Glass
3
Glass Did a smile creep over the check-in official’s face as the digital scales registered an unexpected 21.5 kg? Anna Kozlowski was convinced that it did. The baggage allowance was a mere 20 kg. But what was a paltry 1.5 kg? The official would surely shrug her shoulders and wave the baggage through. After all, Anna could certainly not be penalised for a little extra luggage, when the majority of passengers, waiting behind her in the queue, would have tipped the scales at considerably more than her meagre 60kg of body weight. Some, in fact, would have reached double that. But it was not to be. “I’m sorry, madam, you are over the limit,” said the uniformed woman in, as Duncan reflected, a delightful Italian accent. “But not much,” protested Anna. “It is so very little.” “I’m sorry,” repeated the woman. “It’s the glass,” said Duncan in his mild, not so dissimilar, Scots accent. “We’ll have to take it out of the suitcase.” Then he watched as Anna Kazlowski’s face began the dangerous transformation that, during their eighteen-month-old relationship, he had learned to fear. It is always tempting to underestimate cultural differences, as Duncan McInnis was, by now, abundantly aware. When he first met Anna it had not been love at first sight, but an attraction so immensely strong, a mixture of exotic magnetism, of attraction to physical difference, of a sense of being caught up in some huge genetic mixing bowl, that neither could resist. They leapt irresistibly into a chasm of passion. “You could put something in your hand baggage,” suggested the figure behind the counter who, Anna suspected, had already noted that her holdall was full to bursting, while Duncan carried absolutely no hand baggage. “Do you have a bag that we could use?” asked Duncan. “No bags.” “So what are you saying, then?” growled Anna, her voice becoming worryingly charged. The mood of their fellow travellers waiting for their turn at the check-in which, up to now, had been benign – jovial even – shifted perceptibly. Anna’s partner felt it acutely. “Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? Do they pay you to make life difficult?” Anna’s voice rose in pitch and volume with every question.
description
A short story by John Foot.
Transcript of Glass
Glass
Did a smile creep over the check-in official’s face as the digital scales registered an
unexpected 21.5 kg? Anna Kozlowski was convinced that it did. The baggage
allowance was a mere 20 kg. But what was a paltry 1.5 kg? The official would surely
shrug her shoulders and wave the baggage through. After all, Anna could certainly
not be penalised for a little extra luggage, when the majority of passengers, waiting
behind her in the queue, would have tipped the scales at considerably more than her
meagre 60kg of body weight. Some, in fact, would have reached double that.
But it was not to be.
“I’m sorry, madam, you are over the limit,” said the uniformed woman in, as Duncan
reflected, a delightful Italian accent.
“But not much,” protested Anna. “It is so very little.”
“I’m sorry,” repeated the woman.
“It’s the glass,” said Duncan in his mild, not so dissimilar, Scots accent. “We’ll have
to take it out of the suitcase.” Then he watched as Anna Kazlowski’s face began the
dangerous transformation that, during their eighteen-month-old relationship, he had
learned to fear.
It is always tempting to underestimate cultural differences, as Duncan McInnis was,
by now, abundantly aware. When he first met Anna it had not been love at first sight,
but an attraction so immensely strong, a mixture of exotic magnetism, of attraction to
physical difference, of a sense of being caught up in some huge genetic mixing bowl,
that neither could resist. They leapt irresistibly into a chasm of passion.
“You could put something in your hand baggage,” suggested the figure behind the
counter who, Anna suspected, had already noted that her holdall was full to bursting,
while Duncan carried absolutely no hand baggage.
“Do you have a bag that we could use?” asked Duncan.
“No bags.”
“So what are you saying, then?” growled Anna, her voice becoming worryingly
charged. The mood of their fellow travellers waiting for their turn at the check-in
which, up to now, had been benign – jovial even – shifted perceptibly. Anna’s partner
felt it acutely.
“Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? Do they pay you to make life difficult?”
Anna’s voice rose in pitch and volume with every question.
“Can we just keep calm here?” attempted Duncan in his warmest tone. “How much
do we need to pay for the excess?” His combative girlfriend was about to explode
but, with a strategic, grip of her arm, he managed to avert embarrassing conflict.
The airline employee quickly set about the task of calculating the cost of surplus
luggage which appeared to involve some frowning and a great deal of tapping on
computer keys before she announced the total.
“Seventy fucking quid!” yelled Anna, suddenly free of Duncan’s restraint. She turned
to address the crowd in the hall. “One and half kilos over weight and they want me to
pay seventy fucking pounds! What kind of bloody protection racket outfit is this? Is
not airline. Is mafia. Is fuck bloody mafia.”
Duncan was tempted to curl up in a ball and hide. When the English goes, so does
the reason, or maybe it was the other way round. He decided to act.
“OK,” he said. “It’s all right. I’ll pay.” The airline official nodded. Anna thought she
looked too contented. “Do you accept credit cards?”
It was a long walk from the check-in at Venice airport, through security and onwards
to the departure gate.
“We should have bloody insisted,” said Anna.
“Sometimes one just has to accept that’s how it is,” said Duncan.
“The glass isn’t worth seventy fucking quid,” said Anna.
“In a few months you’ll have forgotten about this and you’ll still enjoy the glass,” said
Duncan.
“I didn’t like the look on her stupid cow face,” protested Anna.
“She was an employee. That’s all,” explained Duncan.
During the flight home Anna Kozlowski calmed down, thanks to two 250ml bottles of
Bulgarian wine.
At Bristol they disembarked to a wet and windy autumn day and huddled together all
the way to the baggage collection area.
“You know,” said Anna, as she hauled her suitcase from the conveyor belt. “You’re
right. It’s only money. In a couple of weeks we will have forgotten all about how
much it cost.”
It wasn’t until they arrived home that they fully understood how rough baggage
handlers can be.
