I FREELY admit that I am not an experienced international traveller, hopping off one business-class, pampered experience to another every week.
I fly very rarely, if the truth be known. A few times a year on the budget airlines to visit family back in Blighty and a few times to the Middle East on a bit of business, but that’s about it.
I have friends who seem to travel extensively, quite literally scampering around the globe to a different outpost each week.
However, I do know how to use an e-passport machine, which is more than I can say for some.
I’ve just returned to Portugal after a brief period in Dubai and I witnessed the travelling light brigade in action.
They aren’t necessarily travelling with a small quantity of luggage; I’m referring to the small quantity of brain!
There was one chap, as I was leaving Dubai, with his passport clutched firmly, ready for the machine. He was in front of me in the queue, which advanced at a fair clip.
Silver haired, distinguished-looking chap. I watched him as his turn came. He put his whole passport in the slot, as if somehow hoping the machine could see through the pages.
When that clearly hadn’t produced the desired effect, he took to watching others. He inserted his passport next time, but the wrong way round.
By this time I was torn; did I move to another queue, should I offer to help, or just wait and watch and enjoy the spectacle?
The dilemma was resolved for me. He turned towards me, and with pleading eyes, asked, in perfect, cut-glass accented English, if I could help him.
I did, naturally. I placed his passport in the reader and it scanned away, but to no avail.
I repeated the performance. I then thought to check whether his passport had the little symbol on it. Of course, it didn’t did it?
The poor chap was trying to have the e-passport gate admit a non-e-passport. The last I saw of him, he was waiting in the ordinary queue with a more settled look on his face.
When I was coming through Lisbon, a lady who was somewhat surgically enhanced was in front of me.
Her bronzed skin, and a lot of it was on display, had a slightly orange tint to it, as if it had been applied, rather than acquired. She somehow managed to balance on enormously high heels and advance to the turnstile.
She waved her passport around at the front of the reader, as if expecting a sort of supermarket barcode laser to scan it. When this didn’t have the required effect, she stamped a foot and looked around. Once more, I adopted the role of helper and asked, in Portuguese, if I could help; ‘posso ajudar’?
She looked at me blankly. “I don’t speak Russian”, she shrieked.
She did have the little symbol on her passport, though, and, when placed correctly, the gates opened.
She entered, turned around and looked at me.
I waved that she should be facing the other way and pointed at the two yellow feet on the floor.
She finally managed to face the camera, and passed through. Another one travelling light, I thought.