The Polish Experience By Nicholas Westerby This ... - GetSab.Com

line at passport control. It worked but I couldn’t help but be appalled at how all
the other passengers were pushing each other needlessly. Where had we landed?
We breezed through passport control. Me with my purplish passport and her
with a red and white ID card that not only worked as a passport but a driving
licence as well, then we located the luggage pick up point. I stood back as
nothing was rotating and we chatted a little. She seemed more nervous than on
the plane. I wondered if she was planning on making a run for it. If a husband or
boyfriend was coming to meet her but before I could figure anything out the belt
started up.
Once again old people pushed past with no regard for manners. Others rammed
their empty luggage trolleys in your heels until you ceded position. I was less
than an hour on Polish soil and I had begun to dislike them as a breed. In
England I had only met a few and by and large I liked them. The builders had a
cheeky chappy appeal and the waitresses were all attractive and attentive. As a
group they generally smiled and seemed happy. I hadn’t seen one smile yet
inside the airport and while it wasn’t the most modern terminal in the World it
wasn’t the grey communist blocks I was expecting.
I packed our cases onto the trolley and we wheeled away. As soon as we got
through the doors to the waiting families we began searching for the woman
who was set to pick us up. We were swamped by old men offering us taxi rides
that Elly insisted weren’t real taxi drivers.