Fistful of Dollars
It was my first trip overseas. I was then in my early thirties. My travelling companion, a senior engineer in my organization was a wise man nearing sixty. We landed at Heathrow Airport, where we had a layover of six hours before we were to board a flight to Washington. Agog with excitement, I took in the sights of the duty-free shopping area. My friend, however, was aghast at the ridiculous prices- his calculator brain was converting every price-tag into Indian Rupees, as quickly as his eyes scanned it. The prices did not register with me as I was merely window shopping and had no intention of buying anything. An hour of this and I was weary. We found seats and settled down to wait. We had been served a meal of sorts on the flight at some unearthly hour and I started feeling a bit peckish. Looking around, I decided to try the famous English Tea that I had always heard of. My partner in tow, I approached the nearest restaurant and scanned the price list. In my opinion, the cup of tea was quite reasonably priced. I had, however, forgotten that my friend’s foreign exchange converter was still on! “Three hundred bucks for a cup of tea? No way”! Presented this way, the price was indeed atrocious- three hundred times of the price in India! We quietly returned to our seats. My friend produced a packet of the good old “Marie” biscuit and we munched through it, savouring every crumb. Liberal sips of water from the drinking water faucet supplemented and sustained us for the rest of the wait. The stewardess on the onward flight to Washington must have been used to the gusto with which many passengers in the flight attacked the first meal that was served on board. After all, we were not the only ones armed with mental calculators.
At Washington, when I felt my stomach rumble, I slipped away from my friend and set off in search of something to eat. I was determined not to let my mind dictate terms to my heart (after all the way to the heart was through the stomach!). Standing in line to order a burger, I looked at the brightly lit sign over the service area and decided that a cheese-burger with fries and coffee would be the safest bet for a Vegetarian like me.
“To go?”, the lady at the counter asked. That is pretty rude, I thought to myself, but answered, “No, I have just come”. Looking back, it seems hilarious, but the elaborate pantomime of the lady emoting whether I would like to eat the burger immediately or whether I would like it packed must have been quite an entertainment for the other customers waiting in line. My cheeks burn even now when I recall the scene.
Having settled that issue, I waited to pick up my order. Just to make sure, I asked the lady, “No meat?”. Without batting an eyelid, she took out the meat patty, thrashed it and handed the burger over. Not wanting to create a further scene, I picked up the tray, walked over to the dustbin, disposed the contents and left. I now know how to (or how not to) order a vegetarian burger abroad. Still smarting from the experience, I was hurrying away when someone behind, asked, “got a dollar?”. I considered myself a big person, but the person asking me the question was at least four times bigger than me. What a silly question, I thought to myself and replied, “got lots of dollars” and continued on. Later on, I realized the implications of my action and thanked God that I had got away without any consequence!
You live and learn!
