The old couple were from India or maybe Pakistan.
At first I didn't notice him. He was hidden in the queue to board the Easyjet flight whilst she snuggled into the empty seat between me and the person on the other side of the empty seat in the waiting area. I noticed she had two bags: a largish trolly style suitcase and a small backpack strapped across her chest. I noticed this detail because I know Easyjet have a very strict policy of only one carry-on bag. It is a tiresome policy, especially for women who tend to suffer from a lack of pockets adequate for money, wallets, and keys. Knowing how the system works though, one adapts.
I hope she's left enough room in that large bag to fit her small bag.Apparently, the Maltese flight guardians had had their eyes on her too. A young employee ....
Of the airline or the airport?... approached and alerted the woman to the one-bag-per-passenger policy.
"I know, I know! I'm putting it away." the elderly woman from India or Pakistan screeched.
The person on the other side of her got up to wander the waiting lounge. This is when the Indian or Pakistani woman's husband appeared. He inserted himself next to his wife. He was thin and lightly brown, bald with a bit of white hair around the sides of his head, like a birds nest holding a big brown egg. He wore glasses which gave him a grandfatherly or professorly appearance. His wife had short hair, dyed reddish-brown but gray and thinning at the roots. I suppose her yellow with red spotted outer garment qualified as a
sari, though it lacked the elegance I normally associate with the silky wraps. Her lips were painted a garish red, and she shuffled in unbuckled sandals as she circled her trolly suitcase and conjured up more space to condense her two bags into one.
Her husband's bag, meanwhile, grew.
The assiduous flight guardians - whether airport or airline employees - observed this strange phenomenon and promptly asked the man to check the size of his bag in the metal frame box used specifically for this purpose. The man resisted. "It fit when we checked in at the counter."
"Sure it did." said the flight guardians' faces.
Sure it did."Well, try it again, Sir."
The man began the chore of cajoling his duffel bag into the airline mandated dimensions. There was no way the bag was going to fit.
He pushed and prodded the bag. It would not relent.
He returned to his earlier claim. "It fit at the checkout counter."
He began pulling items out of the bag and putting them onto the floor until the bag gave and fell into the empty space surrounded by the bag measuring device.
"See. You see!" he shouted in an I-told-you-so tone. "I told you it fit."
The airport or airline employee eyed the miscellaneous items on the floor. His red lipped wife watched on with hope. I sat discomforted by the scene. I felt sympathy ...
Hadn't I just repackaged my carry-on?... pity, and annoyance verging on scorn.
Come on. You know the friggin' rules. You're taking the piss."and where are these things going to go?" the airline/port lady asked indicating to the items on the floor.
"Those are my medicines. You're not going to allow me to take my medicines?" The grandfatherly man whined like a child.
The shrillness of his voice made me whince. I had to look away. I noticed other waiting passengers also observing the scene. Some with barely disguised smirks; others with bafflement. No one seemed as pained as I felt.
The airline/port lady was really just a girl. She remained calm. She repeated the rules. She repeated her questions. Her calm, unflinching adherence to corporate policy vanquished the feigned victimisation. The old Indian couple grudgingly agreed to check in a bag. Moaning, grumbling, and playing the victims, they got to work at re-sorting their possessions.
Once on board the plane they regaled the flight attendants with the tale of their persecution.
"They wouldn't let us bring our medicines."
Meanwhile, we passenger-witnesses knew that the medicines had been redistributed into the carry-on. Among such medicines included multiple bottles of the same brand of aspirin and vitamins. Nothing during the three hours we would all be airplane-bound would urgently require that quantity of vitamins and aspirin.
Later.
I am on the Gatwick Express headed toward Victoria. The woman across from me is of Indian or Pakistani origin, or maybe descendancy.
She could very well have been born in the UK.When she sees that I am looking for a seat she quickly moves her gloves and scarf from atop the table where she is sitting. She catches my eye and smiles. She is keen to demonstrate that she is not hogging space.
"It's ok." I say. Her scarf and gloves were just fine where they were. They posed no inconvenience in the slightest.
The woman across the aisle from us shuffles in her seat. She seems nervous and keeps checking the mobile phone she has in her lap. Finally, she hands the phone to the woman across from me. I am surprised: they don't seem like they are traveling together.
The lady across the aisle is from the far east. I think Malaysian or Vietnamese, but really I have no idea.
What do you know about that part of the world?The lady across from me and the lady across the aisle merely smile unfamiliarly during the phone hand-off.
Later, the phone rings. The Indian or Pakistani woman answers.
"Yes, she was trying to reach you. Hold on."
The phone is returned to the woman from the further east. She begins to babble in an incomprehensible language. When she finishes she hands the phone back to the woman across from me. They smile and nod, the smile and nod of strangers who hardly speak 10 words of a common language. It dawns on me that the lady across from me has contributed her mobile phone for the purpose of helping a non English speaking visitor to London (a first time visitor, I think) unite with her local hosts. I like that.
All types everywhere from everywhere.
We joke that my mother should have a cancer discount card. She's stage IV so she'd get the biggest discount ... something like 40%, we say.
