Some
people think my life is glamorous, travelling all over, having fun. Here’s a
day from last week. The flight out of here at 7 am (means I am getting up at
4:30 am) arrives in Minneapolis at 7:30 am (I hr time difference). It’s a
35-passenger aircraft. Upon arrival, the crew and passengers are taken from the
plane by bus to the Customs area for clearance and there is a guy in charge of
this, like a duty officer. So, we go into Customs. Now, I always try to dress
nicely, mostly so I look the part of visiting royalty upon arrival at my final
destination, in case they have called the press, like they are supposed to (I
did make the front page of the Alaska Highway News in Fort St John once). So,
although I do have jeans on, they are hidden by this long, ankle length, blue
lace coat (knitted, of course, a re-make of ‘Uptown’ from No. 24) that is
accessorized with the sweetest dark red leather shoes and matching small
shoulder bag. It’s my turn and I go up to the Customs guy - they are usually
very gruff and almost nasty, probably because they have to come in early for
this crumby little job - there are only 17 passengers and one agent and he’s
just totally ripped up the young man in front of me and sent him off to darker
regions to the ‘interview room’ and we in the line are all certain the poor
fellow will be returning to Canada on the next flight. Anyway, he says to me,
‘Where are you going?' and I give my standard, keep-it-short-and-sweet answer,
'I’m going to Connecticut.' 'What for?' 'Visiting friends and going to a
knitting show.' (just in case they decide to search my bags and wonder why I
have 24 knitted garments for a two day stay in 75°F weather) 'Where did you meet these friends?'
(Arr-g-g-gh!) 'At a knitting show.'
'You go to a lot of knitting shows, don't you? You were here two weeks ago, and I talked to you!' he says accusingly.
'Uh-h-h, yes, that was me.' (My heart has stopped and I'm expecting to be taken off to the Inquisition or the hospital.)
He says 'Well, have a nice time!' and smiles as he scribbles something on the customs form that I must turn in at the other end of the hall after retrieving my bag (which is huge and weights 64.5 lbs). Wow, feeling more than a little apprehensive, I make my way to the other end of the very long, empty room where these two guys have been watching my progress, it seems, every step of the way (mental note, try to look calm, cool and innocent). I look at the form to see if I can decipher what the agent has scribbled, but as usual, it must be in code and I have no clue. I make the choice to go to the guy on the right and he greets me with, 'I’m so glad to see you again. When you were here last week, (it really was two weeks ago, same day, same flight) I wanted to tell you how nice you looked, and you look fabulous again today. It's great to see someone all dressed up, especially on this flight. Usually people look like they just rolled out of bed.' My mouth is opening and closing, and I don't know what to say, afraid to take a breath. He, too, tells me to have a good time! I feel like I’m in the twilight zone!
I go through the doors (I’m free, no one has grabbed me from behind!) to put this bag on the conveyor to be checked through to Connecticut and the agent from the bus is there, grinning at me. ‘I guess I’m doing this a little too often if the Customs guys are recognizing me.’ I say.
‘Oh, I remember you too! Love your coat, it looks great!’
I finally arrive in Hartford, via Detroit, at 4 pm. The press isn’t there.
2 comments:
Oh, that's a wonderful story!
Wonderful and funny but, very nice indeed.
Post a Comment