I stand frustrated and tired following a seven-hour flight from Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport to Amsterdam’s Schlipol. Gathered with fellow passengers amidst what appears to be a line, but resembles more a hoard of famished people fighting amongst themselves for war-time rationed bread supplies.
Not only has my connecting flight to Paris been delayed numerous times, but I have already been questioned at length by a Dutch customs official who appeared to be 12 years-old about the nature of my stay, and had my skateboard sans trucks and wheels seized for its potential usage as a weapon. Silly me, I must have missed the one about the on-flight terrorist attack that was successfully carried out with the use of an 8” Workshop deck in place of a box-cutter or explosives. This has me wondering what exactly constitutes a weapon. Maybe they should wrap my fists in cellophane or perhaps staple my mouth shut in the event that I inadvertently enter the cockpit and salivate all over the controls.
At customs, I am asked to either throw out the small bottle of mouthwash I have stashed in my carry-on luggage or have it placed with my luggage by walking it to the baggage area approximately one kilometer back in the direction I just came from. I understand in the post-9/11 world that all precautions must be taken to prevent any form of a terrorist attack, but if my Listerine is indeed a bomb, having it detonate in the belly of the commercial jet rather than two-feet above my head in the carry-on compartment seems to be a bit of a redundancy. Either way, the plane will explode into millions of tiny particles while the hundreds on-board vaporize instantaneously and litter the picturesque farms and fields of rural Netherlands with their remains.
Needless to say, my experience with the airport in Amsterdam was not one to remember. An announcement conveniently spoken in a seemingly computer generated Dutch hybrid of English and Navi-speak declares that the flight to Paris will be delayed further as they anticipate the arrival of the plane, and unfortunately, they will not provide us with either their much renowned government-regulated weed or prostitutes as we wait. Honestly, is there a better way to kill time than a quick toke and insert? The answer to that question is a resounding no. The monotonous, computer-like voice apologizes to the throngs in what must be the most insincere declaration of remorse in the history of spoken word. I almost expect to hear the voice apologize for accidentally deleting my hard drive in grade 11 just as I had completed my end of semester essay on the similarities between the War of 1812 and Wrestlemania VI (in the event that you’re curious, both the pivotal battle and the ‘Granddaddy of Them All’ both took place in Canada and featured the eventual winner entering the place of battle to the sounds of deafening heavy medal that had onlookers caught in an unabashed frenzy.)
Several people as frustrated as I am shout-out indecipherable words of anger, while I contain my ire knowing that a plane is most certainly a prerequisite for flight, lest any of us miraculously grow wings or the seemingly inhuman ability to teleport in the meantime. Behind me stands Andrew, a 30 year-old banker with a John Cusack-like dime-sized opening of a mouth from New York City whom I’ve gotten to know whilst standing in this quasi-line. We seem to share a frustration for the lack of order and organization, but remain politely silent until a stubby, rapidly-thinning French man bypasses both Andrew and I to stand directly in front of me. He’s standing so close that I can distinguish the smell of his unwashed, sparsely distributed scalp directly beneath my nose. In amazement, I turn around to face Andrew and we share a moment of complete frustration stemming from this example of line circumvention (see butting). Unable to restrain myself any longer, I tap this guy on his shoulder and ask him as politely as I can with consideration to the conditions, what exactly he thinks he’s doing. The following dialogue ensues:
Me: “Sorry, there’s a line here that I’ve been patiently waiting in for sometime”
Jean-Jacques: “Weell esqueeze me, but there is two lines, one foor the economy class, and one for frequent fleeers and business class travelleurs like moi”
Me: “Well esqueeze me, but I don’t see anything indicating the existence of two lines, therefore I suggest moving yourself to the back of the line, (turning to Andrew) unless there is a complete lack of order on this continent of yours”
JJ: “Trust me you silly Amereeecan, things most certainleee work betterrr heeere”
After this last comment, the man I assume has multiple first names from a country which has civil strikes over social issues but insists that things work better here, seems to sense the anger brewing inside of me and the expression developing on my face, and quickly squiggles his way towards the front of the line like a garter snake escaping the clutches of a famished lion. Conflict averted right? Not so much. After boarding the plane, I sit exhausted in aisle seat 4C on an aged and decrepit French airbus that the Wright Bros may have diagrammed only to notice that across the aisle, sitting directly next to Andrew, is monsieur Jean-Jacques Nut-Saque. Upon realization of his location and his previous exchange with Andrew and me, he squiggles again towards the back of the half-occupied jet to find another seat. What an asshole. Aware of how unfair and narrow minded it can be to base a generalization of an entire people based on a single person’s conduct (see black golfers), I refuse to make the assumption that all French people are like our friend J.J., so I embark on a fact-finding mission to France’s largest city to disprove the myths and create a few of my own.
In hindsight, had I known that my impression of the French would change radically once stepping foot in Montparnasse, I probably would not have been so annoyed with my new multiple-monikered enemy. All it took was one café elongee and a Marlboro Red given to me by a statuesque brunette to quickly change my opinion of the French. And now, I sit here on an overcast and rainy day in Toronto, wishing for nothing more than a spot on a brasserie patio, a café and a half-pint of Kronenbourg with a Marlboro Red.
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