‘Who’re they?’ I ask.
‘The prime minister,’ the ticketing agent says.
‘Of the country?’
‘At the airport? On a national holiday?’
‘He likes to do those sorts of things.’
‘He likes to hang out at the airport on his days off?’
That was clearly the most absurd thing I’d heard in a long time and saw that there was no point in venting my frustration at his national holiday schedule as the man was clearly not in his right mind. Instead, I pushed my way upstream through his crowd to the taxi queue to get to my hotel. I arrived promptly at 9.45am. Check-in is at 2pm. I haven’t slept for 23 hours. I have a cold. And, I have nothing to do but wander the closed up streets of
I never cease to be amazed at what you can get away with if you look like you belong someplace. But looking like you belong somewhere doesn’t come naturally. You can’t be too brazen or too demure. You must simply appear as though you have done or been (what/where ever it is) everyday of your life and you’re bored with it. Because, if you did belong wherever you are trying to pretend you do, you probably would be bored with it. So, as I stood there in the alley-way at the back of the janitor’s room/bathroom/canteen I tried to appear as if it were the most natural thing in the world for me, an obvious foreigner, standing there in the alley with the laptop bag open on the sticky, dirty floor charging my computer. It was frightening how well it worked. A couple of the janitors didn’t even give me a second glance. A couple of the cooks – complete with big bellies hidden away under greasy white aprons and cigarettes attached to their lower lip – just gave me the ‘whas up?’ nod. I nodded back. No one though it was odd that I was there. This still amazes me.
Well, that took up a good 20 minutes of my life. Only 3 hours and 40 minutes to go…