Results tagged “airports”

The friendly skies

Luckily my chatter about my diminutive bag seemed to tickle the gate agent when I checked in at Heathrow. My first leg of the journey was London to Helsinki and then the second was Helsinki to Tokyo. I calculatingly threw on a pair of pearl earrings and deliberately didn't wear sneakers. Despite it being eight in the morning (early for the unemployed), I amped up the level of banter with the airline personnel, replete with quips and giggles. And the Finnish gods were smiling on me, because as I approached the gate, the agent said, "there's been a change to your ticket." My heart dropped because I had already managed--through sheer, unadulterated charm--to weasel my way into a really good seat.

You can't take that away from me, I thought, while knowing, of course, how easily they could. Because really, for today at least, that exit row seat was all I had. A ten hour flight begs for a bulkhead. But as I sadly relinquished my boarding pass, I saw the new seat number. 4D. Oh yes, I had gotten the coveted upgrade and have begun my backpacking trip in the front cabin drinking champagne and swaddling myself in cushiony duvets to try to sleep. Try, of course, because I was attempting to go to sleep at 6pm my time.

Two weeks ago I had a brilliant idea that I was going to avert jet lag by waking up 20 minutes earlier every day before I left, with the end goal of being up by 3am for the few days before I left. This would be another example of my attempts at self-improvement through unrelenting self-abuse. Obviously, the plan did not go as hoped, despite me programming my ipod to play Bobby Brown "My Perogative" at full volume in the early hours of the morn. The best I did was waking up at 4am. That night I fell asleep at 7:30pm, and is if to mock my attempt to violently wrest control of my own circadian rhythms, slept for 12 hours.

So despite the plush reclined seat, a couple of valium and some bubbly (only after the sushi, miso soup and soba noodles, of course), your valiant hero tossed and turned for hours before drifting off and dreaming of frequent flyer miles.

By Lina on October 15, 2009 4:53 PM

Differently-abled toilets

The highlight of my working day is when I walk down the hall to the toilets and see that the disabled toilet is vacant. The hall is long, and to the left is the regular ladies room--a room full of the sounds (and smells) of my colleagues evacuating. This bathroom, this stable of toilet stalls, mocks me, giggling at the fact that so long as I'm employed I will never, ever have a moment to myself, even when I'm taking a wizz.

So when I walk down that long hall, and look to the right and see that the little red light on the door to the disabled toilet isn't visible, and that I'm going to get to spend some time alone pissing in a room that's nearly as big as my entire flat, my heart jumps. Not seeing that red light is enough to buoy my mood right up to the point that I stop thinking of how appealing spree killing seems, which otherwise occupies a significant portion of my day. And yes, I do realize how depressing it is that the highlight of my career is the time I get to spend frolicking around a toilet meant for people with multiple sclerosis.

But yeah, I feel fondly towards these toilets for the disabled. So fondly, in fact, that I tried to crash one this morning around 6am at Heathrow. I was speedwalking, honing in on that sweet disabled action. I had nearly made it inside when some uppity immigrant completely cockblocked me and was like, "This is HANDICAPPED toilet."

I understand why people with really shitty jobs like to hold on for dear life to whatever inane scraps of control they can eke out of their meaningless, demeaning lives and are always telling me things like that I can't use the handicapped toilets. Like, I get that. You scrub airport toilets. Telling people off is pretty much all you have. But toilet-scrubber woman, can't you take one look into my empty, soulless eyes and realize that pissing in a handicapped toilet is all I have?

So I advanced. "C'mon. Let me in."

And she retreated. "It's handicapped. Handicapped toilet."

And I parried. "Those are just guidelines. You don't actually have to be handicapped to use it."

And she repeated. "Then why does it say handicapped?"

"It doesn't actually say handicapped, it just has a picture of a person with wheels. In fact, I don't think you're supposed to say handicapped, it's sort of offensive these days," I say snottily.

She waves at me with her filthy, diarrhea covered mop. "Out. Handicapped toilet. For handicapped."

"C'MON," I plead.

She has had it. She's waving the mop dangerously close to my person. "For handicap only! Are you handicapped? Are you?" She clearly hasn't considered my emotional health and can only see two thick, but able, legs.

"My vagina's broken. Want me to show you?" I say, tugging on the hem of my dress.

"I call security now." While we wait for them to arrive, I sodomize her with the mop.

By Lina on June 18, 2009 6:20 PM

¥20,000 ramen

My plans for this bank holiday weekend revolve entirely around ramen, although I may take a short break for udon. I've gotten three movies, Tampopo, The Ramen Girl, and Udon and bought a grip of pork ribs. I can't pretend that I don't hate white people that are obsessed with Japanese culture--everyone does, right? But I think being obsessed with Japanese food is acceptable. At least, I'm telling myself to get through the day.

Sushi was my favorite food as a kid, but apart from sushi, I never had any interest in Japanese food until I went to Tokyo last summer. I'm not going to bore you with the details, but I spent 10 days gorging myself. Then I missed my flight home--cried, stomped around the airport, ate a bowl of unagi and then went back to Tokyo and spent another day gorging myself. Heaven.

On my way out of town, before going back to Narita to wait stand-by for the next flight I stopped at a ramen shack. It was 5am and I couldn't resist one final bowl. Of course said bowl of ramen meant that I ended up missing the train and had to take a $200 cab ride to make it to the airport on time. Sort of puts that $20 ramen I posted about a few weeks ago to shame.

