poems on planes/i am no poet/part 3

AMSTERDAM - TRONDHEIM
thinking about the flight from AMSTERDAM - ATHENS
on the smallest plane ever, EMBRAER 190.

"Do you want one?"
No thanks, he said
in a thick scottish accent.
I wasn't sure what he meant
until I saw his electric cigarette.

"It's swedish
it's tobacco,
they sell it in Norway too,
that's where I'm from."

He asked me why I'm going to Greece,
Why I would choose the poor country, not the rich.

I didn't understand his question until he said he was working for a norwegian company:
"We are searching for oil in greek waters".

It infuriated me.
The thought of one homeland expoliting the other.
But it wasn't his fault.
He's just a poor old Scot,
no real agenda,
other than to support his family
working a job that always changes
always frustratingly
far
away.

His breath smelled of beer.
Mine smelled of wine.
Fifty-something years old
balled,
ring in his ear.

We really had nothing in common.
Not a single thing.
Yet, I found some comfort in this conversation with a stranger whose words I occasionally understood -
he had a thick accent.

A three hour flight can pass quickly by,
talking to a guy with so much to say.
His drunk mumbling was a lullaby to my constant paranoia.

Thank you for distracting me.
You made my day.