The flight from JFK in New York to Cairo, Egypt takes about ten hours. I normally sleep very little on the flight unless the two seats next to me are vacant and I can lay down. (I always take an aisle seat). However, the plane is usually full and the only time I ever slept in a sitting position was back in my school days.
On this particular flight I had the added inconvenience of a seat that would not stay in its normal upright position. I found that out when I took the seat, buckled my seat belt, then leaned back and the seat went into full horizontal mode. I apologized to the Egyptian woman behind me, pulled the seat up and leaned forward. I then assumed this would be the longest ten hour flight of my life.
It was a Friday evening, rush hour, and we were about 42nd in line for take off. I tried reading but would momentarily doze, lean back, and the seat would go horizontal. I tried to make it look like I was doing it on purpose, you know, trying to strike up a conversation with the woman behind me. She wouldn’t have anything to do with me though, so I began talking to the nice Egyptian businessman in a suit and tie sitting in the window seat next to me.
He seemed exceptionally friendly, so we kept talking as the plane took off and I quietly fought the forces of gravity that would surely send me crashing back into the woman’s lap. We reached our cruising altitude and another well-dressed Egyptian man stood up two rows in front of me and came back to say hello. He explained that the man next to me was his friend and would I mind terribly taking his aisle seat two rows in front. Being the gentleman that I am, I said no problem, grabbed my briefcase and moved. His seat worked fine. Sometime later in the flight I seem to remember a man and woman behind me having an argument.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Sandy vs the Skinheads
Anyone who knows my wife, Sandy, knows she says what’s on her mind. But most people don’t know that she can back up her words with action. One day she was shopping at our favorite Publix store and the ‘bag boy’ was a little old Indian man (I purposely didn’t call him a ‘bag man’ since that carries an even more negative connotation). He pushed Sandy’s cart full of groceries out the front door but had to stop where the sidewalk slopes down to the street.
Two young head-shaven boys, probably in their late teens or early 20s, sat there smoking. The Indian man asked them to please move, to which one of the boys said, "We’re not moving for no towelhead." Without missing a beat, Sandy said, "Get the (expletive deleted) out of the way."
With that, they both stood up. The taller boy stormed over and pushed Sandy, who is 5 foot 2. Imagine his surprise when she stood her ground, then pushed him so hard that he lurched backwards and banged into a concrete column. As he rubbed his skinned head, his friend stepped out of the way and Sandy walked with the Indian man to her car. The little man thanked her profusely for standing up to them as he unloaded the groceries, constantly glancing back at the two boys who were still standing by the column. Sandy told him not to worry and escorted him back to the store. The two boys then walked away, probably looking for a towel to wrap around the wounded boy’s head.
Two young head-shaven boys, probably in their late teens or early 20s, sat there smoking. The Indian man asked them to please move, to which one of the boys said, "We’re not moving for no towelhead." Without missing a beat, Sandy said, "Get the (expletive deleted) out of the way."
With that, they both stood up. The taller boy stormed over and pushed Sandy, who is 5 foot 2. Imagine his surprise when she stood her ground, then pushed him so hard that he lurched backwards and banged into a concrete column. As he rubbed his skinned head, his friend stepped out of the way and Sandy walked with the Indian man to her car. The little man thanked her profusely for standing up to them as he unloaded the groceries, constantly glancing back at the two boys who were still standing by the column. Sandy told him not to worry and escorted him back to the store. The two boys then walked away, probably looking for a towel to wrap around the wounded boy’s head.
Speak English, please
I recently received an email suggesting that for fun we all wear a T-shirt with a picture of Uncle Sam and the words "I want YOU…to speak English." I guess that’s a sentiment shared by many people who feel if you live here you should speak ‘our’ language. I, like most Americans, only speak one language, English. So we would naturally like everyone who comes here to save us the bother of learning Spanish or Mandarin.
As someone who travels frequently outside the US, I’m thankful that the countries I visit don’t share that sentiment (with one possible exception). Take Kenya for example. There are 42 tribes in that country, each with its own language. To communicate with each other, they speak a second language common to all of them, Swahili (even we know what ‘hakuna matata’ means). In addition, most of them speak English. I pity the poor soul who only knows Kikiyu.
If you visit Morocco, they speak a form of Arabic that most Arabs from other countries have a problem understanding. Not only that, restaurant menus are in Arabic with subtitles in French. For all I know, they could all be wearing T-shirts with a photo of Charles de Gaulle and the words "I want YOU…to speak anything but English," but since I can't read their T-shirts I will never know.
As someone who travels frequently outside the US, I’m thankful that the countries I visit don’t share that sentiment (with one possible exception). Take Kenya for example. There are 42 tribes in that country, each with its own language. To communicate with each other, they speak a second language common to all of them, Swahili (even we know what ‘hakuna matata’ means). In addition, most of them speak English. I pity the poor soul who only knows Kikiyu.
If you visit Morocco, they speak a form of Arabic that most Arabs from other countries have a problem understanding. Not only that, restaurant menus are in Arabic with subtitles in French. For all I know, they could all be wearing T-shirts with a photo of Charles de Gaulle and the words "I want YOU…to speak anything but English," but since I can't read their T-shirts I will never know.
Milt to Earth….Milt to Earth….
Sorry to all my regular readers for being away so long. Aside from my three weeks in Egypt, a bronchial infection acquired at a health spa, deadlines on a book I’m writing, the death of our black lab, Abby, and our greyhound’s leg amputation, I really have no excuse.
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