July, 1995. I am sitting on the marble floor of my departure gate in the Athens Airport with many impatient Hungarians. We are all waiting for our plane to Budapest to arrive.
Frankly, I am just glad to be at the gate at all, considering I had just ridden on a ferry and a bus, run several blocks while being chased by feral dogs and then hailed a $1,000 drachma cab to take me to about .9 kilometers to the International Terminal.
Worse, I had begged, pleaded and gone both Ugly American and Damsel-in-Distress at the ticket counter. The result was a scolding about checking in late and getting a personal escort to the Malev Airlines gate where the friggin’ flight is now delayed due to mechanical problems. Hence, my current situation, which is a far cry from yesterday.