A Real Hoot | Princess of Persia | 2
Naked Singles
Stopover in Do Buy — Titty
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Leticia surveyed the line ahead glumly. You would think that people could handle a security checkpoint. Get their laptops out, take off their shoes and belts ahead of time instead of waiting until they were confronted with the conveyor and suddenly realising that action was required.
And take off your bloody watches, she mentally screamed as one tubby guy in a robe tried to stare down the security attendant directing him back through the metal detector. It might be a gold watch, mate, but it’s still made of metal and makes the thing go beep.
She had been one of the first off the plane, scooting down the jetway ahead of the mass of lower deck passengers. Oh, how wonderful it felt to be free of passengers wedged tightly in on each side. And now it looked like wasted effort; there were another couple of planeloads ahead of her in the line. She’d be here shuffling along, eating up time when she could be browsing through the duty-free shops in the terminal, maybe getting some food that wasn’t served in an aluminium tray to be eaten with a plastic spoon.
Beside her, the empty “Fast-Track” lane for premium passengers mocked her. Oh look, here were a couple strolling along, flashing their passes at the attendant. Silly matching grins on their unworried faces, matching bags rolling behind them, guffawing as they went.
“Have you tried the buffet? I just take my seat at the smoked salmon stand, open my mouth like a seal and let them fill me up!”
Wait. She’d seen this guy before. Oh my god, it was him. Salt and pepper hair, trim figure — now fully clothed — same smug smile.
Last night on the plane, waiting in the line for the toilets, looking up the staircase to the land of luxury, where a self-service bar could be glimpsed, stocked with all good things.
Leticia had been hoping that maybe a kindly First Class passenger would show up, take pity on the huddled masses below shifting their uncomfortable weight from one foot to the other, and toss down a few muffins or bottles of bubbly.
And one had appeared! But never a glance for those beneath, not until the woman behind her had gasped at the sudden appearance of a nude man and he had looked down the staircase and waved. God, what cheek!
Nice cheeks though.
Just what the hell was going on up there on the top deck? Did the airline allow an orgy amongst the private suites and lay-flat beds? Perhaps the flight attendants doubled as masseuses, oiled the passengers up, rubbed them down, and finished them off with a happy ending. All part of the service, Sir, clothes not required until we land, would you like some Moët with your midnight snack?
The man and his trophy wife unpacked their laptops and electronics — an impressive pile — waltzed through the checkpoint and disappeared. Leticia moved forward another few centimetres. Now she had to pee again; just thinking about the toilet queue had woken her bladder up.
Later — much later — Leticia felt a little more relaxed. Dubai might be a Muslim nation, but the terminal was full of duty-free booze, and the restaurants had no restrictions. Half an hour for a cheerful breakfast — wonder of wonders, there was a Hard Rock Cafe in the terminal! — of eggs Benedict and a decadent glass of an excellent Chilean merlot. There’d be no more wine for two weeks, and the morning flight to Tehran would hardly serve alcohol, even if whatever they handed out in tiny plastic bottles was worth the effort of drinking it, but here in this vast terminal the bars were open 24/7.
And now the hard part. There was a bewildering array of technology in the duty-free shop, and what was the exchange rate between Australian dollars and Dubai dirhans? She had no idea if any of this stuff was a bargain or what it did.
“May I help you, Madam?”
A sales assistant. Male. He’d spout jargon at her and sell her something she didn’t need. She wanted a woman who spoke her sort of language.
“I need a camera,” Leticia began.
“You’ve come to the right place then!” He indicated the displays full of shiny black boxes with buttons and knobs. “What did you have in mind?”
A camera. “I need a simple, light camera that will take good detailed pictures of historical sites and artifacts that I can show to my students.”
Her study grant allowed $1 500 for a camera, to photograph everything from closeups to landscapes, but she didn’t want to reveal too much; he’d just sell her the most expensive model in her limit.
“That would be any of these. They are all good cameras.” He indicated the display again. “Do you have a price range?”
She told him, and she could almost see the gears whirring behind those dark eyes as he calculated his commission.
“I take it you are not an experienced photographer? Selfies with the iPhone? I say that because you are not looking at any particular model, and most photographers have their eyes on a favourite brand.”
Oh crap, this was horrible. She was being manipulated by a master salesman who sold expensive things to people he’d never see again.
“I need something better than my phone. If I zoom in too much, it just goes all blurry, and if I try taking a photo at night, it comes out awful. But nothing complicated. And nothing too big or heavy.”
“So, none of these, then.” He gestured at a rack of big chunky cameras with long lenses sticking out in a phallic fashion. “This one might work for you, however.”
He picked up a smaller camera with a snub lens. “Mirrorless, one of the leading brands. Small, light, very good image quality, automatic focus and exposure. Try it.”
