My friend has a story for you, and it’s a masterpiece in airport absurdity. It all begins in Santiago, where passport control is apparently a dystopian experiment in patience. The electronic kiosks? Strictly for Chileans, because heaven forbid foreigners speed things up. Instead, they’re herded into a line so long it might have its own zip code. She counted 33 manned kiosks—because what else do you do in an endless line?—but only four were actually manned. Naturally.
When she finally reaches the front, the guy directing traffic is busy scrolling Instagram or whatever until she interrupts his zen. He barks a number at her in lightning-fast Spanish, which she doesn’t catch. She asks him to repeat, and he actually looks up this time (progress!) to shout it again. Still no clue. She asks again, and this time he raises two fingers and glares at her. Simple enough, right? Except… there is no #2 kiosk.
At this point, it’s a game of airport roulette. She picks a kiosk and hopes Señor Glares-a-Lot is too engrossed in his phone to notice. Victory!
There was already an issue with the airline check-in. The agent there? She could write the textbook on “not my problem” customer service. Minimal words, zero eye contact, maximum indifference. When asked about lounge access, she mumbles “Pacifico Lounge” and waves her off like she’s directing traffic, not humans.
Now begins the epic Hunger Games: Lounge Edition. There are FOUR lounges, each tied to a gate, but here’s the catch: the airport doesn’t tell you your gate until the very last second. Unless you’re clairvoyant, good luck picking the right one. So she takes a 10-minute hike to one lounge, only to be told she needs the lounge near the E gates—basically on the other side of the Andes.
By now, she’s cranky, sweaty, and reconsidering all her life choices. But hey, she finally finds the lounge! Victory? Not so fast. They want her boarding pass and her passport. Why? Blank stares. She asks again. Still blank. Finally, one brave soul explains they send her name and passport number to the airline. She asks why—because who wouldn’t?—and the response is more blank stares and rising irritation. Fine. Whatever. Her companion is hungry, so they hand over their passports, dignity, and will to live.
Here’s the kicker: The harder it is to get into a lounge, the crappier it usually is. This one? Cold cuts, sad cheese slices, and vibes colder than the meat tray. Starbucks saved the day with a latte, and now, she’s calm. Well, calmer. Until she writes this all down and relives the horror.
Next up, she decided it was time to grab a T-shirt for a friend at one of those airport souvenir shops. You know the type—everything overpriced, but somehow still irresistible. As she is browsing, a sales associate swoops in like a caffeinated mosquito, asking if we like the shirts. My friend mutters a non-committal “yes” and casually sidestep, attempting the classic fade-into-the-background maneuver.
But no, she’s got other plans. With the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a telemarketing role, she gestures to a gigantic sign (seriously, it’s practically a billboard) that says, “Buy 2, Get 1 Free!” Clearly, my friend already had seen it, unless she was blind or just landed from Mars. So, she politely declines and tries to resume the delicate art of shirt selection.
Yet, like a boomerang of persistence, the sales person is back. Hovering. Smiling. Asking, “What can I do for you?” At this point, my friend’s patience has gone through security and boarded the flight without her. She glances at her, and before she can stop myself, blurt out, “You can leave me alone!”
The shock on her face could’ve earned my friend an Oscar. She backs away like my friend just revealed she was carrying an emotional support velociraptor. Admittedly, my friend might have said it a tad loud…
This whole situation brought me back to that time in Branson, Missouri—America’s favorite blend of theme park vibes and midlife crises. I was still living in Holland then, completely unprepared for the Disney-on-cornfields chaos of that bustling little town. While shopping in some local outlet, the cheery cashier asked me how I was enjoying Branson. Without skipping a beat, I declared, “I hate it!”
Cue my partner, who swooped in like a Dutch diplomat at a crisis summit, explaining, “Oh, he’s Dutch. He can’t help it!” And then—because apparently honesty wasn’t the best policy that day—I got a mini lecture about cultural sensitivity and how I shouldn’t scare the locals. Lesson learned: sometimes, it’s better to just smile, nod, and pray for an escape route.
Global Veterinary Surgery 