Postscript - Madrid to Seattle
After a month of unseasonably cool weather on the Camino, on the day we left, temperatures started to soar. Because the weather was so bizarrely in our favor and I was the official weather-checker, we had a joke that I wasn’t simply a reporter, but actually in control of it.
The only time we walked in rain, the night before Sandy had casually said I could have the day off from my duties as keeper of the weather. That showed him, and with the development of mid-90’s temperatures as we boarded the plane for England, it almost seemed there was something legit to it.
Of course there’s no way we could travel two more days without more tales to tell, and the London Gatwick airport is its own special story. If you are already rolling your eyes, you’ve been there. Why someone thought it a good idea to put the duty free shopping zone directly between the security check and the boarding gates, effectively inserting an IKEA complete with a narrow meandering path way onto an active running track, is beyond me. There’s absolutely no skirting it, and it makes getting through the arm-in-arm Van-egrinos, poles, boom boxes and all, look like child’s play.
We had a substantial layover and checked into a Japanese style hotel at the airport: a shoe box sized room with wall-to-wall bed, complete with an en suite bathroom where the shower showers the toilet. We dumped all things Pelegríno into the room and had a night out on the town at the London Gatwick airport.
The manner in which we greet each other, the phrases of familiarity, or not, in addressing each other has been on my mind. I often have young women in Seattle call me “hon,” and I always cock my head to the side when addressed this way because it confuses me. I think this diminutive salutation is based on the notion that it’s inappropriate to acknowledge a woman’s age, and younger men call me “miss.” I’m actually offended by it. I am not a miss. I am almost 60 years old and I have earned every one of those years. Show some respect and address me as “ma’am,” thank you very much.
In England, seems it’s a similar story with a decidedly English spin. I heard repeatedly the word “luv,” as in “thank you luv,” upon paying the breakfast tab. The flight attendant, after I reported some dweeb stuck gum in the tray pocket said “thanks for letting me know, darling.” But the TSA agent took it to a whole new realm. After my bag was pulled off the line for an additional inspection due to a Flonase bottle, he cleared my backpack and said. “No problem lovey! Have a great flight!”
LOL. How could I not smile?
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