Vomiting diplomatically

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Leaving behind us this morning the sweet loveliness that is Piraeus, the thinking person’s favourites port, we took a taxi to Athens airport. No sooner had we roared off, our daughter (who I’ve previously explained has Downs Syndrome) started to dry heave. I don’t know the medical term but I’m sure there is one. She wasn’t ill, that’s just how she is in stressful situations, and flying gets her anxious. I could see that the driver was alarmed. He pulled across several lanes of traffic into a service station and bounded out of the car, engine running. He came back with a bottle of water for my daughter (so kind) and a lot of paper towels to spread over her and the area around her, obviously concerned that he might have a vomit-covered car if he didn’t do something. Anyway we were grateful for the bottle of cold water. There was nothing vomitacious during the one hour ride in fierce heat and we caught our plane. At the airport we dutifully joined the appropriate line - the kind that zigzags for miles. A man pulled us out of the line, beckoning for us to follow him. Thanks to our daughter we were whisked through the diplomatic gate and through security before we knew what was going on. The Greeks have got dealing with people like our daughter down to a fine art