I used to hate waiting in line. You shift your feet. You wish for a place to sit, or something to lean against. You wonder why the goofball at the front of the line is taking so long. You avoid eye contact with the other people in line. You make small talk with the other people in line when the goofball at the front takes another ten minutes. You rage at the cashier/teller/ticket taker and every other person in the vicinity for wasting your time, for being so slow, for not opening a brand-new line just for you.
But after living in the Philippines, I've decided that lines are my friend. I miss them. I want them back. I crave orderly conduct and respect for personal space.
I went to the bank today. For an hour and a half.
They don't have lines here so much as blobs. Blobs of people who swarm around a counter until they catch someone's eye. But if there is a line, you never make the mistake of leaving a few inches between you and the next person. That's like standing on a chair and screaming into a megaphone: "Wow! Unoccupied space, here for the taking! Act now! I'm not really in line; I'm just here to raise my blood pressure!"
You get used to it eventually. After you move past the disbelief, the shock of violation to your sense of fair play, you swap your good manners for pure survival instinct. No more polite, "After you." No more hanging back until you can distinguish a clear pattern among the blob. Charge right into the fray. Snuggle up to the person in front of you and get cozy for the duration. Demand the attention of the customer service individual.
Walk right into that bank, shoulder your way past the milling crowd, and plop yourself down at the service desk to process your twice monthly transfers.
And bring a book. Because getting to the front of the line is only Lesson One.
Lesson Two: Waiting patiently while something that should take five minutes actually takes an hour and a half.