By Lina on May 24, 2009 1:44 AM

If you prefer the finer things in...$20 ramen

Every time I go to The Netherlands--which is pretty often at this point--I'm tempted to get this really expensive ramen in the airport on the way home. I mean, anytime I see ramen I'm tempted, but this place is particularly hard to ignore. The Amsterdam airport is pretty great by airport standards, except there are no seats. Other than the ones at the ramen shack. And I'm usually starving by the time I arrive. I like to think that it's the universe's way of telling me to eat more ramen.

I've given in twice now and although I'm horrified by the price, I'm also secretly delighted. Because I'm worth it.

By Lina on April 27, 2009 11:11 PM

Our saviour: a Mission burrito

I recently had a ten day trip to California. On the way to the airport, as we passed the last burrito truck that I was likely to see for the next six months, I pasted my face to the rear windshield and wept. There's just something about a two-pound (and I'm talking weight, not currency) burrito that makes me homesick in a way that nothing else can.

I took these pictures at El Tonayense in San Francisco's notorious Mission district. Back in the day, you could get a piping hot homemade tamale and a ballon of heroin from the same woman. She only kept one stored in her vagina, but I leave you to imagine which.

I visted my friend Liz in the Mission when I was in California. It certainly has changed. Maybe I've changed. I don't know. What I do know is that if I had walked around in the Mission with a big, expensive camera ten years ago, I wouldn't have a big, expensive camera to take pictures of burritos with anymore.

When I see a burrito, all swaddled up in aluminium foil, lying in its basket on a bed of chips, I often think of the baby Jesus in his manger.

So yeah, I know. Burrito joints with vegetarian options aren't "authentic." But this is San Francisco. Everyone's a veg these days, but they are missing out when it comes to burritos. My friend Duncan wrote something about trying to vegetarian and still eat burritos and I often think of it when I'm nearing the end of my burrito.

"And the grease pocket. The best part of a burrito is when you get down to the nub, where all the pork juice has filtered it's way down into the last bit of rice and beans and tortilla. Pure chewing satisfaction. Flavor country. Let's just say, when the water from the lettuce gets down there, it's not quite the same feeling, okay?"

When I lived in California, El Tonayense used to be one of my favorite burrito places. Then one time I found an entire piece of that wax paper that they put in the chip basket inside my burrito. I had eaten about half of the burrito when I got to the wax paper, which filled the rest of the thing out. It was pretty amazing to try and figure out how this fist-sized paper got in there. They offered me a new burrito, but who can eat more than one of those things? Since then, I'm happy to report, the only things in my burritos are the things that belong there.

By Lina on February 26, 2009 8:44 PM

Shylater, Dubs

I'm at the airport, 122 pounds of luggage safely checked, waiting to move to London. It's almost two years to the day that I first arrived in Dublin, and for all of the things that I've complained about, for all of the abuse that I've taken here for my exotic accent, I'm really going to miss this crazy old country, so.

By Lina on October 3, 2008 12:31 PM

Your comments are greatly appreciated

Your feedback is valued very highly in India. I know this because they ask for it a lot. After each meal, you're given a feedback form where you are expected to to rate a variety of factors. The other day, we went to an outdoor market/lake/rock formation/food court/local for destitute children to convene. Upon paying our entrance fee of 20 rupees, we were given a comment form to fill out as we traipsed through the market. Was the ticket taker courteous? Not courteous? was the food delicious? Not delicious? How did we feel about the ambiance? The lighting? Was the quality of merchandise superb? Or possibly good? Or average? Or was it bad?

You are given feedback forms everywhere you go, but it's actually in restaurants that they really do the hard sell. At my lunch yesterday, I didn't have a lot of time, so when they handed me the feedback survey, I just smiled vaguely. "Please, ma'am," the waiter said, shaking his head in a "we both know that it is necessary for you to fill out this form before you leave" sort of way. Once I paid, he refused to bring me my change until he saw me writing, which was a persuasive tactic.

So I filled out the form. Food, excellent. Service, excellent. Ambiance, good. I've heard that if you are too enthusiastic and mark everything excellent, you can have your feedback form returned to you and can be told that your feedback wasn't honest enough. It's a fine line, though. If you are too honest, the manager may come out and argue with you about the validity of your opinion. That dish, he might say, does not in the slightest resemble regurgitated mutton in either appearance or taste, in response to my comment "I prefer to be the first person to chew my lamb."

After I finally filled out the form in the hopes of getting my change, the waiter who had disappeared with it quickly returned and requested my "details." This is the information that most of the feedback forms request, in addition to your opinions: your full name, address, company that you work for, email address, mobile phone number, home phone number, work phone number, spouse's name, your birthday, your spouse's birthday and the date of your anniversary.

I had already learned the hard way, after a few too many Kingfishers, that giving the restaurant my email address results in a stilted and formally worded email thanking me for my patronage and hoping that I might consider having them cater any potential nuptials that I might be engaging in at any time in the future. My feedback, they tell me, "of great importance to us for improving our standards to serve you better." They wish me "warm culinary regards" before signing off.

"I don't want to leave my details," I explain.

"Please, ma'am." It's that same tone, the "we both know you must do this" tone. "You must at least give your name," he says, "my manager will be requiring this at the minimum."

