I am now back in the USA after travelling by plane from Nice to London to Dulles and by car from Dulles to Lynchburg. I mean this with all due respect to British engineers, architects, and others involved with the planning, creation, and everyday functioning of airports: Heathrow Airport is a labyrinth of asininity. Abbey and I naively assumed that an hour and a half between flights would provide ample time to arrive at our gate and enjoy a less-than-hearty meal while awaiting boarding. Incorrect.
After exiting our plane we were instructed to “queue this way” by a lady with an absolutely hilarious accent dressed as a 1950s stewardess complete with a silly hat. Once we figured out that queue was British for “wait in this really long line for no reason” we made our way to the end of a really long line which we waited in for no particular reason. This was the line to enter our gate. After this line we were directed to queue another way and waited in another long line to have our passports perused. This perusal was followed by a gruff nod and we were told to ascend the escalator to…queue another way. This was the British security line. I passed through the metal detector as a group of Brits quizzically pointed and whispered at the x-ray machine as my baggage went through. I calmly waited knowing that any movement or look of worry on my part would give the impression that I had less than amicable intentions in this airport. My bags exited the machine and began rolling towards me on the conveyor belt. I reached to grab my bag but was beaten to it by a large mechanical arm which relocated my bag to a different conveyor belt where the formerly concerned looking group of British folk informed me that my bag had been randomly chosen for search. Yippee.
A word about our luggage.
Over 10 months of academic writing and research abroad (as well as several consumerist excursions) Abbey and I accumulated roughly a whole lot of stuff. I had meticulously packed each suitcase full (our checked bags were each barely shy of the maximum limit – one weighed 31.9 kilograms and the other 21 kilogramsish – for those curious about the conversion to pounds, please write your local elected representative and inquire as to why the US is the only country in the world not on the damn metric system). I digress. The weight limit of our carry-on baggage was limited only by my sheer brawn so it was HEAVY…to me. Regardless, every square inch of my carry-on timbuk2 purse and rolly bag were filled with books and trinkets and every spare pocket was utilized.
Then came Bertha. (please note names of airport employees have been changed so as to avoid posing a further threat to national security by divulging the identities of airport personnel).
Bertha politely informed me that she would have to empty out the entire contents of my timbuk2 purse and that I was not allowed to touch any of the objects until they were all removed and deemed unfit for a hostile takeover of the aircraft. In this purse were several articles of clothing, a laptop, a laptop battery, a tin full of various small knickknacks, a few books (though thankfully my Qur’an was in my other carryon which was not “randomly” chosen), an ipod-shaped paperweight, a functioning ipod shuffle, and a camcorder case which was, of course, filled with random electronic wires and chargers and a Christmas ornament. After the table was filled with my belongings, Bertha reached in the bottom of the bag and emerged with what I knew to be an espresso mug wrapped in paper and scotch tape but which she presumed to be some form of sophisticated, covert weaponry. After a few minutes of struggling with weapon-grade scotch tape and wrapping paper Bertha emitted an exasperated sigh and said “What is this?”
“An Espresso Mug.”
“A what?”
“Small Coffee Cup.”
**concerned look**
“Tea Cup.”
“Oh, alright then, you may re-pack your bags.”
My ability to communicate across cultures astounds me. I looked at my watch and we still had about 20 minutes until our plane started boarding. After I crammed everything back into my purse we had approximately 13 minutes. So much for Starbucks or a less-than-hearty snack. We scampered to our gate and saw a few people lining up while a big screen television informed us that hours earlier some gentlemen had been arrested with an explosive device of some sort at that particular airport. Good for Bertha et al. A few minutes later, a grouping including our row was instructed to board. I picked up both carry-ons and Abbey and I queued. Abbey handed a lady her passport, the lady scanned it, and instructed Abbey to have a nice flight. I handed a lady my passport, she scanned it, her computer buzzed, a red square with bold letters popped up, she turned the screen away and I was instructed to carry all of my luggage to a corner as she handed my passport to a security guard. Super.
“This is what I get for going abroad to study the Middle East and Islam,” I thought to myself as Ron White’s “profiling is wrong” bit began to play in my mind.
Abbey was told she could sit in another corner and wait for me. In 20 minutes, our plane would take off. After informing the security guard that one of my bags had already been scanned by a lovely, young lady at the last random checkpoint, he informed me that Bertha’s inspection would have no bearing on this search and seizure as hers was done on behalf of the British government and I was now “randomly” selected by the US Department of Homeland Security. Apparently she should have tried harder to unwrap my tea cup. Hurrah.
Nigel Spiffywick was a very amusing English gentleman whose task was to inspect my luggage and whose real name was, in fact, not Nigel Spiffywick, but it should have been. After nearly throwing his back out picking up the larger of the two cases he politely asked if I would place it on the table and then refrain from any further touching of the bag or its contents.
“Yes Sir.”
He opened the bag. [Warning: his remark upon viewing the contents of my bag will, as I understand it, be at least minorly offensive to any British folk who may be reading] “Bloody ‘ell.” He looked at me with disbelief.
“How did you fit all of this into here?”
“Impressive, isn’t it? My wife and I are moving from France to the States and I spent hours meticulously placing everything in there…the plane won’t take off without me will it?”
He looked half amused, half upset, and half regretful of the life choices which led him to this career on this day at this time. We’ve all been there. “No, it’s running late anyway.”
“Oh good.” I smiled.
I looked over my shoulder where I expected Abbey to be reading a book or to be similarly amused by Nigel’s plight. She was hurriedly speaking with the gentleman holding my passport and looking visibly distraught. Bloody ‘ell. I looked at Nigel and, through the universal language of silent mancommunication acknowledged that neither of us were particularly enjoying this experience. After he filled the table with half of the bag’s contents and the shuttle had taken all but the last few passengers unfortunate enough to be waiting on Mr. Spiffywick and I to the plane, Nigel began stacking things on the floor. He opened the box with a tea pot which was wrapped in and filled with lightweight scarves before leafing through each of the 12 books that I had fit in there. One of which was, indeed, my Qur’an. Fortunately for me I was clever enough to place my Bible right next to my Qur’an when packing just for this type of occasion. Nigel stacked half of the books on the corner of the table and the other half on the floor. He then looked at my rather colorful collection of undergarments that were stacked in the bottom of the case.
“Underwear means we’re at the bottom of the case” I politely informed him.
“Thank God,” he replied without his prior lighthearted cheeriness.
Nigel filled the suitcase back up with everything off of the table and began the struggle to get it to close and zip when I informed him that, despite the bag being full, he had neglected to include the large pile of my belongings which were now resting on the floor.
“Oh, Bloody ‘ell!”
“Haha, Bloody ‘ell Indeed.”
Nigel placed all of my belongings back in the case and hurriedly rummaged through my other carry-on case. He also did not fully unwrap my teacup. Abbey and I got on the bus full of annoyed glares and made our way to the plane where we had safe and happy travels back to Dulles. Fortunately, thanks to Nigel Spiffywick’s thorough search I was in Centieme’s car within 45 minutes of landing in Dulles – no more “random” screenings…until we got to TGIFriday’s for dinner and, because my wallet and passport were in the car as opposed to on my person ready for inspection, I was denied the opportunity to enjoy a welcome home from Samuel Adams himself by the 12 year old waitress who insisted on see my ID.
Welcome Home.
Thanks for reading
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