New Russian Chronicles
Surviving monotaxocausofilia

Very Important Pablers

Let me tell you about VIP lounges.

I used to think these things were Hollywood stuff. No, seriously, an instrument for creating dramatic scenes in movies. You know, by the middle of the film you have George Clooney who has been making all these stupid mistakes with this woman, and suddenly they find each other in the VIP Lounge and have this soulful conversation… the audience is rapt, their little, malleable subcounsciouses setting themselves up to experience the full impact the final love scene or final dissapointment scene, depending on the season.

Or take those Harrison Ford action films, in which he defeats hordes of terrorists with a Parker fountain pen. He’s been trying to find evidence against the bad guy who is using the Government’s resources for his own jingoistic ends. And suddenly he meets his own personal “Deep Throat” (insert porn film reference) who gives him the incriminating dossier. Then they catch their respective planes, and the other guy is poisoned in flight.

Well, that’s it, I thought VIP lounges existed only for film purposes, just like lasers that go “Zing!” when they fire exist only in movies, CSI is also a movie thing, cars that soldier on without tires , guns that don’t overheat, technology that fixes the environment, power that doesn’t corrupt, arms merchants who are actually good people (or try to seem, but actually are not. I’m looking at you, Iron Man 2… and by the way, FUCK YOU Ayn Rand), government agencies that resists subversion by the private sector, alien invasions that sit around for a while giving mankind the time to riposte, alien technology of which we backwards-engineer the code it was programmed in (It was just Java), bullet wounds that don’t instantly fuck you up, american presidents who resent having to blow up things, Russian presidents that end up seeing the point of the american president, spies that speak a fuckload of languages, stealth in space…. you get my point.

But no, it turns out they exist! Now… well, I can say they exist because I am currently in one. I’m hiding behind a sofa to avoid detection, because, even though I have an invitation, I’m fairly sure they’ll kick my lowlife ass out of this place if I don’t start reading the Financial Times intently enough. Well, that’s why I’m working on my computer right now (I’m taking notes in my LINUX MACHINE, SUMBIT, HEATHENS, CONVERT TO L… sorry, got carried away) like, taking notes down in a document to copy paste it then to my blog. I think that, so far, the deception has worked. They probably assume that if I’m working on a laptop, as opposed to, I dunno, take pictures or talking loudly, I probably belong in this lounge. Unsuspecting fools…

Anyway, maybe they just assumed I’m some kind of rockstar. I say that because I doubt that a black t-shirt has ever been seen around this parts, much less one that contains obscure references to Albacete. Moving on…

Do you want to know how this place looks like? It looks like a Counter-Strike map. Seriously. Not like de_dust, obviously, but do you remember those later maps that looked like luxury shops or something? Exactly like that. I’m just waiting to be pwned any second now. Now if only I could find the trader…

Take a look at this pic.

Even showers. The rest, somehow, surprises me less. A workstation for yuppie types? Check. Wardrobe? Check, that’s pretty normal. A buffet with croissants? Check. Showers? …
I’m sure they are not like the showers at Gare du Nord. Have you ever used them? I have. It’s ok, you know, they are just showers, and that one time I SERIOUSLY needed them. But let’s not get into why my own bathroom was locked tight. But it’s all ok, in a train station you have your baggage with you!! (That said, don’t we all have all our baggage with us, all the time?)

But somehow, in a vip lounge…. it’s not like I don’t understand why they could be useful, it’s just that… I dunno, think about this. You are a high fly executive, and you come to this lounge. You’ve been flying since forever, and you arrive here. You definitely feel sticky. But crap, you have already done the check in, all you have is your hand luggage! Do you take a shower then change into the same sticky underwear and suit? FUCKING GROSS, man!
I can only see three alternatives:
– They sell armani clothes in this lounge and I haven’t noticed
– People who use the showers are so travel-hardened that they carry spare clothes in their hand luggage (Plausible, but I don’t want to become one of those)
– Not many people use the showers.

Now that I think of it, maybe this high flyers are, like, very tight buddies and just take a shower and then exchange suits. And…. eeeeeew I just grossed myself out.

Anyway, let me talk about the little breakfast buffet. Usual thing, coffee, juice, soft drinks, croissants and scones and stuff. I’ve had one cup of coffee and one glass of juice so far… but I think that if I have another go at the scones, they’ll just start looking at me, and my cover will be blown. Yup, I’ve been going viking on them.

But this buffet presents a philosophical conundrum. There’s wine.

To drink a lot, or not to drink: that is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The void and nothing of a long-haul flight,
Or to take drinks against a sea of boredom,
And by ingestion, end them?

And what about, you know…. the stewardesses? Will the legends be true?

Post-flight addendum:
I decided not to get drunk, and by Jove, I should have. It was ok, I guess, but boring and too long. About the stewardesses, nope, the legends are not true.

I’m now sitting in one of those complexes for rich people. I’m cut off from anything that could remotely interest me from Bali. But have no fear, I’m going to stage an escape tonight. Someone noted some basic Indonesian vocabulary for me recently, and it will not go to waste.

And also, I really, really want to get away from this place. Crap, I hate this kind of places. Yeah everyone’s very courteous, but I can’t really interact with these people, crap. Not with the locals (and are they?) not with the other guests, whom, by the looks of them, I’d rather mock for being pretentious. Because, seriously, every single person I’ve come across at the reception comes from some kind of middle-management, and is only at this expensive hellhole because they want to look cool for the lover, wife… or more possible so that they can boast with the neighbors. Whatever, I must do something about all this or I’ll go postal.


2 comentarios to “Very Important Pablers”

  1. next time get drunk.


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