I give my name, and thank the stars that I hadn't been on one of my feedback binges. At first, I found the forms supremely annoying, until I realized that this may be the first time in the history of the universe that anyone has actually showed any interest in my opinion on anything. Since then, I've been going to town on the feedback forms. At the outdoor market: did I feel that the ticket taker was courteous or not courteous? I put a check mark in the middle, and write "I would have appreciated a larger smile." I draw a smiley face as an example. How did I like the food? "I did not eat food here today, but your reputation for delicious snacks is well known." The landscaping? "Exquisite."

At the spa, they ask for your feedback. At the hotel checkout they ask for your feedback. At department stores they ask for your feedback. And although there are opportunities to make your feelings known in other countries, never are they quite so intense and enthusiastic about it. At the airport, there are kiosks that ask for your opinions. Even more surprisingly, I see people actually using them, typing in one character at a time on the touch screens as they wait for their 3am flights (which India has a lot of) eager to make their opinions heard.

By Lina on August 24, 2008 8:43 PM

White man's burden

In India, there are a lot of people with nothing to do. They tend to hire ten people to do the job that other societies expect one to do. This leads to a lot of interesting behavior. For example, there are a lot of people standing around. Also, sitting around. Because work has been divided so thoroughly, average people believe themselves incapable of doing what I would consider an normal amount of work at a reasonable pace. People who stand around on the job don't try and hide it the way they would in other countries. In other countries, when one has a job that is essentially doing nothing, one ends up exerting just as much energy trying to appear busy as one would working. In India, they don't bother.

At the conference I was at, there was a woman whose job it was to stand outside of a door next to a sign that said "Silence Please." This is all she did, all week. For forty hours a week, the woman stands next to a sign that says "Silence Please." But when passerbys ignored the signs and were talking so loudly that it was interfering with the conference, attendees had to go out of the presentation to the "Silence Please" sign outside the door and shush them. The woman standing next to the sign hadn't shushed them herself because that wasn't her job. Her job is just to stand there.

There are generally four people lounging in the six by eight foot break rooms "keeping then well stocked" at any given time, and when I walk past some of the unused meeting rooms I'll see a glitter in the darkness, the eyes of the cleaning people standing in the darkened rooms doing nothing. There are also people whose job it is to stand in the bathrooms. This is different than the people you may have seen in nightclubs elsewhere--the "blacks in the jacks" phenomenon--as they aren't standing there hoping for a tip, they are just standing there for the sheer love of being employed. In one bathroom I frequented, there was a woman who stands there all day and whose only job I could determine was to jump into each stall as soon as people had exited and to fold the top sheet of toilet paper into a triangle like in a hotel room. At the airport, there was a woman standing in the bathroom to hand me a paper towel. At the airport. And seriously, they don't even get tips--they are just trying to justify their employment, which is difficult, when six or seven people might be hired on any given shift to keep a single restroom clean.

You are not allowed to serve yourself anything at mealtime. Waiters must leave the dishes on the table, and then each time you have taken two bites, they come back to your table and heap two more bites worth back onto your plate. At any one time, there can be three or four people attempting to serve your table. This is especially exciting because most restaurants in this city seem to have themes of varying degrees and force their waitstaff to wear ridiculous costumes, many of which harken back to the days of British colonialism. It's actually rather stressful if they leave for too long, though. If you dare to pour yourself a glass of water--which you will need because the spice levels will abuse even a rather strong palate--this can cause a major uproar. If they see any movement of an arm stretching or something other than fork to mouth, three or four of them run back to the table as if you've just personally insulted them by pouring your own water. They make up for it by being even more insistently gracious and overbearing for the rest of the meal.

Today at the place I was having lunch, I was getting sort of irritated because I had asked for my check a few minutes earlier and it hadn't arrived yet. I had my driver--and yes, every Westerner in India has a driver, it seems--waiting for me downstairs and I didn't want to be rude. I counted 12 employees in my direct line of sight doing nothing while I waited. Seriously, it was actually 12, I'm not exaggerating. What could be the opportunity for insane levels of efficiency quite simply isn't. India is one of, if not the, most inefficient place I have ever been.

Whenever one asks a question, the response is generally a head bobble. It's sort of like a head shake, but going side to side. It most closely resembles one of the bobblehead dolls. The head bobble is an interesting and contagious way of saying "yes, no, or maybe." On occasion, I think it means "go fuck yourself." However, it's unclear as to the actual meaning because although it is the response to most questions, it is not usually backed up with any sort of concrete language.

Shopping in India, is sort of one of the worst things you can imagine. A great number of stores and shops are bargain-only sort of places. Because the general population sees all Westerners as walking wallets, they often quote prices three times what they are hoping to get, and then force you to argue your way down to a reasonable price, which usually takes at least 30 minutes. Since I spend most of my day arguing anyway, I do not relish doing it in my off-time. "Please, ma'am," they say beseechingly when I offer them a more reasonable price, although still within the range of allowing myself to get completely fleeced. I like to think that my job is to get them to lower the price by a few pennies so that I can feel that I've at least attempted and their job is to screw me over as much as possible. I got a spoon down from 110 rupees to 100, and I felt we had both succeeded.

