Line up the refugees

I asked Stefano and Alessandro to marry me, as they passed me by in the fast (EU passport) queue.  A frizzy-haired, pink sweat-suited woman a few people behind me said, "It doesn't help."  She said it in a worldly way, which contrasted with her orange and white hair and American Midwest accent.

I said, "No, I really just want to get married."

"Whatever turns you on."  And she smirked, looking at the shoulders of the businessman in front of her, as if they were going to get her joke.

I thought, they're both good-looking guys (one especially so), well-dressed, so why did she react like I'd just admitted to some perversion?

After pondering this, I said, "You know, I actually know them.  I wasn't asking strangers to marry me."

She raised her hands and eyebrows,  and looked for more support from the shoulders.

I thought it rather much, to intrude on my private joke (ok, spoken with my own American voice) with friends and then, when I respond, act like, "I'm a complete stranger.  It's creepy you're talking to me, but if I don't look you in the eyes, maybe you'll go away."

Of course, the most I could go away was an inch or two.

Earlier, the thin woman in front of me -- expensive handbag and jumper -- had been in the queue way behind me, but marched past and I asked, "All passports?"

Without a glance, she said, "Non-EU," and kept striding like she was on parade.  Only she wasn't waving.  It was more a military parade.

I said, "That's the same thing," and fell in line.  The people in the EU passport queue looked miffed as we raced past.  I shrugged and said, "Non-EU....  Non-EU...."

An airport worker met us going the opposite way.  The other woman seemed to scare him, so he latched onto me.  "What are you doing?"

"Non-EU."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, it's on the right."

"You've been here before.  OK then."

I said, "I just feel guilty we may have passed by other, non-EU people."

"Don't worry -- your queue doesn't move at all.  Only one person working it."

He didn't catch the distinction that I only felt guilty about passing non-EU schmucks who didn't know they were in the wrong queue.

Once we piled up against the stationary Japanese ladies waiting about thirty people down from the passport desk, the handbag lady said, "Do you want to go in…."

I thought she was going to ask, did I want to resume my rightful place in front of her, but she changed it to, "Did you fill out one of these?" and waved her immigration form.

"I do this regularly."

She smiled ruefully -- not like the frizzy-haired, sweat-suited American.  Clothes do reflect one's soul.  Destroyed or not.

Oh, and every time the queue shifted an inch forward, the Canadian-Chinese* guy behind me tried to take a full step, so whenever I moved my elbows, I encountered some body part.  This didn't seem to stick in his head, though, as he kept doing it.  When he called someone to complain about the wait, I detected the presence of his head directly above mine, and so started flinging my hair back like a shampoo model.  Then I stretched my arms back.

It wasn't quite a naval action, but still, I gained and held my ground.

*I found this out when I started chatting with him later -- I figured if we were going to have so much bodily contact, we might as well know about each other.