Desarrollo personal, Idiomas

Four Days, Three Airlines, and One Little Flag.

Talal Almoeen

Visitas totales: 0

You want to hear something crazy? It happened to me in 2016.

I went to Turkey to see my family and everything was fine at first. I was flying in Lufthansa—can you believe it?—they even upgraded my seat on the way there. I thought, okay, this is going to be a good trip.

Yeah, famous last words…

So, the vacation ends and it’s time to go back to Colombia—to my wife and my kids. And that’s when the whole thing just… collapsed.

First problem: I show up for my Lufthansa flight back, they told me that my ticket is canceled. Why? I had no Schengen or US visa. And back then I didn’t have Colombian nationality yet. So, I’m stuck. I told myself that I’ll try again the next day, but the same thing happened, canceled.

The first time this happened; I was in a city that wasn’t even the capital. I had to buy a whole new ticket just to get back to my family’s place and figure out what to do. It was embarrassing, frustrating and exhausting.

On the third time I went to the airport there were different workers. One of them takes a look at my passport, and swiftly without even blinking, just said: “You are Syrian. You are not allowed to use our airline.”

Then—and I’ll never forget this—he lowered his voice and said, “Get another airline. Go home to your wife.”

So I did. Turkish Airlines.

Now I had a ticket, but the flight wasn’t supposed to leave in almost 24 hours. So I went back into the city to find a hotel room. To my dismay I could only find one small, uncomfortable and expensive as hell. The kind of place where the pillow feels like a rolled-up jacket. I slept a few hours, woke up more tired than before, and dragged myself back to the airport.

Security? Fine. No issues.

But then I got to the final check. And right before the plane door. This guard takes my Syrian passport, flips through it, looks at me and flips again. At that moment I could feel his thoughts getting his mouth ready to say no.

I don’t know what came over me. I just reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and showed him my Colombian ID and bank card.

The bank card had a little Colombian flag on it, those beautiful yellow, blue and red colors.

He stared at it and then his supervisor walked by. They talked for a minute in Turkish but finally the supervisor shrugged and told him to let me board.

That was it. No explanation. Just go.

I got on the plane. And of course, of course—my seat was the worst one. Middle row, middle seat. On my left, and right? Two sisters who wouldn’t stop talking loudly in Portuguese the whole flight.

The flight attendant made an announcement: Istanbul to São Paulo, then some of us to Buenos Aires. That was me. Buenos Aires.

But I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was so scared that if I opened my mouth, if I asked one question, they’d pull me off the plane and leave me stuck in that airport forever. That’s not an exaggeration, that’s exactly what was going through my head.

I didn’t eat, drink or go to the bathroom for hours. I just sat there like a statue while those two women laughed and talked over me.

Finally, I saw the little screen map cross Cyprus, and I thought, okay, we’re far now. Too far to turn back.

So, I asked a flight attendant: “Excuse me… we’re going to Buenos Aires, right?”

She smiled. “First to Brazil. Then Buenos Aires.”

I almost cried from relief. At least I’m in Latin America, I told myself.

We landed in Buenos Aires almost at midnight. My next flight to Bogotá isn’t for 12 hours and there was no connection. Just me and my bags and a long wait.

I went to immigration. The officer sent me to some offices for luggage help and the guy there was actually nicely helping me with the paperwork for a change, he told me that I could rest now.

I turn to leave.

But then I heard someone running behind me.

“Sir! Sir, wait!”

It was the luggage guy, running out of breath and behind him, two other guys with dogs. The dogs were sniffing around like they found something.

“The dogs smell something in your bag,” he says.

I swear to God, my heart stopped. My knees went weak. I started thinking crazy things—someone planted something, my bag was alone, what if they put drugs in there, I’m going to jail in Argentina, I’ll never see my family again.

I handed him the key. “Open it. Check everything.”

Then I waited. Forty minutes but it felt like four years.

When he finally came back, he was walking slowly. Talking to his friends while holding my luggage and tickets. I ran and asked him “Is Everything okay?!”

He just handed me the tickets, didn’t stop walking and didn’t even look at me. He just kept talking to his friends like I wasn’t there.

I got the tickets, never found out what the dogs smelled in my luggage. Maybe it was an old sandwich, maybe soap. I really don’t know, but they could have at least told me.

No shower at that airport, nothing. I found a bathroom, washed my face, neck and arms. Put on some deodorant and a little perfume which didn’t help since I’d been traveling for almost 48 hours at that point and still had a long way to go.

I waited until morning, around ten AM. Then the flight to Bogotá got delayed for three more hours. I sat there watching everyone else, happy, clean while I was dirty and tired, I felt like a ghost.

When I finally got on that plane, I was still scared. My wife had booked the last connection from Bogotá to Santa Marta. If I missed it, there was no backup.

We landed. I don’t know how, but I was the first person off that plane. I Ran to baggage claim, got my suitcases and pushed that trolley like my life depended on it.

A worker showed me a shortcut to the domestic flight counter. Thank God for him. I handed over my luggage, got on the last plane, and passed out cold in my seat.

I know I smelled bad, people were avoiding me a woman moved away, someone covered their nose and I couldn’t blame them. But they had no idea what I’d been through.Those four days going from airport to airport, plane to plane, waiting area to waiting area had me scared the whole time.

When I landed in Santa Marta, my wife was waiting on a white dress. She hugged me tightly then pulled back a little. I saw her nose twitch but she didn’t say anything. She just smiled and took my hand.

We got a taxi and the driver put all four windows down before we even left the parking lot.

My wife explained everything to him. The canceled tickets, the dogs, the 48 hours, the two loud sisters. He just nodded and kept the windows down.

At home, my kids had set up a welcome-back party. Balloons, a banner they made themselves which said “WELCOME HOME PAPÁ”.

I hugged them both. They didn’t care how I smelled.

That night I took the longest shower of my life.

Worst experience I’ve ever had. And I really, truly hope no one ever has to go through something like that. But if you do—just keep going. And maybe carry a bank card with a flag on it. You never know.