It is easy to pick out the foreigners from the Greeks. The foreigners wait in orderly lines, clear delineations at the ticket counters. All is well. You will get your turn, or so you believe. If you can claim your space early enough, when the ticket agents finally arrive to whisk your bags onto the conveyor, you will earn the right to wait some more � before you step your weary feet onto the tarmac and climb the steps to your plane.
But wait! Rustling sounds and the clicking of heels are distinctly heard behind the counter. Ears perked, heads cocked, anticipation reaches a squirrel�s sense of urgency when the onset of Fall overtakes the abundance of summer. The ticket agents are here!
Lines reach long, snake-like proportions, punctuated by large, mantis-like steel luggage carts bisecting the order. Just when your line seems to be making progress, all progress stops. The lines begin to split, break apart and surge in different directions, colorful fractals in ceaseless patterns as the women take over.
Ladies, some smartly dressed in black, wait patiently for the opportunity to slide between lines and deliberately break the order. With blank looks on their creased and sun-battered faces, they slyly hide their eagerness with a slack expression, veiling their vision � limiting it to the marble floor as they drag their carry on with insouciance � soon they will take over completely. They have the control.
The foreigners are much too polite to protest as these visions in black sidle up to the ticket counter, cutting off the hapless individuals who have faith in the system of order. These women operate on chaos theory. If you act as though you belong there, then you can get away with anything. Politeness and manners do not make a difference, especially when it comes to waiting in line in Greece. Any line you observe will have the same ladies or village men, mopping sweat off heavy brows, cutting, bobbing and weaving like prize fighters to their ultimate goal: get there first at all costs.
There is no sense of embarrassment in the ladies� eyes as you try to stare them down, Western-style, in the hope that they will back off. Your Greek may be too poor to get your point across verbally, so the visual shorthand is essential in intimidation of prey. Not with the ladies. They meet your laser gaze with defiance, innocently mouthing in Greek to the ticket agent �Is this the line for Piraeus?� or something equally inane.
Those who understand Greek nearly double over with laughter, for Piraeus is the port of Athens and not an Olympic Airways destination. The agent, playing along with the game, will, with ice in her voice for the chaos the lady has caused, wearily respond �This is no line for Piraeus, this is the airport!�
Game over. Eyes glinting merrily at having overtaken her prey, the triumphant lady in black thrusts her carry-on and tickets in the agent�s face as the line expands and contracts restlessly around her. The agent, used to such actions, does not reprimand, but rather, takes the tickets and the baggage. And so it goes.
� 1999 Tamara Taylor -- All rights reserved under US intellectual property laws -- no reproduction or distribution without authors' permission
� 1997 [email protected]
ICQ# 11709671
