Survival of the Fittest (or the Unfits rather) at the Airport

• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On November 13, 2019
• 5 Comments.

I survived the long flight from Vienna to Manila with a stopover in Taipei. Saw familiar faces at the transit lounge. Boarding the transit flight to Manila was always a horror. Oh, you know, the long queue, especially when flying with hundreds of Filipinos anxious to get home! Announcements on who should get in first get ignored. I told a good friend who was in crutches she had priority but too shy to do it. She said children first and those on wheelchairs. And those with crutches, I said. She finally relented to take the priority lane but stepped aside to give way to an airport attendant pushing a wheelchair carrying a passenger. Then the next wheelchair came up from behind, and the next one after that, and another one – with passengers who didn’t seem to need assistance, I thought, But why is it that the number of physically-challenged passengers on flights to Manila increases every time I go home? Hmm, a bright, albeit dirty idea to get on board ahead of the others next time I fly entered my brain. But I guess no need for that and no need to rub it in either.

I did not even have to fake it when the opportunity knocked. Thanks to my severe gout attack a couple of days before my flight. I didn’t want to postpone my trip lest I get fined or worst no more fight left for me. It was the Christmas season, and this is the time of the year when almost all Filipinos living in Vienna do their yuletide exodus. I called my travel agent and asked if she could get me wheelchair assistance. Done, she said, all the way to your final destination, which is Manila. In Taipei someone, I’d been told will be waiting for me with a wheelchair to take me to my connecting flight. I thought I would be embarrassed to be seen being pushed in a wheelchair, quite the spectacle. “Hey, look, the Emperor of China! “On the contrary, I enjoyed the particular assistance. So did Walter, my travel companion. Like me, he was able to roll through immigration and security lines quickly and was put right up to the front ahead of other passengers. The wheelchair made it entirely right to jump the queue.

There was probably a shortage of wheelchair assistants at the Taipeh airport that one person was pushing two wheelchairs side by side at the same time. I was in one, and an older woman, a Filipina, was in the other. I tried not to have eye contact with her lest she recognized me as that passenger sitting behind her during the long flight from Vienna to Taipeh. She was farting all the time, which Walter and I ignored in the beginning. She may not be making a sound, but the vile smell she could not hide. It would linger for a while every time she did, which can make you unconscious or dead.

“No, this is too much, “Walter said in German. He stood up to get something to revive him. I was left to take care of the situation, meaning confronting the offender when she does it again, which she did.

“Go to the toilet! “I screamed, pushing the back of her seat to startle her. She did not say anything, surprised perhaps that someone noticed she was contaminating the recycled air we breathe inside the plane. It must have been trying for her to stop herself from farting, but Walter and I were like drugged until it was time to catch our connecting flight.

The woman tried to make small talk with me as our wheelchair attendant parked our wheels in a corner and excused himself for a while, saying he will be back shortly.

 

“I live in Vienna,” she started.

 

“Same here,” I said. “Retired,” was my quick reply when she asked where I work. I told her where. She lit up and asked if I knew this person and that person employed in the same workplace — friends of hers. I knew them, and you can bet I will warn them not to travel with her or sit behind her should they want to reach their destination without an oxygen tank.

It was a big joke that we would be on the same flight coming back to Vienna. I froze when I saw her, comfortably perched in a wheelchair. She recognized me and waved.

“You did not request a wheelchair? “she asked me, wondering why not when she saw me with a walking stick.

I was not disabled or anything, but I thought it would be convenient if I could pretend I was after discovering and enjoying the privileges accorded a disabled traveler.

“Not necessary, “I said when the ground flight stewardess at the check-in counter asked if I needed wheelchair assistance. I can manage, I told her. An Airport security officer asked me though to take off my shoes, but then they let me pass through the scanner when they saw the shoes I was wearing – a high-top All-Star basketball shoes. Removing and tying back again the shoelaces would be quite a challenge for me, they agreed.

“Should we get you wheelchair assistance, Sir? “That would be nice, but no, thanks, I can manage, repeating what I said when checking in.

“Oh, you’re sitting near the business class,” the flatulent-woman said when she asked me about my seat number.

“I am five rows behind you, “she said.

“Poor you, but I hope you’ll be comfortable, “I said, feigning pity.