The airport these days can be a scary and intense place…almost anxiety-attack-inducing.
Is all metal off my body? There is an underwire in my bra…I really hope they don’t try to take my bra, I mean, that’s just going to be uncomfortable. Would I have to go back to my gate and check-in my bra? Can an underwire be used as a weapon? I doubt it but then they have also confiscated my nail scissors before…
Are all my liquids in the regulation size plastic bag? What about my eye cream? Is eye cream a liquid or a solid…what…oh my god, I have no idea. Is eye cream a liquid or a solid, people?! LIQUID OR SOLID?
Which line am I going to be in? Is that the normal one or the scan your naked body one? Wait, no, don’t wave me over there, I don’t want the naked body scan, it’s so awkward. I act like I’m cool with it to the TSA people but guess what? I’m NOT – it creeps me out. Sh*t – I’m definitely in the naked line.
Alright, smiling at everyone, trying to hurry to get all my stuff in those bins as quickly as possible…don’t want to be that guy. Wait, what? I can’t put my coat in the same bin as my laptop…uh…okay TSA…I didn’t know that coats were impenetrable by X-ray machines. Unzipping my boots, trying to not have my butt hang out the back of my pants while I bend over to do this, geez, there really is no graceful way to pull this off. Okay – ready to go…oh my god…this is the worst…there is a hole in my sock. I can’t BELIEVE I didn’t check my socks…I mean; this is the one time in your life when your socks get a lot of play-time, come on!
These are the thoughts that are generally running through my mind as I hurry to wipe away the water that has dribbled all over my face while I was chugging my water bottle that I forgot was in my purse. Thoughts that are the result of years of U.S.A. Homeland Security combined with years of New Zealand and Australia customs (see what happens if you try to enter New Zealand with a bit of mud on your boot…I dare ya)*. So, on my recent trip to Munich you can imagine my nerve level trying to pack for JUST carry on. I measured all my liquids and checked and re-checked the Lufthansa rules (while constantly considering how to properly pronounce “Lufthansa”). The most difficult aspect was that I knew I wanted to bring my friends that I was visiting some treats from France.
“I don’t think I can take these carry-on,” I hold up the camembert and paté to MB that I had purchased to bring them.
“Quoi?” He looks at me and blinks. “Why not?”
“Well, on the website it says I can’t take food products more than 100ml.” But for some reason I need a second opinion on that vague and ambiguous regulation.
“Ouaaaaais…but it’s not like it’s a bottle of wine, uh? I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I don’t think the rules work that way,” I say to him.
He shrugs and I can almost hear his inner dialogue, “rules? Pffff….”
Now before I go any further perhaps I should explain that I am an obsessive rule follower…even jay-walking makes me itchy. I would like to say that it is all because of my strict moral code but let’s face it – it is mostly my abhorrence to getting in trouble. I HATE being called out for having done something wrong and I’m such a nervous rule-breaker that I ALWAYS get called out…always. MB, on the other hand, is French.
The French seem to enjoy seeing what they can “get away with”. I don’t even think that they are trying to “challenge” authority but rather that they all believe that authority doesn’t really apply to them (for further information read this previous post: https://breadispain.wordpress.com/2012/05/11/duck-a-lorange-in-an-ashtray/). So, I decide to try it out and see what I can get away with – into the bag goes the camembert and paté.
As I stand in the waiting line I watch in horror as the security video plays the directions and restrictions for getting through security – there on the screen are, no joke, a jar of paté and a wheel of camembert with big X’s on them. At this point, my palms start to sweat, maybe I shouldn’t have been so cavalier. I’m not a rule-breaker; I’m a dork!
My nerves are on high alert as I go through security, knowing that there is something contraband in my bag. I waltz through the X-ray and wander out to the other side to wait for my bag. Everything seems to be fine until suddenly I see the uniformed woman walking towards me with her hand on my bag. I hear this in my head:
Anyway…off the Death Star and back in France she pulls me over and motions for me to unzip my bag. As soon as I do she pulls out my zip lock bag of camembert and paté with an “AH HA” – Sherlock Holmes-y kind of move. At this point, I realize I have a decision to make: I can come clean and just go on my way or I can try to be a cool French person and try to get away with it. I decide to channel my inner-Frenchness.
I shrug at her and try not to smile (a French person wouldn’t).
“Ouais…” I say, before continuing in French. “I wasn’t sure about these but, you know.”
She looks at me with narrowed-eyes and I’m not sure if a) she believes that I really didn’t know or b) respects the fact that I am bold-faced lying. Either way, she continues.
“It is the size,” she says, “They have to be less than 100ml for the carry-on. Do you want to go back and register them?”
I shrug. “Pfff…non, they are just gifts. It is a pity for my friends but not for me so, you know, who cares?” I laugh wickedly at this.
I see her apprise me once again, “the force is strong with this one.” She then laughs at my joke** before leaning in conspiratorially.
“You know,” she says speaking in a low voice. “If this was duck, no problem…it’s just the pork. You will know for next time, uh?”
I smile at her and start to put my bag back together. Ah well, so I wasn’t able to keep my contraband…MB probably would have managed it but that is okay; I am what I am…a rule-following nerd. Breaking the rules is uncomfortable on me. And who knows? Maybe France is becoming more stringent about these things, I mean; it is the airport after all. If there is anywhere that regulations are followed it is here, right?
I zip up my bag and turn to walk towards my gate but not before noticing the Airport Official with my bag of food. I see her turn to put it in the “discard” bin and then stop suddenly. An inner war seems to be waging in her mind. She looks down at the bag containing my unopened jar of paté and full wheel of camembert and then she sets it next to the bin as opposed to inside of it. I laugh to myself, we are still in France – all is not lost. Contraband paté and fromage will be served on the Death Star tonight.
*For the record, Australia took not one but two packages of grits on two separate occasions away from me because they were suspect. It’s ground corn…that is all!
** The French have a little bit of a “mean girl” complex. They like mean humor and jokes – it amuses them. I will perhaps write on this topic soon. If you need further explanation rent: Le Dîner de Cons. That is the French film that “Dinner for Schmucks” destroyed.