letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
There's no Basement in the Alamo…
And I am still very disappointed to have to tell you that there are no whores in the Amsterdam Airport. This doesn't stop me from hitting on every blonde haired Dutch girl I see. Obviously I'm not wearing wooden shoes so I get no play (It's just gotta be the shoes). They are a little more casual about being hit on than I expected. They even smile back and I'm thinking it's because their feeling I'm cute attempting to hit so far out of my league or maybe I'm Captain Picard's retarded American brother. Either way I don't care since I'm getting smiles back. The buzz I had was wearing off and that simply wouldn't do. It's was early in the morning on my second day of vacation. Sure, I hadn't arrived in Ibiza yet, but sobriety was not an option.
The lay over was an hour so I figured I had time to power some shots but first to I had to navigate a monster airport to find the gate. An hour though the maze of passport control counters later, I arrived at the gate in a paranoid sweat. I figured I'm too late but there are fifty people with no plane and no one at the counter. This is par for the course for Span Air. The airline runs like a gas station you're expecting to be open during siesta when you're out of fuel and it's raining. Forget it. Lay back in your car and go to sleep till they knock on the foggy windows.
Once the plane-less gate was in site, I was overpowered by thankfulness for their inefficiency. There is no one there to ask how long the delay will be and I was thinking a good beer buzz before mid-morning would be exactly what the doctor ordered. I had a light sweat breaking out on my brow from the fast walking paranoia and a little alcohol coming out of the pores.
A short distance from the gate was a kiosk with knick-knacks of various amster-kishe. I'm eyeing the screw top bottles of airport wine like a hobo discovering a fiver in the street. The beer buzz fantasy leaves with a “pop†but I'm thinking God bless the Amsterdamians and their liberal airport drinking policies. The plane is more than an hour late and I've made three trips back. I've been getting the same speech each time from the counter creep. He's insisted on telling me I can't take the purchase on the plane twice. The third time I smiled politely and patted his hand when he goes to give me the change. I said what a good job he was doing in my old man cartoon voice.
By the time the plane pulled up to the gate I was sufficiently medicated. Still, it reminds me of Buddy Holly Airlines and so why not go back for one-for-the-air? After all, I was getting on a tiny plane that *dramatic pause* might be my last ride. I'm off to the shop where Creepy McCounterdude-Creaperson has been replaced by a girl who looks more hamster-ish than Amster-ish. She's giving me the “tsk-tsk†as I've been in line for two people and decided waiting to pay for the wine before drinking it is no longer in fashion. From her fading looks and rotund body, it's obvious she gave up her window for a more lucrative career of a minimum wage airport job. I can't resist but to let her know she's about breaking even with the window job she gave up but this is a good choice since you'll get a few less diseases at the airport. She has no idea what I'm talking about but the guy behind me got it and dropped his bottle of water on the ground laughing. I love a good crowd. Please, hold your applause and tip your waiters.
The plane was in final boarding as I downed the last of the bottle in front of the girl taking the tickets. My eyes are bloodshot enough for her to tell me I'm not flying but she's an auto-bot that wouldn't' care if I walked up naked with my passport and a ticket. I was in “Mr. Bean†mode and was thinking of what character I would portray for whatever crowd I can muster. I almost felt sorry for the older lady sitting on the isle that I ask to move like a mime with props since I'm pretending not to be able to speak whatever language she decides to try and use with me. I'm 100 percent not interested in whatever she has to say since she's passed the youth-attractive threshold at about the same time the last Span Air flight was on time…perhaps in the 80's.
She says something in a language I can't speak called “Smalltalk.†I shrugged and said, “No speakey Smalltalk.†This makes her do a double take and she asked a couple more questions. I just shrugged and smiled until she gave up. The couple of hours of flight time were spent watching the IPod without annoying old-dried-up-person interruption.
When the plane landed in Madrid, she stood in the isle I asked her in perfect English, “Can you get my bag from the overhead?†Finally, the Gods of Karma decide to pay me back for my ****ty attitude and she harrruffed in her moment of realization that I could speak her language. I was forced to rescue my own bag from the overhead as payment. Good trade.
The tiny plane we were on landed and taxi'd to the furthest point at the end of a building at the very end of the runway. Being an hour late, there were people who were panicked and nearly rioting to get out of the plane. I felt bad for them since there was a large group that had their carry on bags taken away as they tried to board the plane with its tiny overhead bins. That luggage was an hour late to get to its connecting destination too so they might never see their carry on again. The efficient crew that would not let them board with these bags were not there to give them back so they were treated as checked luggage. A couple was arguing with the employee directing them to go into the cement bunker walkway that led to the regular airport. They did not want to leave without their carry on and were being rather adamant.
I thought I was helping when I stepped in the middle and offered my bag. The couple speaking mostly Spanish did not understand so I explained that one bag was as good as the next. The ground stew broke my deadpan by laughing so I withdrew the offer and continued on to the bunker walkway. The couple had now stared arguing with each other instead so I figured I did my good deed for the day. Your welcome Span Air.
