now he’ll get the hint to shut up. 

Just when I think my plan is working because there hasn’t been a peep from Purple Tuque for five minutes, he starts to snore. Perfect! I can change seats and make good my escape. That way, if he wakes up, I’ll be at the other end of the waiting area, too far to be the target of his intoxicated chitchat. 

Just as I’m about to move, the shuttle driver picks this particular moment to make his appearance and call our names, one by one, his stentorian voice cranked up to deafening level. 

Purple Tuque springs to attention with a snort, nearly falling out of his chair, then gets up unsteadily, looking unsure as to which planet he has landed on. Or maybe he’s expecting to see “them Terracotta dudes” throwing fisticuffs out on the Arco Police. I don’t really know, and I don’t wait to find out. I grab Beatrice and George and stand up, ready to accompany the driver to the shuttle bus. 

Seeing me doing the tripod imitation, the driver kindly takes control of my luggage and I follow him out of the building and to the curb, where his vehicle is parked. Purple Tuque, still stunned and moving in slow motion, takes hold of his bag and brings up the rear behind an elderly couple, showing off Florida tans on skin that would make leather envious.

 At the bus, a large van really, the driver loads all the suitcases in the back and invites us to get in through the sliding door on the side. The leathery people go in first and select seats in the back. I get in next, with my eye on a single seat near the front, away from irritatingly chatty drunk people with really dumb questions. 

After watching me clamber aboard using my knee-climbing technique, Purple Tuque pipes up with yet another deeply philosophical question, “So, did you break your leg skiin’ in Egypt?” 

It’s all I can do to keep George, revved up and firing on all cylinders, from thumping him on the head or swatting him across the shins. 

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. All I know is: Matilda is back!