Yet another airport

Fifteen minutes ago I was curious. What is a bocadillo? What does Iberian ham taste like? Now I feel like Obelix as a food critic (remember the exchange with Cleopatra’s taster?). Because the answer to the second question is, salty. As for the first, a bocadillo is evidently a sandwich in something like a small baguette. Not quite so crusty. Toasted and buttered, which is very welcome, but still a trifle rugged. Even when filled with Iberian (salty, OK?) ham and melted Brie.

Half past seven in the morning, dawn breaking through the glass walls, aeroplanes squatting on the tarmac like elongated chickens – any moment one of them will shake itself, fluff out its tail and emit a huge chuk-chuk-churr-oo-ook – the terminal warm and colourful like an indoor plaza. Smells of coffee and fresh bakes register somewhere in my lower brain, and my stomach lets out a low contemplative growl. Tell me, my good man, where is this lounge of which we hear so much?

A flood of totally incomprehensible Catalan follows, accompanied by seven finger waves, a shrug, a full arm point and two (consecutive) raised eyebrows. I stem the outpourings with a hurried ‘Gracias’ and back off warily. Have to find the damn thing myself. And I do. Which doesn’t help at all at all, because a vinegar-faced girl all but shoos me away for not having a privilege card. Excuse me, kiddo? I mean, what?! You expect all passengers through Barcelona to apply, WORLDwide, for a privilege card to this lounge that looks like the lobby of a budget hotel at 3 in the morning? Tell you what, senora, you give me back my boarding pass and I’ll go find a coffee somewhere more cheerful. Meantime, you have a nice vinegar-and-horse-piss, it might improve your attitude. Buenos dias, have a nice day, remember to shut the coffin lid when you take a nap.

Which is how I arrive at the Caffe di Fiore and the Iberian ham bocadillo. Table service only and they obviously have a height requirement for the waitresses. The biggest one could just about eyeball my second shirt button, and I’m not a tall man. Small neat packages they are, though. Black hair, black eyes and black uniforms filled just right. But they serve me a cappuccino gone cold and I have to ask for a fresh hot cuppa. Bad poodles! You shall not get your walkies unless you behave!

A Spanish couple and their two daughters take the table next to me. The husband is an ash blonde version of Cary Grant. The wife and daughters, sadly enough, all look like Sammy Davis Jr. So much for Brief Encounter 2008.

Four airports so far in the last seven days, two more to go. India has uniformity in uniform. The rules are the same in all the airports. Europe seems to revel in unpredictability. At Heathrow, they let me keep my belt on but I had to take my shoes off. Here in Barca it’s the other way round. As for ‘Any liquids’, I had wised up and put even the tiny travel bot of Klein (Eternity, yes I know some of you like to know these things even when it’s not Clooney, not that you can tell us apart in a poor light, oh you can? Did I ASK you, right where were we … ?) inside my suitcase. Which apparently weighs TWENTY-NINE kilos. Agh. That’s what comes of buying Moscatell on the cheap!

Idea – I should take up ethnography. Sociology. Whatever. Do a PhD on inter-cultural and intra-cultural differences as evidenced in airport security and tourist information offices. Important and useful, innit? If I can swing funding for it I’m set for a few years – travel and write and get paid for it.

Except that it would mean too many weeks and months away from a Very Small Person. Who has just asked on the phone, ‘Papa, WHEN will you come home?’ On my way, on my way, give me a day or two!

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Nasty old man at airport

Very cool – the gent behind me in the check-in line. Shaven head (but two-day stubble) and choti, anorak over mundu. So comfortable with who he is. Platinum-plated watch discreetly hidden, peeking out only when he lifts his cell-phone to his ear. And speaks confidently but not stridently about “two lines being enough in the Supreme Court”.

Uncool – comb-overs. And Rayban Aviators worn in determined fashion inside a neon-lit terminal.

Also uncool – buckles on shoes, even if the rest of her outfit is neat.

Sad truth – you may pick the shortest check-in line, even factor in trolleys with checked baggage, but there will always be SOMEbody ahead of you whose ticket has Complications. That take (on an average) 23’ 15” to sort out before he can be checked in. While the other queues move, shorten, dwindle in the distance.

Sadder realization – a pretty lady may ASK to sit next to you. And the guy on the other side may be a little scruffy. But when a certain effluvium impinges upon your conscious and you gaze accusingly upon Scruffy Man, you may realize with some regret that it is the Lady who Stinks even if she Has Nice Hands and a Bright Smile.

Uncool – a quilted zip-up jacket worn over a formal shirt and tie. Or, conversely, a tie worn without any jacket; it makes the wearer look like a medical representative. Very 70s.

Very uncool – mincing up to the head of the boarding queue on clicking heels, then looking very surprised when directed to the BACK of the line. You know that look that tries to convey “Oh? There’s a QUEUE? How quaint, but I’m REALLY not used to standing in line”? Well, it looks stupid when she has to go the back of the line anyway. Very stupid. Ha!

Coincidence for the day - I noted the name on No.2, Palam Marg as we drove past. A modest cottage (can't be more than 12,000 sq. ft. on a quarter of an acre) with two other names on the gate. Now Karan Thapar is right in front of me, along with two other men who look vaguely familiar and therefore Must Be Celebrities. At least when in his company.

Uncool to the point of loathsome – man with a belly like a 5-month pregnancy, B-cup man-boobs, shirt open to the third button to reveal three gold chains, several amulets and lucky red cords and graying chest hair. And those shoes that look like wicker-work. (Karthik, you are NOT reading this!)

Unpleasant memory – spending the night at Delhi airport last week. The incoming flight was diverted to Lucknow because of … fog? Technical snag? No. Traffic congestion. The damn airport just can’t handle the load. And I have to fly from this place about twice a month. Brilliant.

So pleasant it’s cool – a flight that takes off on time.

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