I’ve found my own way of dealing with the slowness of tourists in London. Even though they maybe the last bastions of hope to Britain’s crumbling economy I will never see eye-to-eye with someone who’d want to take a photo of themselves next to a lamppost or a bin in central London. My mechanism of coping with such hideousness at rush hour is to swear, under my breath in Spanish. No one is any the wiser of my frustration and I feel I have done my bit
Unless they’re from a Spanish speaking country. In which case I pretend I am singing some reggaeton, or equally colourful Latin based sex-tune.
OK, so this doesn’t work in Mendoza. I have had to resort to swearing in English again. It started in Buenos Aires Aeroparque airport where I had to collect my 103kg of luggage from the Generation Game conveyor belt before checking back in. I had to queue behind case trolleys. TROLLEYS – not even people, presumably they’d nipped out for a quick mate or there was football on somewhere. Dropped a few ‘C’ bombs at this point and if anyone heard me I simply smiled at them. None the wiser.
Anyway, people say that us Brits love to queue. I hate it. I love theme parks – hate queuing, so I don’t go to theme parks. I don’t think my life is any less rich as a result. So, do we love queuing? No, we love tutting. And nothing promotes a percussion of tutting more than seeing the same neglected case wobbling along the conveyor slats. A case that has been casually bumping and revolving its way repeatedly in front of our eyes like a drunken catwalk model vying for our attention. And I do give it attention; even though it bears no resemblance to my case I check it on every rotation. And then tut.
Well, they all arrived in various formations. These cases look like they’d had one hell of a party. All strewn across the belt like fucked-up rock stars in an 80’s hotel room. The cling-wrap the only thing preventing them from vomiting my clothes across the Aeroparque floor. But I was a grateful roadie to this bad boy band baggage who had at least managed to stay in one piece and turn up at the same airport as me.
So I took my band of cases and followed signs to somewhere, then somewhere else. And then back again to find the correct check-in desk. And the bags were sent back onto another belt and off to San Juan. And it was there that the horrors the abandoned fairground carousel came back to haunt me… One plane, one terminal, one conveyor, 20 passengers… and endless bags that seemed to belong to no one.