When in Rome
When my sister Tasha visited me in Spain where I had been living, she brought more than her fair share of luggage. Instead of schlepping it through the streets of Seville where we would spend the day, we decided to rent a locker at the bus station.
The bus station was like any other. There was an area for greeting arrivals, a security checkpoint with a low-to-the-ground conveyor belt contraption and an x-ray machine for viewing luggage contents.
Like any good Texan, Tasha can roll her R’s if she really has to. But outside of locating a bathroom in Cozumel, she knows no Spanish. I explained that she should go through security to the lockers, store her bags and then we’d be set to tour the city sans luggage.
“Just go through security? Will they ask questions?” Tasha was uncertain.
“Just have your passport ready. If they say anything, tell them you only speak English. Just be polite. They’re very nice here.”
“OK.” And off she went.
I stood on the other side of a glass wall, about 25 feet away and watched her. Fashion-conscious and ever eager to do as the Romans, Tasha donned European attire: simple black pants, a v-neck t-shirt, and great shoes. A trendy wallet-as-purse hung diagonally across her midsection. Tasha is tiny and striking, barely five feet tall, and curvy enough to make any man look twice.
She immediately garnered the attention of an attendant who watched her closely, though not with an eye for security. She heaved her luggage onto the conveyer belt, inspected it, and waited for permission to proceed. He smiled at her flirtatiously.
“Please also remove your purse, young lady,” he said informally in Spanish. But to Tasha, it was extremely formal, if not official. She detected no hint of flirtation but heard a fast-forwarded rendition of “Por favor… blah blah blah bladdy blah bladdy blah blah blah.”
She grinned, oblivious. He repeated himself and added sign language.
“POR. FAVOR.
-- BLAH blah BLAH.
-- BLADDY blah.
-- BLADDY blah BLAH BLAH.”
He pointed at her body, rounded his arms in a swaying motion, then pointed back to the belt, indicating that she should remove her purse and put it on the belt.
The little purse - she had totally forgotten she was wearing it. It was an accessory more than a purse. It weighed nothing. It held little more than traveler’s checks and lipstick. Tasha looked at him as if he were insane.
She looked at me through the glass wall. In the split second that I held her gaze, I started to speak, but she looked away too quickly. I pointed at her purse, which was from her perspective, equivalent to pointing at her.
The attendant remained remarkably good-humored. He repeated himself again, still smiling, but was now more firm as a good line was starting to form behind Tasha.
He pointed with more intensity at her and tapped his own chest and midriff. Then he pretended to carry something invisible and put the invisible something onto the conveyor belt.
Tasha deliberated. The station had been empty when we arrived. There had been no one in front of her to demonstrate how these things were done.
She smiled an incredulous smile. Resolved at international diplomacy, she raised her eyebrows and lifted her shoulders in disbelief at what she was about to do.
Tasha lifted one foot to the edge of the conveyor belt and stepped onto the moving platform with the intention of balling herself up into a neat little American package and riding the bumpy conveyor belt toward the x-ray machine. She eyed the big metal box and wondered what would happen to her (and all that luggage) inside.
She would never find out. The attendant, fortunately an athletic man, leapt over to her side of the checkpoint and lifted her to safety.
He made no attempt to hide his laughter, nor did anyone in the station. Through unstoppable belly-laughs, he helped her off with her purse, looked inside it, returned it to her, and pushed her through to freedom, shaking his head and wiping the tears from his eyes as he did so.
Mayhem ensued. I could not see my sister through the crowd of people cackling. Dozens of strangers doubled over and laughed mercilessly. They actually pointed at her. Somehow in a matter of seconds, Tasha stowed her bags and appeared beside me red-faced. We left the station swiftly - both of us in tears, albeit for different reasons.
Now with the perspective of time, Tasha laughs right alongside me. I actually take pride in the story. At a time when Americans have a reputation for arrogance, my sister proved herself willing, to the point of absurdity, to do as the Romans.
