The French, the Swiss, and the Italian

So I made it to Dar es Salaam! I made it without my shampoo but I made it nonetheless. Security confiscated it at Reagan airport. Damnation to all those nitwits who tried blowing up planes with such lethal devices. Seriously, its shampoo guys! Why was I carrying shampoo in the first place? I certainly wasn’t planning on blowing myself up. And an airport shower wasn’t too compelling. In actuality there was a method to my madness. I was relying on my carry-on luggage to avoid paying the $180 surcharge for checking in an extra piece of luggage. It worked quite well on the United flight to Logan airport, but failed to fool the Swiss.
Logan airport was in disarray when I arrived. I had an hour to pick up my luggage, catch a bus to the Swiss Air terminal (with all 5 pieces), check my luggage in (again), and go through security one more time. Walking passed the security line, I saw people, hundreds of people, inching their way to some vague destination. The line seemed to spiral on and on, and on, and on. Now remember, I had less than an hour to get to my flight.
A heaving donkey, I made it to the Swiss ticket counter. There was no line. That was good and bad, but at this point no line could mean only one thing: I was too late, they had already boarded. In fact, that was what the woman behind the counter told me. She said it with such honesty I could have punched her in the face. Not really though. I told her why I was late; that my rink dink plane from Alaska had crash-landed thirty miles away, and my back was about to explode from all the walking and carrying. She didn’t buy it, so I told her the sobering truth. It was a United plane that I had managed to crash-land after all four pilots had simultaneous heart attacks. She still didn’t buy it. So I told her the real truth. Surprisingly, she sympathized with the reality of my situation. She asked how many bags I wanted to check in. I said two. She said three. Freaking Swiss and their attention to detail! At that point, all I wanted was to board that plane, so I conceded. She weighed all three pieces, and without charging me an extra dime, penny, shilling or franc, handed me my boarding pass and had me whisked away to a much shorter, but equally slow security line. In my haste, I forgot my sleeping bag, and as I turned around to go back and get it, a young woman with a beautiful smile and slender arms threw it at my face. How graceful the Swiss are. No really, she handed it over so politely I could have cried. Ah, the Swiss! Who would have known?
My problems hadn’t left me yet. I still had the exceedingly slow line to go through. A man with a walky-talky and the seriousness of a soviet soldier wasn’t sympathetic to my plight. I tried telling him about my plane crash but he too wasn’t interested. When I informed him that my flight was about leave, he looked at me with an I-don’t-like-you-because-you’re-obviously-a-spoiled-american-and-only-speak-English tone of voice, and asked me if I spoke any Italian (in Italian of course, and don’t ask me how I know that). I shook my head and he shrugged his shoulders. Freaking A! Italians! Where is a Swiss when you need one, eh? At that moment, if someone had asked me to pick one person to live the rest of my weary life with on a deserted Island, I’d have chosen a Swiss, preferably one with a beautiful smile and slender arms. Maybe the Italian could tag along to fetch water.
Inching along the line, a man walked right passed me and ducked under the separating line-tape (or whatever it’s called), cutting his way to the beginning of the line. As I admired his self-righteousness and seeming rudeness, I heard someone say something about him being French. Ah, the French! How bold they can be, eh? Blowing up a Green Peace boat is just the beginning for any law-abiding Frenchman.
I hit up a conversation with an elderly American couple standing behind me. Finally, some friendly world travelers. After hearing my numerous sob stories, the man lifted the tape and beckoned me to go on. I politely declined the offer. By golly, I was going to avoid being French (at all costs if necessary). American I stand! American I fall! Well, truth be told, I began to rethink the whole American bit. Maybe, I shouldn’t always have to be the polite American. Maybe, I too could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and even get away with it! Maybe I could be French. In fact, the situation demanded it! I slowly lifted the tape, and took on the (heavy) responsibilities of being French. Of course, I couldn’t stop there. I had to go on cutting in front of more people. And more people. And more people. I was beginning to enjoy my new self-proclaimed identity. Of course, I hadn’t completely lost my previous more-polite identity, so I made sure to ask the next person if she was okay with me being French. She said, “by all means necessary.” Wow. Who would have known that people would actually concede to such Frenchified demands? I suddenly felt liberated.
So, that is how I made it to my flight on time. And just maybe, on this hypothetical little island of mine, there could also be room for a Frenchman. And a Tanzanian (even though they apparently love cutting people off), and a Persian, and whoever else can put up with me odd ways.
I've been hanging out in Dar as I wait for my visa to get processed. I'm enjoying being here, and spending time with my friend's family, as well as another family visiting from the States. They have two very cute, extremely energetic girls with superhuman pain receptors who chase me around all day, get into my luggage and ask me for chocolate and to play tag with them every chance they get. Lovely!

Will try to post pictures soon!

P.S. I don't really identify as American or any other nationality for that matter. I was being sarcastic for comedic purposes.