When you walk into other stores that are fixed price, you generally have at least two men following you within 12 inches of your person. As someone who has serious boundaries issues, I found this excruciating. My only source of amusement was to stop short, or turn around quickly, so they'd run into each other or me, or have to take a quick 180 while still trying to seem casual. "Ma'am? Are you looking to do some shopping today?" I'm walking into a store, so yeah, duh. "Ma'am?" I also especially liked when these mustachioed young men insisted on pulling clothes from the racks to help suggest items I might like. "Ma'am? Very beautiful, 100% silk sari, very classic, very trending, large sizes, ma'am." Even in the airport, when I had a few thousand rupees in cash that I was desperate to get rid of, I wasn't able to spend it due to all of the overwhelming assistance.

In India, you must sign forms to show that you have signed other forms. You must have a special tag stamped and scanned for your purse to walk into the airport. I have had my boarding pass checked by at least eight attendants so far, and it's been stamped by three of them. What this is meant to prevent or ensure, I haven't a clue. Some attendants just like to look at the your boarding pass to see the stamps, but they don't do anything if the stamps are or aren't there. Their job is just to look.

You must have the wheel wells of your car checked with mirrors before you can drive into any number of areas, despite the fact that they don't check the insides of the cars.They are very enthusiastic about metal detectors in India. After one disembarks at the airports in India, you must go through a metal detector before being allowed to collect your baggage. This is India's way of saying that the screening done at whichever airport you started out at wasn't sufficient to meet India's high security standards. Once you have your luggage screened by a man that is actually facing away from the screen that shows the innards of your baggage, you go through the metal detector, which almost always beeps, and they let you though without saying a word. So the lines to deboard a plane are backed up by hundreds of sweaty people waiting to fail a metal detector test.

The malls and many stores also have metal detectors and to enter the airport, even if you've passed through the metal detector without incident, you still have to be given a pat-down in a special enclosed room by a woman in an official looking sari while another woman watches and while a man examines the tag that a man ten feet away put on my hand baggage. These tasks do not prevent crime, I suspect, but they do keep a large number of people employed. Which is good, I guess, because there are a lot of people around here.

By Lina on August 24, 2008 8:10 AM

On to India

One of my friends lived in India for six months. I thought about doing the same, but when I asked her if she thought I would like it, she burst into explosive laughter. Kerrie is a very sincere sort of girl, not the type to cruelly make fun or laugh at a person. "Why are you laughing?" I asked.

"It's just," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, "I can't imagine a person who would hate India more than you."

I'm interested to see how this trip pans out because I've not been particularly looking forward to my trip to India. I'm glad to get it out of the way because I think to be the sort of asshole I want to be in life, I have to have a large stack of Lonely Planets casually piled somewhere highly visible and to be able to drop references to 'my time in India' in irksome Berkeley cocktail parties. This necessitates some time in India, and I've decided to start with a week-long business trip.

If I had to stereotype--and god knows I don't have to, I just love to--I sort of like Indian women. Although it drives me berserk, I like the way they stare at me--it's so bold. I don't like the way their husbands stare at me, though. Their husbands, in fact, disgust me. I hate everything about their look. Their beer guts (or are they dal guts?), their mustaches, their hair that is too long and parted so intensely that the back is always out of place in a way that brings out my maternal urge to fix it while at the same time making me hate them for not taking care of themselves, their sandals, their young wives. But most of all, it's the stare. The stare is at once lascivious and condescending and freaks me out most considerably. I sort of feel this way about all men between the ages of 40 to 60, but the thing about Indian men is that they act and appear to be between the ages of 40 to 60 from about the age of 9 until 90. I'm fine with the very old and the very young of India.

However, I've been told that things like the stare are just a cultural difference. Cultural differences are things one needs to accept. In the leadup to this trip, I've tried very hard to not focus on things, or stereotypes, if you will, that irritate me. I want to be the sort of person that could bring up the possibility of going to India for six months without having anyone laugh.

But then I attempted to get an Indian visa. This took a few weeks, two hundred and three euro and three trips to the Indian Embassy. The Indian Embassy in Dublin is much like the disused teacher's lounge of an Indian elementary school. There's mismatched furniture, piles of Indian picture books, pamphlets on Indian teas and bulletin boards with aged notices about things long past. The Indian Embassy in Dublin is mostly empty when I visit.

They have a filing system that is interesting--it doesn't involve computers as you might expect, but consists of giant manila envelopes at least three feet long, each with a year written on them, piled on top of a bookshelf. I don't really understand why it is is so difficult and expensive to get a visa for India.

Most countries I don't have to get a visa for, or can get one issued upon arrival. Most countries are grateful to have me come spend money on worthless knickknacks, overpriced drinks and on duty free goods. Some countries, such as Turkey, wish they didn't need my money, so they let me get a visa at the airport but make me pay for it as a small sort of fuck you on arrival. The visa stamp even has the price printed on it, an entrance fee into the country. But Turkey only charged me fifteen euro on my last two visits which is a far cry from the two hundred and three euro that India demanded of me. I wasn't even allowed to pay in any normal fashion but had to get a postal money order as if India were some decrepit eBay seller that was unable to accept credit cards or other standard forms of currency.

India, I think, should be grateful to have me. We have a lot in common, me and India. We were both colonized the the same dickheads, right? We both still struggle with trying to stop ourselves from loving those dickheads and realizing that it's not really possible. We both speak English with slightly ridiculous accents. We both constantly struggle with disaster. We both love fancy words. But India is not grateful to have me, and instead wants to test my dedication to setting foot on its soil. My friend Pam planned a trip to India not long ago and was refused at the airport because, not knowing, she hadn't gotten a visa in advance. She was clearly not dedicated enough.

