The biggest problem I have faced today is whether the airlines Air Nambia and Air Namibia are, in fact, as different as everybody else in my office seems to think they are, or whether that difference is due only to a typo from some lazy college student who was half paying attention to his or her summer internship, typing in an extra “i” while he or she was thinking about the previous night’s alcohol-fueled revelry. To be sure, it has been particularly frustrating, especially the part in which I had to translate meaning amongst the pops and clicks of an ancient Swahili-esque tongue when I called the poor souls who run the airline, whatever it’s called. My blood pressure has shot up and I have a headache. I am more than ready to go home. And you wouldn’t have a problem convincing me to take part in a night of alcohol-fueled revelry. Whatever it takes to wipe the memories of this day from existence.
In all honesty, though, it hasn’t been much of a problem. At least I don’t live in or near the Gaza Strip.
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