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AN INTERESTING START
TO PERUVIAN VACATION
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It's been awhile since I was in sixth grade and wrote an essay
on "What I Did On My Vacation." So I figured it's about time I
wrote another one, even though no one cared then, and probably no one cares
now.
I just got back from two weeks in Peru. It's a lovely country,
with wonderful people and spectacular scenery. And if I never see another
ruin or another cathedral in my entire life, that will be just fine with me.
I could describe the wonders of Machu Picchu or the majesty of
Lake Titicaca, but no one wants to read about that. So let's start and end
at the beginning, when my wife and I boarded Copa Airlines, the official
carrier of Panama, where we had a stopover before flying on to Lima, the
capital of Peru.
I'm far too frugal to pay for the exorbitant cost of business
class, but I'm certainly capable of ponying up for extra legroom on a seven
hour flight. With that in mind, I had paid an extra $200 and reserved exit
row seats, where my legs could roam free.
As we passed all the elitists in business class, I explained to
my wife how much we were saving and how I was "a Man of the
People." At that point, I think she preferred elitists. But when we sat
down in our spacious exit row seats, I could see her soften.
"Not bad, huh?" I said as I stretched my legs out as far as
I could. As she dried her tears, I think she acknowledged it wasn't the
worst move in the world.
That's when the flight attendant came by and asked if we spoke
Spanish.
"Un poco," I replied, which means "very
little" and exhausted 90% of my vocabulary. "Why."
"Because you need to speak Spanish to sit in the exit
row," she said in perfect English.
"I paid extra for these seats!" I cried as I flapped
my legs around. "All the flight attendants speak English. Why would I
have to speak Spanish? If you fly Lufthansa, you don't have to speak German
to sit in the exit row."
"I'm sorry, sir. That's the rule of the airline. There's
nothing I can do."
"That's discrimination!" I said, probably a little
too loud. "Fine. Go ahead and test me."
She rattled off an instruction in Spanish, which might have
well been Mandarin or Swahili, for all I understood. But there was nothing
wrong with giving it the old college try.
"I think you said, 'OPEN THE EMERGENCY EXIT OR WE'RE ALL
GOING TO DIE!'"
She didn't think it was as funny as I did. She motioned
for us to get up and move to some open seats in the back of the plane. My
suggestion to move us to Business Class didn't go over well, either. She
claimed it was full.
Not wanting to create an international incident where I would
be dragged off the plane for refusing to move, my wife and I sadly picked up
our belongings and took the Walk of Shame down the aisle. We squeezed into
Row 36, where my legs would be jailed for the next seven hours.
"How's the Man of the People feeling now?" my wife
asked.
"The Man of the People is not happy," I replied.
Seven restless and uncomfortable hours later, we landed in
Panama. After a two-hour layover, we boarded the three hour flight to Lima.
And yes, I had reserved the exit row. Hope springs eternal.
"Do you speak Spanish?" asked the nice flight
attendant in perfect English as we settled in.
"Si."
She turned to Spanish and started babbling in that strange
language. By her tone, it was clear she was asking a question.
"Si." I answered in perfect Spanish.
She rattled off another question and I "Si'ed" her
again. Then she gave me a quizzical look that clearly begged for a more
expansive answer, so I gave it to her.
"Si, Si," I said, nodding enthusiastically.
Off we went to Row 32 this time. At least we moved up four
rows. And it was only three hours of claustrophobic misery.
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