The first time I went to the embassy they told me to come back in 10 days. In the meantime, I got a typhoid shot and a lecture on cultural sensitivity. Two weeks later, I went back. "Leave your passport," they told me, "and come back tomorrow." I do not want to leave my passport in a place that considers manila envelopes an adequate means of organization. As an expat, one learns to hold onto their passport rather tightly, as losing it means being stranded in a foreign country and a lot of unpleasantness at the American Embassy.

But what can you say in the Indian Embassy after all? "No, sorry, you've given the impression of a complete lack of competence and no I will not leave my passport here."? Of course not. I hand over my passport, stomach in knots and after a surprisingly restful night, return to the embassy the next day.

"Who?" Shuffling of paper but giving no appearance of finding any particularly relevant paper or related paper. "Come back tomorrow." I cannot, I declare, come back tomorrow. I have a cab waiting for me outside. I'm heading for Cork that evening, which is a foreign country by all accounts, and I didn't want to leave my passport into this documents graveyeard for a weekend. This is my third trip to the Indian Embassy. I was told yesterday that it would be ready today. The man behind the desk gives me a condescending look as if all of this was somehow my fault.

"By whom?" a woman next to the desk asks. I begin to describe the woman that I had spoken to the day before, and then notice the woman in question trying to hide behind a manila envelope.

"Her," I declare. The woman, who was next to the desk and who is now at the desk since the condescending man wandered off after realizing that my case was not important enough to deal with, shoots the woman behind the envelope a death stare, and tells me to sit down and wait. I do, mindful of the taxi driver waiting for me outside, which I now realize was a bad idea.

Finally, I am handed my passport which now has a sticker with my details hand written in it. This is what I paid two hundred and three euro and waited nearly three weeks for. This hand-written sticker is not a tracking mechanism for some sort of larger immigration policy as I would expect, but is really just a little bit of a "You think you're so superior? Pony up and hold your horses. We're in charge now."

By Lina on August 19, 2008 9:36 AM

Crossing the Atlantic

I am far too highly strung. I know this. I seem unable, though, to stop this. I'm writing this on a 777 airplane that is on its way from London to New York. Next to me, is a hirsute and turbaned Indian man whose hirsuteness and turnbandness have not yet impacted me in any meaningful way. The brown corduroy jacket that he is wearing, however, is keeping me in such a state of tension that I'm nearly unable to breathe. It started out just covering the arm rest that we share, and is now actually partially draped on my leg. It's bumping against my pillow which brings up questions of sanitation, and the fact that this fellow keeps asking me advice on how to fill out his Department of Homeland Security forms isn't calming me down.

I tried to be wily--I opened the tray table that is stored in the arm rest and feigned an inspection of it. This forced him to move the fabric he's so intent on draping over me for a moment. Once it was safely tucked on his side, I ended the inspection and closed the arm rest up again. He looked at me quizzically and asked if I needed the tray table out. "No, just you know, checking it out," I said weakly. Within minutes he had managed to again assault my boundaries and cover me with brown corduroy. All joking aside, I'm actually about to freak out. I have a very low tolerance for these sorts of thing. I've been violently scrunching my toes and making tearful faces as a way to try to calm myself down, and it's not working. I took out my laptop entirely for an excuse to open the arm rest up again as a way to push him back into his designated area.

He started talking to me before the plane even took off, which is a really bad sign. Worse still, he appears to have brought no forms of entertainment. Nary a magazine, ipod or sudoku was to be seen, and thus far he's spent the entire journey infringing on my personal space, shodding and unshodding himself and releasing well timed blasts of foot odor, twiddling his thumbs at amazing speeds and strained his eyes trying to read this as I write. I can't begin to understand how someone could get on a trans-Atlantic flight without a book. Or something. This may be why he's spent the first hour of this journey quizzing me on whether Ireland was part of the UK and if they spoke English there. He should be watching Bridget Jones inflight. I don't like the possibility that I may be the only form of entertainment he has. After his first attempt at conversation, I imagined what would happen if the flight started to go down.

He would try and embrace me, so we could clutch each other in terror and confess out secrets and comfort each other in our dying minutes. Perhaps even talk each other into believing that we would be okay, that we weren't going to plunge into the Atlantic. But, no, I decided, I wouldn't allow it, I decided. "I'm sorry," I'd say. "I have boundary issues. Please don't touch me." This is actually a line I have used more than once at parties. I'd then plug in my ipod, in order to block out his terrified chatter and blankly look at the window until he turned to someone else for solace. Which is what he's appeared to do now. A moment ago, he jumped up and went to the woman in the aisle who has a middle seat next to her open. Words were exchanged, and now mysteriously, he's seated and chatting away with her.

The travel today has not been nice. I arrived at the airport at 8:30 am for a 10:30 am flight. I had stayed up all night as a means to combat jetlag; it would allow me to sleep for the entire flight When I finally checked in after ducking a 90 minute line due to my elite "gold" status, I was told that the flight would be delayed by 4 hours, I would miss my connecting flight and although I could make it into New York only 7 or 8 hours late, if I wanted to get to the airport I needed to go to, it would take at least until tomorrow. I stood there, dumbfounded. "I'm meeting my parents at JFK seven, though. They are flying in from California." She looked at me stonily.

We stared at each other for a while, and finally she said, "So do you want to arrive at Newark at 11pm or LaGuardia at midnight?"

