Red Herring

Today was the first time in a long time that I have not been tense on my way to the airport. I knew how to get there, I had plenty of time, my bags were all but empty, and since I will be coming back to Paris in two weeks, it doesn't much matter what I might have forgotten. Even the thick, dense fog couldn't put a crimp in my day.

But, hey, you know how, before you even get to the check-in counter, they have some "greeter" who asks you if you packed your own bags, gives you a customs form, and then waves you through the line? That woman had it in for me.

I have no idea what first set her off, although I did notice that she got a little more aggressive when she spotted the recent claim check stuck to my passport, and even more aggressive when she attempted to confirm my assertion that my luggage tag had my name and address (it actually had Nick's).

"How long have you known this person?" she sneered. I had referred to him as my fiancé. What kind of a girl did she take me for?

She walked away for a few minutes, during which other passengers were rerouted around me. "Now I just have to ask you some more security questions," she began, and we were off again. "Who packed the bags? Where did you pack them? Whom, exactly, do they belong to? How did you book the tickets? Why are you returning to the United States? Do you have any battery-operated items? Tell me about this iPod®--has anyone asked to borrow it?"

I was nice the whole time. My voice stayed level, I maintained eye contact, I was honest, and I was calm.

And the traitorous bitch red-flagged me anyway.

I mean that literally: she took three tiny red stickers, and attached one each to my passport and my checked bag. Then she walked me over to the check-in counter and stayed with me while I got my boarding pass, to which she attached the third sticker (discreetly, inside, so that I would not notice it easily). It occurred to me later that if I were a smuggler, her presence would also have prevented me from removing the sticker from my checked bag before actually checking it.

Clever.

So. At the X-ray machines, I was of course pulled aside and patted down as soon as security saw my stickered passport. And when I got to the gate, I was pulled aside again, and both my bags and my person were searched again, quite thoroughly.

You know--in case I had picked up some C4 between security and the gate.

Actually, what I had picked up was a bottle of water, because I dehydrate easily and it is not a pretty sight. As per recent international security regulations, I got it about three steps from the gate. "Is this okay?" my latest patter-downer asked her colleague. "She got it here."

"I don't think so," he sniffed.

"You'll have to leave your water," she told me.

Can you say "last straw"?

"Everyone here has a beverage they got at the gate," I snarled in French, waving at the sixty cleared passengers, all taking simultaneous sips. This only resulted in the confiscation of the Perrier® that the guy behind me was drinking. Sorry, sir.

In my head, I practiced I will leave it if you return my two euros; Am I a second-class citizen just because some Nazi at check-in put this sticker on my passport?; If I had bought perfume, liquor, or makeup at the duty-free shop would you have taken it?; I have the receipt right here--do you think that this is some elaborate scheme wherein I snuck one bottle through the first bag search, bought another, and switched them?; If I had removed this sticker before you saw it would I be allowed to keep my stupid Evian® like everyone else?

Out loud, I settled for "Can I please talk to a supervisor?" and that turned out to be all that I needed.

Because obviously you can keep the water that you buy once you are through security--I check the changing regulations before every trip. It's the morons who still don't know that you have to take off your shoes at the X-rays--and fail to notice that everyone ahead of them is doing it--who should be stickered, not we conscientious travellers.

The flight was so wonderful that the last hurdle completely blindsided me.

When I headed to the "Nothing to Declare" customs line at JFK, the agent glanced at my (still-stickered) passport. "Great!" he chirped. "Just step over here for a second and talk to this guy."

I've heard that before.

"I'm from the Department of Agriculture, and we're doing a survey today," he announced, with no hint of shame. "Do you happen to have any plants, animals, dairy products, or foods with you today?"

I couldn't stop it in time.

"That's a very unusual definition of the word 'survey,' since you have my written answer to the same question in your hand," I snapped.

Things deteriorated, obviously. "Well, I should warn you that we're going to scan your bag, and if you have anything that you haven't mentioned, we'll have to fine you."

"I would probably be concerned, then, if I had any of those things."

"You didn't happen to bring back any foie gras?"

"I barely brought back my own clothes."

"Did you hold onto any of the food from the plane?"

"Have you ever tried that stuff?"

"Did you--"

"I picked up a Toblerone® at the duty-free. I didn't think to declare it. If we're going to argue about it, I will sit down on this floor right now and eat the whole damn thing, and then you may scan my bags."

Three minutes later, my candy bar and I were in a cab.