Recently, I returned to the United States after two weeks in Panama. During that time, I heard nothing from the US other than how cold the weather was. Imagine.
Our return involved rising at 5am for an hour’s drive on a rocky road and another hour in rush hour traffic. We entered the airport in David for the first security scan (shoes off, everything). An hour later, we entered the concourse in Panama City for a second FULL scan. Remarkably, there was a third FULL scan at the gate.
I have taken to carrying a clear plastic bag into which I dump all the stuff I must strip away for security: belt, wallet, passport, bits of paper, even shoes. This technique was quite helpful at each checkpoint.
Six hours later, in the Denver airport, we were met by a half a dozen people in black combat garb, each eyeing us closely. Were these people Border Patrol? They were not TSA as far as I could tell. As intimidating as they meant to be, they were pleasant enough and we had no conflicts.
We obtained our luggage and completed one more FULL scan. All that remained was to present a plastic numbered card at the exit. Within feet of that goal, a voice to the side asked “what’s in the bag?”
I turned to face a beefy guy in black. He repeated his question. I raised my bag and stared through the clear plastic, more than puzzled. “Crap,” I said. “What do you mean ‘crap’?” I asked if he wanted to look inside the clear bag. “I asked you a question. You should know what’s in your bag.” I poked around at a loss for a summary better than crap. I detailed what I saw. He was not placated. I dropped the bag at his feet and said it has been a difficult day.
For sympathy, should I note I’m a 70 year old? Do I play the cancer card?
“Come with me,” he said, adding “are these people with you?” referring to my group. “No,” I lied, “I’m traveling alone.”
Several of our friends had the sense to move on. Mer couldn’t abandon me. She was drawn in.
Officer Dick (I know his real name) seemed burdened at this point. He demanded our passports, which had cleared every scan thus far. He presented them to someone at a computer terminal. No doubt, I’m on a watchlist now for my “attitude,” the attitude that we have ruined air travel for false security. Guilty.
When Dick returned, something had changed. Did he not get satisfaction from the terminal keeper? He said, “I’m not busting your chops, I just asked a question.” I stared at him. “You can go.”
I don’t know what this guy wanted from me, but I hope I didn’t give it to him. Respect? Fear? Obedience? Bullies look for all three. Remember that.