And so, I wept.

I was hustled to customer service where I continued to weep. "I've been getting complaints from everyone who was on this fight. This flight is not my fault. I didn't do it," the agent explained.

I wept.

I was supposed to go to New York last week, but my friend Mark was stabbed to death a few days before my departure. I changed my flight to attend his funeral.

I continued to weep, and when it became clear that there was no abatement in sight, nor would my body mass be condusive to physically removing me, they decided to change my flight something a bit more reasonable. To an amateur, this seems like negative reinforcement. I've just, once again, proven that wailing is more likely to help me get my way than not. After taking psych 101, though, I know that this is actually positive reinforcement, and I'm feeling rather chipper about it, brown corduroy and all.

By Lina on August 17, 2007 12:26 PM

Fair play to your man...follow up

A few posts ago, I wrote about "fair play" and "your man." I know that no one reading shutitdown will find this as thrilling as I do, but the country of Ireland is currently running ads to encourage energy efficiency that use both of these phrases. If you don't live here, you really should watch this thirty second ad. It airs all the time in between the American sitcoms I watch for their comfort value, and every time it comes on I giggle uncontrollably. Watch it, seriously.

Power of One - appliance purchase ad

In the same post I was writing about slang here that I don't understand. I couldn't think of much while I was writing it, though. I was sitting in the Glasgow airport this weekend with some Irish friends (last week I found myself in three countries, oddly) when I heard something that tickled my fancy--much better than the examples I put here previously. One of the guys was telling a story that began "That fooking eejit was going to the jacks for a slash, but it was jammers, so he..." The story ended with a bathroom covered in blood, and the eejit being slapped across the face with a five Euro note.

By Lina on May 6, 2007 7:24 PM

On being an immigrant

After spending 4.5 hours at the immigration office yesterday, I guess I'm officially here. On one hand it feels like no big deal--I was in Dublin for nearly four months not too long ago. But on the other hand, it's terrifying. Sometimes while staring blankly at my screen I think "what the eff am I doing?" But then I remind myself that even if I have a miserable time, this is good for me--this is what I wanted.

Right now I'm on a plane headed to London, thus continuing my habit of only updating this site when I'm in transit. I resisted my urge to eat a full dinner at the airport, but it seems that I was the only one. Most of my fellow travelers were eating a full Irish breakfast--sausage, ham, eggs, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, beans, white pudding and of course, blood pudding. I always assumed that Irish people don't actually eat these heart attacks on plates, it must be a tourist thing. But no, they really do eat this stuff and drink Guinness constantly.

I like the way the Irish say my name. Every time someone with a strong accent says "Lina," I get a little thrill. When I was here before, I resisted picking up any of the Irish lingo. But already, after two weeks, I've found myself saying "fair play," which is one of their favorites. The Irish are concerned with fairness, it seems. "Fair play to you," is a way to show acceptance for someone's actions. Often people end their stories with "in fairness." "In fairness," they say, "he did give it his best."

"Your man" is another one that they use frequently. This is the Irish equivalent of "that dude." Say you see a guy walking by in leather chaps. The Irish would say something like, "your man over there is looking good today." The first time I heard a statement like this I squealed indignantly "he's not my man!" I got only bewildered looks.

They don't say thank you, it's "thanks a million," or even better, "thanks a mill." They don't cut out of a party early, they "leg it." One of my new friends is from Cork, and his accent is so unintelligible to me that my side of the conversation consists mainly of "excuse me" and "what?" His use of language, though, is thrilling. Even when I understand the words he is saying, I have no idea what they mean, or even if I do, the context is so strange that the original meaning has vanished. Langer, gaff, odd, locked and most often, fucked. For fook's sake.

By Lina on April 24, 2007 9:52 AM

Delays

Lina: im at LAX
Lina: delayed two hours
Lina: but
Lina: who is going to be an ex-pat by tomorrow?
Max: when you leave it will be ex-LAX

I think it's noteworthy that 50% of my recent posts have been written in airports. LAX has now joined my most-hated airports--until now, experiencing only their domestic-terminal ambiance I had only considered them neutral. And now, here I am, stuck in yet another airport for yet another delay. This has given me the opportunity to spend a lot of time chatting and to consider my position as an almost ex-pat. Fucking weird, is all I can say.

Due to being given a really sweet relocation package, a team of movers were sent to my humble 500-square foot apartment, and instructed (not by me) to pack the whole thing up. This was an elite company, used to moving billionaires into their Silicon Valley uber-mansions, not grubby Oaklanders like myself. Out of embarrassment, I had already packed (or thrown out) most of my things. However, due to some sort of exciting insurance issue, the movers were forced to unpack all of my boxes, and then re-pack them. They clearly did not want me present for this procedure, but due to my overbearing way, I couldn't force myself out of the room. I watched for a while, and then seeing the movers bubble-wrapped a box of my tampons, I finally allowed myself--cloaked in shame--outside for a cigarette. Finally, they were done and as they piled my boxes next to the truck, I became filled with terror.

In total, there were 23 boxes, one of which was larger than those some homeless people live in. In addition to this, I've brought nearly 180 pounds of luggage (what's that in kilos?) and am having my tennis racket and 15 pairs of shoes air-shipped to me. Honestly, if I think about how much stuff I have brought with me, I become physically ill. But my plane is boarding in twenty minutes, and when I disembark, I will be a Dubliner, at least for a while. With the amount of garbage I've insisted on bringing with me, it's probably going to have to be a long while. Wish me luck.

