First, I would just like to say the tone of this post was brought to you by United Airlines. United: Preferred flyer of Oompa Loompas, Amputees, and the Lollypop Guild. If you don’t get there and look like hell, next time you ride in cargo for free.
So, Argentina. That's pretty freakin' far. And when you work for a company that refuses to acknowledge the existence of business class, it's a really really long way. By the time I arrive to the airport I'm in no mood for human interaction of any kind. Well, Argentina has recently decided to raise money through a gotcha tax as you arrive in EZE (the main international airport in Buenos Aires). They say that this amount is in no way a visa but in fact just payback for three crappy governments (Canada, Australia and the U.S.) who have the gall to charge Argentina’s citizens a visa fee. As you enter the terminal now you are immediately herded by nationality into hastily erected payment quarters so that you can be subjected to the $131 fee. There is no warning of this fee before you arrive, no notification on your airline ticket. Not even a mention in flight before you land. Luckily, others from our office had gone before and sussed out the situation post-Jan 15, 2010. So, if you are planning on heading to Argentina, you may want to re-consider and go somewhere else without a reciprocity tax (a.k.a. ”Screw You” tax).
And then there was my immigration officer... Given my unlucky status as an American and requirement to pay the Screw You tax I was near the end of the long line of our flight to come through. From what I could tell everyone ahead of me was also from my flight. So after waiting in my second line of the three line day I come to the immigration officer who decided, with one look, that he hates me. “Flight number.” Jesus, I don’t know, as I try to pull out the correct piece of paper out of my backpack with the 4500 different pockets and zippers. Usually at this point they try to help you out, “where did you come from?” knowing that there are probably only 1 or 2 possible choices for you to choose from. As the airport clearly only had one international flight per provider he could have suggested “United? American?” and used his knowledge from there. No he hummed while I cursed and dug out old boarding passes from the wrong flights. After I successfully located the flight number on a balled up boarding pass crouching in the seam of my backpack I moved onto customs. As I followed the signs to the outside I’m fairly certain I passed through customs without getting searched as the strange looking step-child of a family of Mexicans that I latched onto. I certainly got a raised eyebrow but no one said a word and no one ever even took my customs form.
I did finally make it through the rigmarole and managed to hand over a large portion of the cash I had on me through the various airport schemes. There was of course the ridiculous exchange rate booth, with “no commission” and the “official taxi stand” operators who grab your bags and beg for tips. Finally, I was in a cab and on my way to the domestic airport for the next leg of my flight.
Argentina is a mishmash of cultures and I've had the pleasure of visiting a handful of times. They took the foods of Italy, the superiority complex of France, the anal retentiveness of Germany, and threw it all together to create their own anal retentive, taxation and rule crazy, but never on time, striking mess with the party vibe of Brazil and a cowboy history flowing just beneath the surface. I've got to admit it is a blend that has benefits and makes for a great country. The food in Argentina is amazing, combined with the culture and cafes of any good European city, buildings that are well thought out and neighborhoods that are well kept. The people may believe they are better than you, but they are are kind and open to strangers.
These internal conflicts of Argentine culture were evident to me in the orderly traffic on the motorway as I crossed the city that wasn’t at all phased by a motorcycle speeding in the breakdown lane going the wrong direction. Argentina is like that straight-A kid you remember from High School who followed all the rules, but was moonlighting as a stripper for extra cash. You’d never know it to look at her except for the nipple ring that occasionally showed through her top.
I was fairly certain I had asked for the right place but the price was high and my invoice said “Aeroparque” not “Aeropeurto” ….and we were driving, and driving, and driving. The travel agent had said 25 minutes. The flight attendant said 20 … so at 45 minutes I began to get concerned I had miscommunicated something along the way. We drove through the “Parque Norte” (North Park) and I got even more concerned, as we had entered onto a picturesque boulevard that was lined with trees, following the coastline paved with residential speed bumps. Lord help me where have I asked to go?? I was just about to ask for some clarification on the whole “Aeroparque” (literally air park) and “Aeropeurto” (airport) issue. When finally, against all odds, and reaffirming my belief that my Spanish wasn’t so bad that I would end up in a different town I spotted the telltale blue sign with an airplane picture on it. Turns out Aeroparque was a good description, as the airport is lovely, built with the neighborhood in mind with one whole wall of windows overlooking the boulevard and the water beyond. Woo Hoo! I had arrived.
Trying to find a small enough bill to tip with, led to another episode of cursing and swearing my way through my backpack only to realize I didn’t actually have a smaller bill, and thus Part 24 of handing over all unsecured cash to various members of the airport community. A tradition of traveling that truly never ceases to irk me because I’m always, without fail, too tired to fight …except for that time when I was in Cairo and the guy locked my backpack into his trunk after I’d argued with him about the price and then just left. I out waited him, 45 minutes sitting in his cab acting as if nothing was unusual until he relented on the price and took me to my hotel. Alas that is a story for another day.
Upon my arrival at the domestic airport, I managed to get out of line twice after the monitors cycled past the name of the airline that was supposed to be represented at the counter. My slowly awakening mind finally realized the monitor was alternating between two names. Duh. It’s a monitor and I was treating it as if someone had carved it into an ancient piece of stone. When I reached the counter I was met with a quickly spoken question outside of my comfort zone to which I announced “Calafate?” (the city I was trying to get to and my best guess at the first question the airlines usually ask). To which I was greeted with a withering stare and “your passport.” Type type type. “How many bags?” she said in heavily accented English. “None”, I don’t do checked luggage. Our U.S. airlines have lost their minds with their silly fees, and I refuse to take it anymore, so I had everything down to my hiking boots and work clothes shoved into a tiny carryon. “I must weigh it.” …. Du du dududu 21 kg between my carryon and my backpack and a heavy winter jacket. “No more than 5” she says. “What!?” “No more than 5 kg to carry” … Aerolinas Argentinas? Are you shitting me? 10 lbs I’m allowed to carry on? That’s basically a laptop? But did I say that? Did I turn into one of those Americans screaming about stupid foreign rules and customs? No. I started pulling things out of my carryon, knowing this was a battle for another, less sleep deprived, day.
All I’m saying is, if I were president of the world I would get all of the crazy ass airlines and government agencies into a room and I would lock them up there with one word “Decide”. Pick one set of ridiculous virtually pointless rules, that will apply to all the airplanes and airports in the world. Either we have 2 carry-ons or we have 1 (I’m talking to you England). We will have 30 lb carry ons or 10 lb carry ons (crazy Argentina Air). Water bottles or no, shoes on or off? Post security water is okay or still bad? Plastic bags or in your carryon? Cell phones during taxi or no? … And while you are at it demand that ever plane out of production from this day forward can hold the same size carryon. I want an end to gatechecking! Who’s with me?! It’s a revolution! But for now I will just have to do with my camera, a non-functional blackberry, and a laptop without wireless access … because everything else was checked.
