Prologue: The nicotine gambit
Schiphol Airport, December 2008.
Coordinates: 52.3169° N, 4.7459° E.
The Departures board flickered an ominous timeline: São Paulo – 3h 45m. Then, a five-hour layover in Guarulhos. Then, finally, Buenos Aires. The maths was brutal: 14 hours without a cigarette. A primal panic set in, mirroring the existential dread of Ryan Bingham in Up in the Air, clutching his loyalty cards like rosary beads. Both scenarios expose the central lie of “frictionless travel”: we are all just one unchecked craving away from completely unraveling.
Schiphol’s terminals gleamed with sterile Dutch efficiency, but for a nicotine fugitive, they felt like a lockdown. I stared at my passport, then at the exit sign. I had a multiple-entry visa, a December chill, and sheer audacity. And so, I executed my plan: I breached the sanctum of the transit zone, stamping into Amsterdam for two-hour rebellions. Exit the terminal, light up, re-enter – each ritual punctuated by sips of coffee that tasted like battery acid. Each drag was a petty, glorious triumph over the universal tyranny of no-smoking signs.
Later, the border officer’s eyebrow arched at my passport. “Entered just two hours ago?” Her query dissolved into my confessional plea. “I’m a smoker too,” she finally said, a knowing twitch at the corner...
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