So, anyway, back to the ongoing saga of airport dramas in my travel tales.
Yes I was ready to go home.
But @unfriendly_check_in_bitch had dampened that spirit.
So I was already anticipating the usual disaster with airport security.
You know.
I've said it before.
I'll say it again.
Somehow the single, swarthy traveler has terrorist written all over him.
Despite also having raving queer written all over him.
In hot fucking pink.
So I was not surprised when large turbaned security officer appeared beside me before my hand luggage had even re-appeared through the x-ray machine.
I was standing there shoeless and beltless.
And also watchless.
I had been asked to take off my watch.
This has never happened before.
And on the second leg of the outward bound flight I had seen a young lady screaming that her watch had gone missing in the x-ray machine.
Those things are like washing machines and dryers with socks.
Great that airport security is run by a band of jewellery thieves.
So I was presumably looking very anxious.
And anxiety is not a great thing to present at an airport.
Attracts exactly the wrong type.
Security.
"You wanna do a random explosives test, don't you?"
"Yes, sir".
"It's usually me" piped in a nearby woman.
"No. No. It's always me. Every time I have traveled abroad alone since the age of 18 I have had this done.
And I am now 36.
That's half my life!
The only time it doesn't happen is when I'm traveling with my blond family members.
I clearly fit a profile!"
"Sir, we don't profile passengers.
That would be prejudicial"
"Yes, yes, you do. Otherwise I wouldn't get stopped EVERYWHERE I GO!"
"Sir, I'm looking you in the eye and I'm telling you we don't"
"And I'm looking you in the eye and telling you I don't believe you.
I'm also looking you in the eye and telling you I'm gay. And I value my goods and chattels in that hold way too much to sacrifice them for any cause. No matter how worthy that cause may be!"
Again I saw that same look that I'd seen in the eyes of @unfriendly_check_in_bitch.
He thinks I'm psychotic.
He waved his wand over me and my carry-on, and bid me farewell with wishes for a safe flight home.
"Go fuck yourself" I responded.
The remainder of the first leg of the homeward journey was, thank Christ, largely uneventful and spent in a temazapan and red wine haze.
The second leg however, got off to an ominous start.
Again I'd booked an aisle seat.
Only this time it was on that central bank of 4 seats.
And again a fellow passenger asked me if I'd change seats with her.
Big sigh and scowl from me.
She was an old lady.
"I'm diabetic she said. And I need to go to the toilet a lot."
Oh for fuck's sake.
I changed seats with her.
Even helped the old invalid put her carry-on in the overhead locker.
I too, go to the toilet a lot when I fly.
Not because I'm diabetic.
Or nervous.
Or incontinent.
But because I drink.
A lot.
Booze to get me out of it.
And water to keep my fluids up.
But they just come out.
I kept having to clamber over the old bitch.
Who didn't go to the toilet once.
Not one fucking time.
In 14 fucking hours.
What is she?
A diabetic fucking camel?!?
About 2 hours in and I was seriously doubting her diabetic story, and thought if she doesn't get a special meal I'm gonna insist she swap back.
She did get it.
So if you areally are a diabetic and need to go to the fucking toilet all the time why the fuck didn't you book an aisle seat you dumb cunt?
And why the fuck are you not going to the toilet?
She was also fat.
No wonder she's diabetic.
Which made clambering over her even more arduous.
I was so relieved to finally land.
Relief was temporary.
Got through customs OK.
It was afterwards that the challenge lay.
Even while waiting for my luggage at the carousel a sniffer dog came bounding up to me going over my hand luggage like a junkie who can smell a fix.
Guard looked at my declaration and told me to come see him when I had collected my luggage.
Here we fucking go.
I was delirious with tiredness.
As well as booze and prescription drugs.
And in no mood to indulge some officious little cunt in a uniform.
So when I found him I just opened all may bags.
"Look, no drugs."
"But a lot of clothes, sir."
"Yes.I enjoy my fashion and I've just been to the UK where it's really cheap and our dollar is really strong. So I bought quite a bit."
"Are you in the fashion industry, sir?"
"No."
"How long were you in the UK, sir?"
"A week."
"You have all that luggage for a week??"
"Yep."
"Looks like a commercial quantity to me".
Oh Jesus fucking Christ.
How many more times was I gonna have to declare my homosexuality as a defence against a crime?
"Listen, buddy. I'm a poofter. With a chronic shopping addiction. All that this 'commercial' quantity of clothing represents is one faggot's week's worth of cold climate options!"
"And what about all these summer clothes then... 'buddy'?"
"They're for my next holiday. In Bali. In 2 weeks. Duh."
Either this convinced him.
Or he decided it was all too hard.
So he waved me off.
Exiting the airport I jumped straight in a cab.
Things were looking up.
I didn't even think, and sat in the front.
Cabbie asked me about my trip.
And I told him.
Everything.
Leaning back with my eyes closed I shared the details of my entire trip with a complete stranger.
Who put his hand on my knee about half way home.
I didn't even flinch.
Just thought, yep, I'm back in Sydney.
He kept it there the whole way.
And took it upon himself to take a a little detour down the back streets of Woolloomooloo.
Where he gave me a hand-job.
And insisted I only pay half the fare.
So 31 hours after leaving the flat in London I stumbled into my apartment.
Now feeling relieved on a couple of scores.
But shit, that holiday was exhausting.
Can't wait to go to Bali.
Look out Schapelle, here I come.
#DNA Magazine
@urban_homo_dna
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