In the big and sprawling
Cairo International Airport, there didn’t seem to be that many people around,
the human density factor (HDF) being fairly low. On the plane, it’s a different
story. The HDF has skyrocketed to sardine level. We’re flying to Frankfurt on a
fully-booked jetliner. I notice two guys, massively big and tall, headed for
the same row in which I’m sitting, and sure enough, they sit down, one of each
side of me. Wedged between the Green Giant
and Big Foot, I manage to watch a movie and catch a nap, feeling confident
that should we crash, I’m so well cushioned on both sides that I’ll hit the
ground totally intact.
Two hours into the flight,
breakfast is served. Both human air bags on either side of me are sound asleep.
Carefully, without waking Sasquatch, I succeed in deploying the folding tray
from its housing in the armrest, upon which the flight attendant deposits the
meal.
Operating a fork and knife
competently, while your forearms are compressed against your rib cage, takes
great skill which I don’t possess. I end up looking like a praying mantis with
limp wrists, trying to flick bits of cheesy omelette into my mouth. I give up
on the coffee when my lips fail to fully stretch across the six-inch gap
between my face and the cup in my hand, stuck in midair at the end of my
immobilized arm. The praying mantis will just have to remain thirsty and
decaffeinated.
Once in Frankfurt, the plane
stops on the tarmac and I’m instructed to stay in the aircraft until all the
other passengers have left; a special bus will come to pick me up. Okay, I can
handle a special bus, just as long as the metal bovine stays away. I’ve not
gotten over the COW. I don’t think I ever will.
A few minutes later, the
“special bus” arrives, looking amazingly like a regular, normal bus. I clamber
down the stairs and board the special-regular-normal-bus which takes me to a
dark underground area resembling a mixture of parking lot and loading dock. I
sincerely doubt there’ll be a red carpet and fanfare awaiting my arrival. From
the look of my surroundings, I’d more likely be greeted by a forklift.
We reach our destination and
stop in front of a glass door leading to what looks like a waiting room. I exit
the bus, take a seat in a wheelchair, and an airline employee rolls me to the
waiting area in which the other wounded, injured, maimed, or otherwise
malfunctioning passengers have accumulated. My passport and boarding pass are
collected and I’m told to wait; someone will come to get me. I wait, watching
the clock anxiously. We only have an hour between flights and this isn’t Egypt
where planes and ships wait for people.
To take my mind off the
passing time, I watch the other passengers, hearing bits of conversations in a
myriad of different languages with a lot of English and German peppered
throughout. Someone’s flying to Bangalore; another is waiting for a flight to
China; one passenger, sitting in a wheelchair and wearing shorts and flip flops
is waiting for a flight to New York. Considering that it’s February, and
consequently, it’s cold in New York, he’ll be in for quite a shock I suspect.
It makes one wonder if this gentleman even looked at the weather report for his
destination before leaving home.
I know I shouldn’t make fun
of people’s clothing faux pas. Lord knows I’ve made a few in my time. A smile
comes to my lips as I recall one such incident: the cape caper. A few years
ago, I was in search of a cape. Not a Superman cape, you understand, but a
normal, chic, and classy coat cape. They were in all the magazines and I
thought they looked very elegant. So, I got it into my head that I wanted one
in the worst way. I looked and shopped and hunted, but could never find the
right one.
Then one day, I walked into
this large store, a home accessories and clothing store, and there it was, a
whole rack full of capes. And it was just waiting for my excited little hands
to go through it and pick out the perfect cape that would make me look glamorous.
Had this been a movie, there would have been a ray of light, suddenly appearing
out of nowhere, illuminating The Rack, and heavenly music playing in the
background.
With my breath still stuck
in my throat and my hands shaking in anticipation, I started foraging through
The Rack. Although the capes were a bit shorter than what I was looking for and
more colourful—red, green, some even had gold-threaded designs on them—I kept
going. Short and colourful was better than nothing.
Selecting a dark green one,
I decided to try it on to see how it fit. After successfully putting it around
my shoulders and doing up the ties in the front, I went in search of a mirror.
That’s when I started noticing the funny looks from the other customers and
some of the staff. At the time, I figured they were jealous of how great I must
look with my green velvety cape, and continued on my way down the aisle, toward
the mirror, trying to look alluring and sophisticated.
It was when I looked at my
reflection in the mirror that I realized what was going on. They weren’t capes.
They were Christmas tree skirts, and I was wearing one of them. It only took a
nanosecond before the full impact of the situation slammed into my brain like a
ten megaton warhead on a ladybug. After parading around the store proudly
wearing a Christmas decoration, I was now admiring myself in the mirror, in
full view of all the security cameras in the place, which, I have no doubt,
were busily recoding every embarrassing second of this event.
I have no recollection of
removing the Yuletide Shroud or fighting the intense desire to shred it instead
of calmly returning it to its hanger and leaving the store, as I surely must
have done. All I know is that I didn’t return to that store for several weeks.
And to this day, I do not own a cape.
Pulling me out of my
reminiscing trance, a young lady comes to collect me. She takes off at a run,
pushing the chair, weaving and swerving around pedestrians in a mad rush to get
me to the departure gate on time. Just as the plane starts boarding, we reach
the intended destination where I’m reunited with my travelling companions.
Before I can thank my driver, she’s off with the now empty chair, running to
collect another passenger. I’m impressed with her stamina, but even more so,
I’m amazed that she manages to run the airport marathon in three-inch heels!
The last leg of the trip is
uneventful. Luckily, the plane is mostly empty so we get to stretch out and
pick whichever seat we want, away from Yetis and Giants. The few times that I
have to use the washroom, several pairs of eyeballs follow my progress. I think
I’m even being timed. I can imagine that, past the allowed time, the cry of Red alert! General quarters! Battle stations!, accompanied by the sound of
assorted bells and klaxons would
resound throughout the aircraft.
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