L.
www.anamericaninibiza.com
And I am still very disappointed to have to tell you that there are no whores in the Amsterdam Airport. This doesn't stop me from hitting on every blonde haired Dutch girl I see. Obviously I'm not wearing wooden shoes so I get no play (It's just gotta be the shoes). They are a little more casual about being hit on than I expected. They even smile back and I'm thinking it's because their feeling I'm cute attempting to hit so far out of my league or maybe I'm Captain Picard's retarded American brother. Either way I don't care since I'm getting smiles back. The buzz I had was wearing off and that simply wouldn't do. It's was early in the morning on my second day of vacation. Sure, I hadn't arrived in Ibiza yet, but sobriety was not an option.
The lay over was an hour so I figured I had time to power some shots but first to I had to navigate a monster airport to find the gate. An hour though the maze of passport control counters later, I arrived at the gate in a paranoid sweat. I figured I'm too late but there are fifty people with no plane and no one at the counter. This is par for the course for Span Air. The airline runs like a gas station you're expecting to be open during siesta when you're out of fuel and it's raining. Forget it. Lay back in your car and go to sleep till they knock on the foggy windows.
Once the plane-less gate was in site, I was overpowered by thankfulness for their inefficiency. There is no one there to ask how long the delay will be and I was thinking a good beer buzz before mid-morning would be exactly what the doctor ordered. I had a light sweat breaking out on my brow from the fast walking paranoia and a little alcohol coming out of the pores.
A short distance from the gate was a kiosk with knick-knacks of various amster-kishe. I'm eyeing the screw top bottles of airport wine like a hobo discovering a fiver in the street. The beer buzz fantasy leaves with a “pop†but I'm thinking God bless the Amsterdamians and their liberal airport drinking policies. The plane is more than an hour late and I've made three trips back. I've been getting the same speech each time from the counter creep. He's insisted on telling me I can't take the purchase on the plane twice. The third time I smiled politely and patted his hand when he goes to give me the change. I said what a good job he was doing in my old man cartoon voice.
By the time the plane pulled up to the gate I was sufficiently medicated. Still, it reminds me of Buddy Holly Airlines and so why not go back for one-for-the-air? After all, I was getting on a tiny plane that *dramatic pause* might be my last ride. I'm off to the shop where Creepy McCounterdude-Creaperson has been replaced by a girl who looks more hamster-ish than Amster-ish. She's giving me the “tsk-tsk†as I've been in line for two people and decided waiting to pay for the wine before drinking it is no longer in fashion. From her fading looks and rotund body, it's obvious she gave up her window for a more lucrative career of a minimum wage airport job. I can't resist but to let her know she's about breaking even with the window job she gave up but this is a good choice since you'll get a few less diseases at the airport. She has no idea what I'm talking about but the guy behind me got it and dropped his bottle of water on the ground laughing. I love a good crowd. Please, hold your applause and tip your waiters.
The plane was in final boarding as I downed the last of the bottle in front of the girl taking the tickets. My eyes are bloodshot enough for her to tell me I'm not flying but she's an auto-bot that wouldn't' care if I walked up naked with my passport and a ticket. I was in “Mr. Bean†mode and was thinking of what character I would portray for whatever crowd I can muster. I almost felt sorry for the older lady sitting on the isle that I ask to move like a mime with props since I'm pretending not to be able to speak whatever language she decides to try and use with me. I'm 100 percent not interested in whatever she has to say since she's passed the youth-attractive threshold at about the same time the last Span Air flight was on time…perhaps in the 80's.
She says something in a language I can't speak called “Smalltalk.†I shrugged and said, “No speakey Smalltalk.†This makes her do a double take and she asked a couple more questions. I just shrugged and smiled until she gave up. The couple of hours of flight time were spent watching the IPod without annoying old-dried-up-person interruption.
When the plane landed in Madrid, she stood in the isle I asked her in perfect English, “Can you get my bag from the overhead?†Finally, the Gods of Karma decide to pay me back for my ****ty attitude and she harrruffed in her moment of realization that I could speak her language. I was forced to rescue my own bag from the overhead as payment. Good trade.
The tiny plane we were on landed and taxi'd to the furthest point at the end of a building at the very end of the runway. Being an hour late, there were people who were panicked and nearly rioting to get out of the plane. I felt bad for them since there was a large group that had their carry on bags taken away as they tried to board the plane with its tiny overhead bins. That luggage was an hour late to get to its connecting destination too so they might never see their carry on again. The efficient crew that would not let them board with these bags were not there to give them back so they were treated as checked luggage. A couple was arguing with the employee directing them to go into the cement bunker walkway that led to the regular airport. They did not want to leave without their carry on and were being rather adamant.
I thought I was helping when I stepped in the middle and offered my bag. The couple speaking mostly Spanish did not understand so I explained that one bag was as good as the next. The ground stew broke my deadpan by laughing so I withdrew the offer and continued on to the bunker walkway. The couple had now stared arguing with each other instead so I figured I did my good deed for the day. Your welcome Span Air.
L.
www.anamericaninibiza.com
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