Finally, on this strange hot Wednesday April 4, I left the beautiful Lake Chapala for my much anticipated trip to the port of Acapulco. The trip to the airport was pleasant, with light traffic, a comfortably air conditioned taxi. At the airport, everything was reversed; it was hot, organized chaos because of the crush of passengers with small, medium, and large suitcases, and with children running everywhere and around everyone. The baggage boys ought to have a special area, for we had to avoid them, like bulls in the street.
On buying my tickets I was told that I had to make a connection in Mexico City, but as I had paid with my American Express card, I could wait in Aeronaves de Mexico’s Salon Premier, First Class Club. Other times when I have flown, I have seen the arrows pointing to the first class lounges, but I had never entered because I thought that they were for the “divine elite.”
Normally, for comfort’s sake, I fly in denim clothing and canvas shoes. On reflection I saw that since the salon is for the elite, I should change the way I dress. So, I went to Gigante, my store, went to the men’s section, was astonished to find a large selection of pirated ‘Polo” brand shirts and pants. For $470 pesos I bought some ”Polo” leather moccasins and a tie and handkerchief. When we arrived in Mexico City the first thing we did was to look for the famous first class salon; we found it, produced our tickets and American Express card, and we took note, they attended to us with great courtesy and offered us cold drinks.
The room certainly is luxurious with its large bar and large tables, chairs, and televisions, and best of all, its extensive liquor inventory. After waiting quite a while, I rose to complain because no one had waited on us. The manager said, I beg your pardon, but here each person serves themselves whatever they want. I imagine that I blushed with embarrassment apparent to all. Nervously and with trembling hands, supposing that all the other passengers were looking at me because of me little exhibition, I mixed two drinks, one for my wife and one for me.
The famous First Class Club that I imagined was frequented by industrialist, bankers, and well known politicians, is nothing other than an ordinary place for waiting passengers in transit to different destinations. Each person dressed as he would or could, some in shorts and sandals, others in running sets and running shoes, and a few others like me, pretentiously well dressed.
The majority watched the television; others with a computer played chess or worked. The senoras talked about the things of women and neglected their precious children whom one could see were “well trained” because they ran around and jumped over everything in the room. Faced with this terrible chaos my wife and I tried to watch the television, impossible, because of the constant coming and going of passengers, some of whom were going to their flights and others who went to mix their drinks. The majority of the travelers had backpacks on their backs and woven palm hats, and when they stood in front of us visiting, they blocked the view of the television screen. Fortunately, we only had to wait three hours during which we drank vodka with quinine water and ate peanuts, the salty Japanese type. When out flight was announced, I stood up and had a little balance problem and almost fell. I do not know if it was because of the vodka, or the emotion of being able to leave the lounge.
The flight was smooth, and we arrived on tim, my son awaited us to take us to his apartment, and on the door, I read a sign that said, “follow the arrow to go to the First Class Club.” What puzzlement I felt speculating of the meaning of “Salon Premier.”