By Lina on April 4, 2007 5:20 PM

A visit to the Bible Belt

Right now I am in an airport that has seats that are approximately two and a half feet wide. This is, I think, meant to accommodate fat people. This is, I think, because I am in Mississippi.

In a 48 time period, I'm getting to vist 4 more airports. My favorite so far is Dallas and my least favorite is Jackson. Jackson doesn't have wireless, which is why I am writing this instead of working. There's a Business Center at one end of the terminal; I went to it hopefully, praying for an internet connection. Instead I was confronted with two desks, on top of which sat two cream-colored rotary phones. The only business I could think to conduct was low-level drug deals, so I decided instead to go sulk on a very roomy seat. My first flight is now delayed 2 hours, meaning I will again be traveling for a minimum of 12 hours. I did the same thing yesterday.

My only consolation in Mississippi has been the food. (Clearly, based on the size of my ass, this is my consolation for most things.) I've had fried chicken drenched in a honey glaze, fried green tomatoes with crawfish, blackened green beans, red skin mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, crawfish eggrolls and a bananas foster bread pudding. My bag is filled with praline pecans, of both the standard and whiskey drenched variety. My lunch today was with a few locals that I was meeting for work-related reasons. As our food was arriving, one asked, "Do you mind if I bless our food?" I was struck dumb, and one of my co-workers quickly replied "we don't mind at all." I was forced to bow my head and give thanks for my lunch. Luckily, it was a lunch to be thankful for, as it consisted of a blue plate special with chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, butter beans and cornbread. Blessing things is kind of what Mississippi is like.

This was the Bible Belt. Churches dotted the landscape: Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian. Along the side of the road people dressed in loudly striped pants and wearing shirts that proclaimed "CONVICT" picked up bits of garbage. For some reason, it's only in very religious locals that chain gangs seem like a good idea. Large signs proclaiming statements about 'The Lord' hung proudly in places of business and quickly began to make me uncomfortable.

One of my co-workers who was with me said "half-Jew? You've got it easy. At least you aren't brown." I realized he had a point as I watched him get searched at the security checkpoint at each leg of our trip.

When they finally told us that our flight out of Jackson to Dallas might be cancelled, we scrambled for flights out of Mississippi. We ran to the ticket counter, trying to beat the rush of people that were sure to follow once they heard the news. We asked to go anywhere--any major city that might allow us to get back to California. The only response we got was "Lafayette? Want to go to Lafayette?" We finally realized we weren't going anywhere unless through Dallas and worried that we'd have to spend another night there.

As we sat dejectedly at the (one) airport bar, I remembered the source of entertainment and and fried delicacies that I had seen at each major intersection in Mississippi. Finally, as my co-worker tapped furiously on his Blackberry and finished another Jack Daniels and Coke, I suggested "let's just call it a wash and go to Hooter's." And so closed my first trip to the Deep South.

By Lina on March 13, 2007 2:33 PM

Airports and my life

Airports are funny places--the normal rules that apply to one's life seem to be discarded the moment one enters the airport. 10 days ago, I found myself eating tempura udon at 8 am at SFO. I wasn't the only one, though. I was surrounded by seemingly normal looking people eating triple-decker burgers and refrigerated sushi platters at a time that most of us would be warily eyeing a coffee. A full meal before a flight, no matter what the length, seems perfectly justified. At any other time fast food tempura udon would not be acceptable, but in the airport, it's breakfast.

I've been spending a lot of time in airports lately. I know which ones I hate (Charles De Galle makes me want to tear my eyes out, Heathrow's 2 mile walks between terminals, shopping mall and depressing food choices have added it to the list) and which I like, (Zurich has got to have the cleanest airport I've ever seem in my life, and both Munich and Hamburg were so orderly! so effecient!).

I was looking through my passport today while filling out another customs form, and started to finally realize that I'm getting the life I had wanted for so long. In my early twenties, my inability to travel had me sobbing in fetal position more times than I could count. I resented my parents for getting to travel and live abroad without having to actually work to get there. I resented them for their refusal to give me the same opportunities that were handed to them on a silver platter. I'm not going to lie, I still resent the hell out of them for this. But I'm really freaking proud of myself for creating these opportunities for myself, without anyone's help. In the last two-and-a-half years, I've gotten 27 stamps in my passport.

In the last year or so, I've been to Spain, Italy, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Turkey and the Czech Republic. And save for the trip to Rome that nearly destroyed my life and psyche, I did all of it on my own. I got to live in Ireland for nearly four months with an expense account, and my teeth are like gleaming Chickets lodged in my gums. I've been granted a work permit to the UK, and I have one for Ireland pending. If all goes well, I hope to move to Dublin permanently in March.

The Polack and I have titled, and I am now officially be introduced as "the girlfriend." This is terrifying, but at the same time I feel optimistic (the self-help books must be working!). At least, it gives me hope that I can successfully date men that are freaking hot even if this one doesn't work out. My last run-in with a real hottie was approximately six years ago--a male model who shouted "I'm married" during an intimate moment that quickly became a me-running-out-the-door moment.

