In line for the security check-in, I spot a tallish guy wearing a cap with a narrow brim, a too-short black t-shirt, dirty shorts and low-cut sneakers. He resembles a major sports star. I look more closely, but he is half turned away from me. His calves, however, seem a bit too robust for the average poorly dressed American male. He turns toward me. Suspicions confirmed. It is Andy Roddick.
(I always thought, implicitly, that celebrities went through some kind of special line. Guess not. Or maybe Roddick’s career has nosedived so badly that he’s flying economy these days. Or at least he’s sold his private jet.)
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Lucky Maria
In the air, I glance from my book to the balding, bespectacled gentleman sitting a seat away. Red pen in hand, he’s scribbling in the margin of some multi-paged document. I can see it’s in Spanish, but can’t read the words or his edits. As I watch, he continues reading, makes some underlines, then scribbles some more. I turn back to my book and forget about him.
A few minutes after we’re served our drinks for the flight, I smell something strange. After a moment, I realize it’s not because the smell is unfamiliar, but because I’m on an airplane. Usually the only scents I pick up are perfume and body odor. I get a whiff again and look around. A seat away, the editor is holding a bottle wrapped in plastic foam. I look at his plastic cup, and see a clear liquid, in contrast to the Coke can sitting on his tray. He’s now putting the bottle into the bag at his feet, when I see the manila cover of the document: ‘Tésis Sra. Maria’—and the rest is cut off (tésis=thesis). Simultaneously, I recognize the smell. It’s vodka.
He pulls out the bottle at least a half a dozen more times before the plane’s final descent. He doesn’t pull out the tésis again. Lucky for Maria.
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!Empuja el botón!
I’ve made it through the first part of customs. I warranted scarcely a nod from my examiner, though I am still trembling from having to speak Spanish for a practical purpose for virtually the first time in my life. My final test involves a seemingly cursory scan of my luggage. I have to speak Spanish again, but this time I’m ready. I even answer the inspector’s ‘Buenas tardes’ with ‘Buenos noches’—she glances at her watch, sees it is no longer afternoon, and says ‘Sí, buenos noches.’
Confidence sky-high, I pick up my bag and walk to the exit. Someone calls to me, but of what they say all I understand is ‘Senor!’ I turn, listen uncomprehendingly, until someone says in English: ‘Push the button.’ They point to a pole, where three people are standing. There is a large yellow button set in the green pole, with ‘The Button’ in large capitals above it. The Spanish equivalent of ‘random search generator’ is printed in smaller letters.
Finally understanding, I step towards the pole, reach out and push the button. No alarm. I walk through sliding doors into
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