At the airport

Curacaolanean security guard is adamantly friendly: “Take off your jacket, your belt and your shoes”

“My shoes as well?”

“Yes sir. You’re wearing boots, so those have to come off”

Takes me four minutes to unlace my boots and off they go into the scanner

Sho nuff, they get flagged by that static person gazing into the murky depths of the screen that tells her what’s in everything I own. Ehh, where were you om 911, I think đŸ€š

“Whose boots are these?” her colleague yells.

I raise my hand.

He grabs my boots and inspects them. Takes a thingy that looks like a toilet brush had a fruitful onenightstand with that little pad that women use to wipe make up off their face. He rubs it over my boots and then shuffs them to the side, almost angry, to make sure I don’t pick them up until he’s done. I think he’s angry because he can’t afford these boots.

Dude next to me, Italian I think starts laughing at the security guard, looks at me and says, “What did you do with your boots bro?”

I shrugged and cornied: “Those boots were made for walking. And that’s just what they did. Wonna these days, these boots are gonna wall all over him.”

Dude just stared at me, laugh gone. He didn’t get the reference. They probably don’t know the song in Italy