(Monday, March 30, 2009).
It was a dark and stormy night somewhere else in the world (Sydney, it turned out), and I was having trouble checking in for my flight. A maternal figure was scowling at me from across the counter, demanding that I explain why in Oprah's name I would show up to the airport without my flight itinerary when I was going to be flying through Fiji. Didn't I realize that Fijian customs required that I could show proof that I had a ticket out of the country? Her undertones were clear: if I in fact arrived in Fiji without an itinerary I would spark a military coup, the Communists would win, India would bat out the fifth day of the second test to save a draw, and, worst of all, a customs official might have to check in a computer system to make sure I was actually on a flight. She was having a lot of trouble with her own son right now with the school term just beginning and she really didn't want to have to deal with this right now, so if I could just explain to her what gave me the nerve to get myself stuck in Fiji on her watch that would be just great. And she loved what I'd done with my hair. Oh, definitely. Yes, that makes you look quite dashing, you can barely see the gray ones or the dandruff. Oh did I say that out loud? No. No, I'm monologuing your thoughts. I play poker for a living.
I struggled with the range of responses that flooded into my head. My eyes requested permission to roll. Harold, the wizened hippie who keeps my memory banks, garrulously pointed out that I had not flown with an itinerary since my parents had forced me to on a trip to Wellington when I was eleven, (sir, if I may, I have checked the records of prior flights which I keep alphabetized in the caverns where your social skills were meant to be, and you haven't flown with an itinerary since before you learned Helen Clark was a woman), (seriously though, he keeps a record of flights ALPHABETIZED?). My penis pompously suggested: "I like to live dangerously". The greater part of me was just surprised to hear I was flying through Fiji.
I had changed my flight just a couple of weeks ago because Roberta, whom both of my readers know or are, was coming to visit over her spring break, so I needed to stay a little longer. She got the cheapest flight over and back - Seattle -> San Francisco -> Auckland and vice-versa - and so did I - Auckland -> Fiji -> Los Angeles -> Seattle. Airlines love me. It's a blossoming relationship.
I had not bothered to do things like look at what my flight was. That is not quite how I travel. How I generally travel is I get on a plane and wake up and if I need to I get on another plane and then wake up and am at my destination. I perfected the technique in High School using different nouns.
In the end I was handed an itinerary by a slightly overweight man who the distressed mother across the counter would prefer her son not grow up to resemble. I put it in the front pocket of my carry-on, took it out in Seattle, and threw it somewhere in my room. The other pieces of paper make fun of it while I'm out because its life was comparable in meaning to that of a supermarket receipt for one packet of Milk Duds and a temporary tattoo of John Kerry. I then got onto my flight, woke up when the guy next to me fell asleep on my shoulder, woke up when the guy next to me rudely removed his head from my shoulder, and woke up in Fiji.
It was hot in Fiji, and I was wearing dress pants, a dress shirt, a cashmere sports coat, a hat, long socks and dress shoes, briefs, and a tie. Ostensibly because I didn't want to wrinkle my best clothing by packing it, but really on the off chance that I sat next to an attractive girl who was into guys who dressed like they were incapable of rational thought. I quickly dispensed of the coat, tie, and hat, dampened the rest of my clothing profusely with sweat, and headed towards the desk I'd been told to go to to transfer to our next flight. Here one of the most breathtaking and intelligent women I have ever met kindly informed me I would have to clear customs because I was staying in Fiji for six hours before my flight and would I like any help filling out my form no? that's great good luck! Her name was Kawao'ola and fifteen years later we crossed paths in Peru, where she came to profusely regret her hasty treatment of me while watching my three year old son solve a 16-sided Rubik's cube with the muscle that wrinkles your left nostril.
I have spent the last five minutes looking at myself in a mirror trying to work out if there is an independent muscle that wrinkles your left nostril. There are faster and more accurate ways to find this out, but I can't imagine them being better.
In the interest of full-disclosure the part about us meeting again in Peru fifteen years from now might not be true. The part about looking at myself in a mirror wrinkling my face in different ways for five minutes was.
I cleared customs (I was allowed to stay in Fiji for four months!) and found an internet terminal. Fijian internet terminal keyboard technology is lagging slightly behind what I am used to, and I ended upp havvvin conveersatttions likee thhis. It was around 5pm, overcast and humid. It began to rain. I asked dad what to do in Fiji for five hours and he said drink kava. Actually he typed: drink kava (sp?). His spelling was correct.
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