_______________________
*I recently submitted this article to Austin Traveler Magazine in response to their call for entries on a Luggage theme.
The bus station was like any other. There was an area for greeting arrivals, a security checkpoint with a low-to-the-ground conveyor belt contraption and an x-ray machine for viewing luggage contents.
Like any good Texan, Tasha can roll her R’s if she really has to. But outside of locating a bathroom in Cozumel, she knows no Spanish. I explained that she should go through security to the lockers, store her bags and then we’d be set to tour the city sans luggage.
“Just go through security? Will they ask questions?” Tasha was uncertain.
“Just have your passport ready. If they say anything, tell them you only speak English. Just be polite. They’re very nice here.”
“OK.” And off she went.
I stood on the other side of a glass wall, about 25 feet away and watched her. Fashion-conscious and ever eager to do as the Romans, Tasha donned European attire: simple black pants, a v-neck t-shirt, and great shoes. A trendy wallet-as-purse hung diagonally across her midsection. Tasha is tiny and striking, barely five feet tall, and curvy enough to make any man look twice.
She immediately garnered the attention of an attendant who watched her closely, though not with an eye for security. She heaved her luggage onto the conveyer belt, inspected it, and waited for permission to proceed. He smiled at her flirtatiously.
“Please also remove your purse, young lady,” he said informally in Spanish. But to Tasha, it was extremely formal, if not official. She detected no hint of flirtation but heard a fast-forwarded rendition of “Por favor… blah blah blah bladdy blah bladdy blah blah blah.”
She grinned, oblivious. He repeated himself and added sign language.
“POR. FAVOR.
-- BLAH blah BLAH.
-- BLADDY blah.
-- BLADDY blah BLAH BLAH.”
He pointed at her body, rounded his arms in a swaying motion, then pointed back to the belt, indicating that she should remove her purse and put it on the belt.
The little purse - she had totally forgotten she was wearing it. It was an accessory more than a purse. It weighed nothing. It held little more than traveler’s checks and lipstick. Tasha looked at him as if he were insane.
She looked at me through the glass wall. In the split second that I held her gaze, I started to speak, but she looked away too quickly. I pointed at her purse, which was from her perspective, equivalent to pointing at her.
The attendant remained remarkably good-humored. He repeated himself again, still smiling, but was now more firm as a good line was starting to form behind Tasha.
He pointed with more intensity at her and tapped his own chest and midriff. Then he pretended to carry something invisible and put the invisible something onto the conveyor belt.
Tasha deliberated. The station had been empty when we arrived. There had been no one in front of her to demonstrate how these things were done.
She smiled an incredulous smile. Resolved at international diplomacy, she raised her eyebrows and lifted her shoulders in disbelief at what she was about to do.
Tasha lifted one foot to the edge of the conveyor belt and stepped onto the moving platform with the intention of balling herself up into a neat little American package and riding the bumpy conveyor belt toward the x-ray machine. She eyed the big metal box and wondered what would happen to her (and all that luggage) inside.
She would never find out. The attendant, fortunately an athletic man, leapt over to her side of the checkpoint and lifted her to safety.
He made no attempt to hide his laughter, nor did anyone in the station. Through unstoppable belly-laughs, he helped her off with her purse, looked inside it, returned it to her, and pushed her through to freedom, shaking his head and wiping the tears from his eyes as he did so.
Mayhem ensued. I could not see my sister through the crowd of people cackling. Dozens of strangers doubled over and laughed mercilessly. They actually pointed at her. Somehow in a matter of seconds, Tasha stowed her bags and appeared beside me red-faced. We left the station swiftly - both of us in tears, albeit for different reasons.
Now with the perspective of time, Tasha laughs right alongside me. I actually take pride in the story. At a time when Americans have a reputation for arrogance, my sister proved herself willing, to the point of absurdity, to do as the Romans.
_______________________
*I recently submitted this article to Austin Traveler Magazine in response to their call for entries on a Luggage theme.
Comments
Loved this one...
btw, not everyone from Texas can roll their Rs. Sigh.