Baggage Claim Blues…
I stand in a crowd of people watching a conveyor belt go round. There is an air of anticipation. Cases & bags begin to appear, as if by magic. “Is that my black case?” a geezer asks. “No it’s mine” replies a lady in a mink coat. “Er, actually that would be mine” says a gent with a walking stick and a Sesame Street tank top. That’s the problem with black cases. Lots of people have them.
I dont. I have a rucksack. A backpack. I watch the conveyor belt – hypnotised by its soothing motion, mesmerized by the way it stops bags from bumping into each other (an infared beam methinks). The crowd thins. People start to wheel their little black cases away. In the travelling days of yore, only the biggest black cases had wheels. Now, the manufacturers put wheels on cases the size of a box of cheese. A small box of cheese. Camembert. Mmmmm…
I stand alone. My fellow luggage luggers have departed. The conveyor belt contines to turn. A solitary black case sits on it, revolving again & again & again. It isn’t mine. Mine is a rucksack. A backpack. Mine isn’t here. the conveyor belt stops. I sigh. A lady escorts me to the lost luggage desk. it isn’t far – Hanoi airport only has 1 conveyor belt.
I fill out a form. She asks me what colour my backpack is. I’ve carried that backpack pretty much every day for the last 6 & a half months. What colour is it?? How in the name of David Hasselhoff am I expected to remember that? I leave the airport bagless, and resigned to wearing the same pair of underwear for the 4th consecutive day. The Hoff would be ashamed.
I wake up this morning in my father’s polo shirt. I look rather dashing. I can so pull off the doctor look. I call the airport. My bag has arrived. While I was painfully running through L.A airport to make my connection on Saturday night (see below), the baggage transfer people must have been having a quick game of ker-plunk. I’d call it irony, except my chest hurt too much. Oh how I yearn for fresh underwear…not long now…
Tags: Vietnam
The Dude
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