He handed it to her. “Look, on the screen, a touchscreen like your phone, just pick the photo you want. Close-up, portrait, landscape, night, action…”
Leticia poked at an icon of a flower.
“Close-up. Good. Point it at my watch, and touch the screen where you want the picture to be sharpest.”
She aimed it, pressed on the screen and it clicked. He took the camera from her, pressed a few buttons, and the image of his watch appeared on the screen, sharp and detailed. She could even read the brand name: T-A-G. And was that the time? She had better hurry.
“If you want to shoot something far off, this model comes with a telephoto lens.” He snapped a bigger lens on the camera. “Aim it at something a long way away, touch the screen…”
The terminal was about a kilometre long. She aimed at a distant pair of figures leaning over a railing on one of the upper floors, just a couple of ants, really.
“Look!” He did the trick with the buttons again and the ants expanded into human beings, with recognisable faces. Salt and pepper hair, blonde ponytail, matching carry-on bags…
She scowled.
“That’s amazing! Yes, I like it.”
“Excellent. Look, here is the quick guide. It has diagrams for the basic functions and a manual that covers all the advanced features. There is a flash that pops up, and the screen turns around for selfies.” He held the camera out at arm’s length and stood close. “Smile!”
She could see them on the screen together. He held up his free hand above his head with the “rabbit ears” fingers, and she laughed.
He showed her the picture. “See, you are beautiful. It is a trick to get people to smile.”
And she was. At least as beautiful as a mousey flat-chested academic in her forties, one unhappy marriage behind her, no prospects ahead, tired and disheveled and a little tipsy, could look.
He ejected a memory card from the camera and offered it to her. “This model is on special for $1 200, and I throw in the memory of the beautiful smile. Does that make you happy?”
It did, and a few minutes later Leticia was walking away with a duty-free carrier bag. Now, where was Gate 40? She was supposed to meet the tour group there for the flight to Tehran.
There was a middle-aged man holding a sign. “Magic Carpet Tours”
This must be Ben, the tour leader. “And this is Betty, my assistant. She will want to see your passport and boarding pass.”
Leticia pulled them out. She had sent off her passport to the tour company, along with a detailed application form, and it had been returned a month later with an impressive multi-coloured visa pasted in, complete with her photograph. “Islamic Republic of Iran,” it read, and there were signatures and stamps, a hologram, and lots of swirly Arabic writing.
Betty checked her documents and ticked Leticia’s name off a list. Twenty names, and a few still to come, it seemed.
“Now you know that there are no banks or ATMs you can use in Iran? This is your last chance to get money out; the money-changers there prefer Euros or American dollars.”
Leticia had five hundred Euro, and she showed her stash to Betty. “That will be plenty, unless you want to buy a Persian carpet or some gold. Now let’s get you introduced.”
There were a dozen or so tourists waiting, and Betty led Leticia around, repeating names as handshakes were exchanged. The names vanished into the mists of memory, but her fellow tour members were mostly Australians, a New Zealand couple, and a lone British man, well into his seventies, by the look. Simon, and he spoke Scottish.
No other single female travellers, and Leticia’s spirits lifted. She had paid a twin-share rate on the understanding that she would be matched with another solo traveller. Maybe she would have a room to herself, without having had to pay the dreaded 50% single supplement. Or maybe she would be sharing with Betty, who seemed friendly enough, and could probably give her some useful pointers on surviving in a religious fundamentalist dictatorship.
Another couple arrived, the Johnson sisters — Julie and Jane — both widowed, travelling through their bucket list. They’d be sharing for sure.
Ben was checking the time on the departures screen. “Just two more to come. They’d better hurry!”
And there they were. The last two travellers had spotted the sign and were aiming towards Ben. Tall, trim, holding hands, wheeling their matching bags…
Oh joy. A couple of snobs to suck the life out of the party. Or maybe — Leticia remembered the details of that unclad body — cranking up the excitement. Did Persians go in for parties and fun? It didn’t seem likely.
I was getting a bit tired of champagne and caviar — as if! — and so I thought I’d introduce Titty early. You’ve all read the Swallows and Amazons books for children? Well, if 1930s Britain could have — with a perfectly straight face — a child character named Titty, then I’m sure that I can follow suit, and have just as much fun with her.
You may have read the popular books — there was even a movie came out a couple of years ago — but I’ll take bets that very few of my readers have been to Iran. So strap yourself in on our flight to adventure. We’ll be landing at Imam Khomeini International Airport after a flight time of two hours and fifteen minutes. Ladies, please put on your hijab before leaving the plane.
Britni
The next installment:
(Tomorrow)
The whole story:
