Mom and I went on a shopping excursion before I left Houston.
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| I can't remember why Mom needed to go to Victoria's Secret. I think she was looking for some perfume. |
What does a Filipino living in the
United States take with him to the Philippines when he goes for whatever
reason? Most people have never given it much thought, but all Filipinos know
the answer to that question. The standard practice is to fill up your luggage
with as much pasalubong (presents for friends and relatives) as possible
without going over your allotted weight limit. The running joke amongst Filipinos
is that we go so far as to bring a scale to the airport with us to weigh our
big cargo boxes, adding or taking out items to get them as close to 50 pounds
as possible.
“Huwag na yang matsbaks na iyan.”
“Dagdagan
mo ng panyo.”
“Alisin mo ang isang Spam.”
(“Forget that Matchbox car.”)
(“Put a
couple of more handkerchiefs in.”)
(“Take out one can of Spam.”)
Unbeknownst to most travelers, that
bulging crudely taped-up cardboard box on the conveyor belt tightly bound in twine
was actually a precisely measured cargo of toys, clothes and canned meats.
I
decide against the cardboard box, as Mom suggests. I already have a couple
of large suitcases. For the past year since last summer and a flurry of
shopping and rummaging over the last couple of weeks, I have been accumulating
stuff to fill them up with. I don’t bother weighing my luggage. I have been working out at the Y 4-5
times a week, lifting weights, including a series of one-arm lifts
with a 50-pound dumbbell - I know what 50 pounds feels like, and neither of these
two suitcases even comes close.
I
should have stuck to the standard procedure and brought my own scale. The first
piece of luggage I place on the Northwest Airlines check-in scale comes
out to 49 pounds, but the second one is 18 pounds over the limit, the two ladies
behind the desk remorsefully inform me, and that they would have to charge me an
extra 150 dollars.
“Unless
you’re a Gold Member,” the nice lady with a Scottish-Canadian accent quickly
adds.
She looks closely at my NWA
WorldPerks card. “You’re Silver,” she declares, and pulls my bag off the scale,
tags it, smiles and sends me on my way to the gate. “Have a good day,” the
other one says twice as I thank them profusely, cursing my own arrogant
stupidity under my breath.
There are many people out there who
still do not know their airport etiquette. This is made apparent to me as I
rush through the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport to catch my
connection to Tokyo. Because my arrival from Houston is slightly delayed due to
a storm system in northern Texas which the pilot avoids by circling eastward
over St. Louis, I have less time between flights so I have to walk fast on what
feels like miles of automated walkways. Even though they are clearly marked to
stand on the right lane and walk on the left of the walkway, I still encounter
people insisting on standing around side by side chit-chatting on both lanes.
It turns out however that my rush is
unwarranted, as I discover Northwest Airlines Flight 19 to Tokyo Narita
International Airport is delayed because the plane has been struck by lightning and must be fixed first. (I am relieved they decided to fix it first.) Upon
check-in, I am told that the delay is indefinite and passengers will be
informed in a couple of hours whether we are be able to take off tonight or
tomorrow, and those of us with connecting flights in Tokyo will have to be
rebooked once the plane is airborne. The wait is painful, with only
fast-food and gift shops around to kill time in.
After several hours, during which I
eat an overpriced turkey and avocado sandwich made by Somalian chefs in a
gourmet deli, the announcement is made that Flight 19 is delayed until the
morning and the airline is providing each passenger with hotel vouchers
including dinner and breakfast. The meal vouchers can only be used in the airport
though, so before I catch the hotel shuttle, I eat an overpriced bowl of
Japanese noodles with processed seafood and soggy tofu and a side of seaweed
salad packaged in a plastic container.
On the
shuttle to the Marriott Eagan, a Minneapolis suburb just east of the airport, I
toy with the idea of going to check out some nightlife. I ask Dan the shuttle driver
about the Minneapolis music scene which I have heard so much about. Dan is a
veritable fountain of information, recommending venues from the West Bank area
to Prince’s old haunt 1st Avenue where he shot the
movie Purple Rain, rattling off names of bands like Hüsker Dü, the Replacements
and Brother Ali and the clubs they got their start in. He tells me how many
blocks I have to walk to get to which club from where the Light Rail would drop
me off. In Houston, when somebody says “the mall,” they can be referring to one
of many malls - Baybrook, Sharpstown, Town and Country, the Galleria to name just
a few. But here in Minneapolis, when they say “the mall,” it means only one
mall, the mother of all malls - the Mall of America. In order for me to get to the nightlife I am
looking for, according to Dan I would have to hitch a ride with the airport shuttle to The Mall,
catch the Light Rail and then walk about 6 blocks.
With no change of clothes and no
jacket for the dropping Minnesota temperature, and the prospect of having to
walk around at night in an unfamiliar town with a 5:00 am wake-up call, I
decide to stay in.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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