The Airport and the Alien

Do all great adventures begin with a sitting around? Did Marco Polo have to sit before he set sail? Did Neil Armstrong? The answer, sadly, is probably yes, but in different ways. So then, it was with me.

I had this weird déjà vu while waiting in the airport lounge. A lot of people, not everyone to be sure, but a lot seemed familiar to me in some way. Not like they were my friends but familiar none the less. The freckled face woman with the downturned mouth, the young couple who could not keep their hands off each other, the aging but still beautiful woman with her leopard spot purse and unbuttoned blouse. I felt like I was in a Stephen King story and it occurred to me that this was hell of some sort, populated by people who had no idea they were in hell.

The flight left late, oh color me surprised, and who should sit down beside me but the older but still beautiful woman with her leopard spot purse and unbuttoned blouse. She had blonde-streaked hair, tight fitting sequined jeans and brightly painted toes. She carried with her celebrity magazines and Danielle Steele novel. When she filled out her immigration paperwork, I noted her name was Sharon and she was 49.

I nodded at her and smiled a friendly smile when she sat down. Then I went about reading the latest Brad Thor novel. About half way through the flight, we struck up a conversation but one that challenged me on a level that I had never been challenged.

Seems her husband leads one of the biggest financial investment firms in Canada. Seems that she has been to Cabo and Las Vegas and all over Europe and North America. Cool, thinks I, something in common. Oh how I was wrong.

So you say you’ve been to the south of france? asks I.
Oh yes, Nice and Monaco.
Fantastic. What did you think of them?
We stayed at the five star hotel on the coast of Monaco, the one the Saudi king stays at. Do you know the place?
Err no.
My husband had rented out the penthouse suite and, at supper, there were two servants for every patron.
Oh my.
He must have spent $6,000 per guest but it was worth it.
I’d hope.

She was talking about a lifestyle I could not hope to ever achieve, or, realistically, even relate to.

So a friend of ours just bought 32 acres or west van property for 17 mill and they are looking at tearing down the 12 bedroom house and building a new one. Still, at that price, it was a steal.
I can imagine (option 12 - my responses to this kind of information).
Do you know the Griffins? she asks
Stuey and Peter?
No, the ones who own the BC place?
Err no.
Well, we were having dinner at their place, you know, the old Barbara Streisand house, and...

(I mean, what do you say to this?) I used phrases like oh my, goodness, wow, amazing, that’s incredible, that’s oh my amazingly incredible.

And every time she seemed to have a story about who she knew or how much was spent on something or what incredible gold-plated hotel her and her husband stayed at.
However, to be fair, she also talked about her kids and all the utterly terrible things that had happened to her younger son.

Now, well you may ask, how did I fair when she asked about me. What do you do? What nifty places have you visited? Is your wife with you? Why not? Oh, dear, how did she die? Oh, I am so sorry.

The answer is she never did.

Not a bad thing, really, as I have a tough time saying, oh yes, well, my wife is dead and I’m going on this trip alone, thank you for asking. But no, not one question about me.
Now, despite all that she talked about, the truly odd thing was her bag was not Louise Vuitton, she wearing particularly high end clothes(the gem-studded and,she sat with me, in economy.

It was nice that she talked to me but what does one do when confronted by someone who has lived a lifestyle so far and above yours, that you cannot possibly relate?
How?

The plane landed without incident and I managed to be literally the last one off due to getting stuck behind a nice older gentlemen who needed help getting off the plane. The air-stairs they forced him to walk down shook like a cheap aluminum in an earthquake. Hell, was nervous about getting on them, it was like stepping onto a rocking boat. Poor guy.

Then we were all shuffled into this dark tunnel with a growling air conditioner, a single dull bulb in the overhead lights and rusty circles where garbage cans used to be. The walls were half painted, the floor made of scuffed linoleum and the ceiling height was barely 8’ overhead. All along the tunnel smelled of urine, sour disinfectant and tropical mould.

Welcome to Mexico.