A line is a line is a line

The Václav Havel Airport in Prague was our departure point for a flight to Rome, from which we would take a local train to the lovely Umbrian hill town of Orvieto. The terminal from which our flight departed did not have the U.S. system with rows of agents under a sign for each airline, but rather numbered stations and a board that, two hours before flight time, announced the station at which your flight's agent would appear. About two hours before our flight, sure enough, the station was announced, and we trundled over with our baggage.

We were second in line behind a stocky Italian gentleman in a purple shirt and black suit, accompanied by his sleek wife. Out of the corner of our eyes, we saw a wheelchair being pushed to the head of the queue, around everyone else who was by now in line. The Italian gentleman glanced their way, so the Czech wheelchair handler announced, "This is the oldest living Tibetan lama, number 20 after the Dalai Lama! You will receive a great blessing for allowing him to go first in line." Well, okay, we overzealous Westerners now have a unique opportunity to learn a lesson in Eastern patience, as well as to earn a blessing.  

The old gent was dressed entirely in red robes, down to his sock- and sandal-clad feet. He needed a strap to secure his glasses around his head, because he kept nodding off and would otherwise surely have lost them. He must have been at least ninety. It was unclear whether he could see or had all his wits about him. His lower lip pooched out and dribbled a bit, as happens with the very old.

The Italian deferred.

When Bill asked him why he was letting the holy man go first in line, he replied, in excellent and gracious English, "Well, I would hope that someone would treat me so, when I am that old."  I myself saw no reason why a guy in a wheelchair should go first in line. (1) He was just sitting there, doing nothing. In fact, he was asleep, so obviously not in any hurry. (2) Rushing to the heads of lines would seem contrary to any placid Eastern philosophy. (3) He would be boarded first anyhow. 

From the opposite side, a pair of French backpacker acolytes approached the counter, bearing a stack of what looked to be twenty passports. This couldn't possibly end well. 

A swarthy, red-robed monk in matching red T-shirt and sneakers approached on that side as well. Then yet another monk stepped forward, then another, and another. There was now a red-robed horde of monks meaning to ride their holy master's coattails to the front of the line. 

A Seinfeldian situation was shaping up here at Václav Havel.

The Italian gent's bushy brows bristled, his eyes flashed, and he rose to his full, if limited, stature. This was it.

"Wait!" he protested. "There is a line! I let one person go ahead, but not all of these!"

Bill murmured to him, "No good deed goes unpunished, my friend."

The other monks now backed off grumpily, but approached every other customer in queue, to see if they might cut in. Every last person refused. After all, everyone behind them would now be their enemy, Eastern patience be damned.

Once past the security check, one of the lama's helpers kept wheeling him back and forth, over and over, past us and the Italian couple while we sat in an airport cigar bar. I ducked down so they couldn't curse me. Bill said, "If they're so holy, they have already forgiven us."

They were probably going to Rome to see the pope, and we are doomed.