I was at a party with the Polack on Friday night and two separate girls pulled me aside to tell me how hot he is, how lucky I am. One of them used the term 'gorgeous' which in Irish-speak can mean either incredibly attractive or just generally wonderful. Another also tried to physically molest him in my presence, which I was less thrilled about. The whole thing is just so weird, still. I'm so happy about it, about him, but that's usually how I feel just before some emotionally manipulative egomaniac stomps on my heart. So I'm trying to relax and think about all of the horrible things that may happen to me in the future as little as possible.

As part of my attempt to chill out, I'm currently flying from Dublin to New York where I will spend a week (and my birthday!) before going back to California. I plan to engage in any number of decadent activities, most of them food-related and all bound to be incredibly gratifying.

By Lina on February 26, 2007 11:52 AM

Tolerance, and lack thereof

This week I went on another business trip, or 'getting my grown woman on,' as I like to think of it. I find myself laughing hysterically at inappropriate times, thinking, "What am I doing here?" My business card holder is an empty pack of Orbit gum; it fits them perfectly. My grown woman routine isn't perfect, however. This trip I managed to lose the only black blazer that I liked and later, my car in the car park at the airport.

Aimlessly wandering around the miles long parking lot in business attire and heels while being pounded by the blazing California sun makes one, even a grown woman, reflect. Being Lina, my mind drifts to the ghosts of boyfriends past. I'm not sure what it was about the situation, perhaps the large amounts of dust I was inhaling had some sort of psychotropic effect or maybe I was just so enraged with myself for losing the car that I had to take it out on someone, if only the men of the world.

So many of the boys I go out with read this site--I've often speculated that my only readers are family members and dating victims that aren't on speaking terms with me--that I often don't include what should, and would, be my best material. Of course this leaves me feeling oppressed and with a deep sense of frustration. Why shouldn't I write about the painfully awkward things these boys do? What, really, do I owe them?

I'm not talking about anything big. The things that bother me most about the men that I date are the tiny, painful instances of awkwardness that make me release a grimace of a smile, like a dog baring its teeth, in my attempts not to openly cringe. I usually close my eye for a second and try to compose myself. I open them again, stare blankly ahead, and adopt a fake smile as quickly as possible. I can't say anything, after all; I'm too critical. Seriously stupid behavior doesn't bother me as much as these small acts of pretension gone awry that make my skin prickle and my fists clench.

Recently, I went on a date to see the newest Lindsey Lohan movie. The movie is about how this girl has good luck and some dude has bad luck and when they make out, they trade and their luck switches. Typical teen fare. I hadn't yet formed any strong feelings about the fellow sitting next to me until he started making grunts of derision at the film. "That would so never happen," he declared in a loud whisper more than one. "That's not realistic," he claimed while Lindsay frantically tried to reclaim her good luck. It was so painful as to be unbearable. Of course it was unrealistic, it was an effing Lindsay Lohan movie for gods sake. Finally, I leaned over and hissed, "Suspend your fucking disbelief, could you?"

My tolerance for pretension of any kind is shockingly low. Art is often a catalyst. I've never been so embarrassed as to hear these boys that I generally (or at least sometimes) respect talk about art, especially their own. I used to have a boyfriend who was as pretentious as he was low-class. He bought an expensive camera and began taking pictures, mainly of his friends, which I approved of, and of his shoes, artfully formed rocks, and people's eyelashes, which I did not. He bought an expensive journal cum photo album and began pasting his more creative works in it. He then cut letters out of the metrosexual magazines he subscribed to and embossed the cover of his album, in the style of a ransom note, with the words, 'Fuck you it's art!'

My reaction was visceral. I vomited a small amount into my mouth, swallowed it again, and closed my eyes. A moment later I opened them, flashed some teeth and artificial smile and said, "Good idea. Can we go out to dinner now?"

By Lina on June 23, 2006 10:54 AM

Perspectives

One time when I was visiting California from New York, I stayed up all night and then went to the airport at 5 am, planning to sleep on the plane. But I got stuck between a fat man and a stinky old person, and was unable to sleep on the plane. So by the time I arrived, I had been awake for more than 24 hours. Of course my father was unwilling to take me directly home because he might miss out on a chance to buy food in bulk, which is something he is loathe to do. So off we went to CostCo (a warehouse-type store), exhausted though I was.

My father dragged me through the place for 45 minutes. As we were checking out, I saw a man, a midget or a dwarf, carrying a can of Heineken that was at least a foot tall. I did a double-take. Then a triple-take. Was this an acid flashback? A cruel joke? I fled the store in terror and cowered outside until my father finished his shopping. In a bitter twist of fate, I had to go directly from CostCo to the DMV to get a new driver's license. Forever after the look of fear on my face was imortalized on my ID.

I was reminded of the incident because I started school today. (Oddly enough, school started yesterday and I forgot to go. So I started today instead.) In my novel-writing class is a girl who was in one of my classes last semester. I really like her, she's a nice girl a fine writer, but I spent the entire last semester worrying that perhaps I was losing my mind and up was down, black was white and the world was not as it seemed. Why, you ask? Because she has the most enormous breasts I have ever seen, and tends to wear t-shirts with tiny "baby" pockets on them. The pockets are about an inch and half across and seem to distort my view of her breasts, and the world as a whole.

By Lina on January 21, 2004 11:15 PM

i'm back!

I'm back! I bet you missed me! ;P
I just got back from the airport and now I am going to to bed so I can wake up in two hours and go to school all day. woo hoo!!!

By Lina on April 22, 2002 8:40 AM

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