A brief encounter at Heathrow

It was moving day!

The logistics for our trip back to the US were similar logistics to our trip to Portugal three and a half years earlier.  We spent several months decluttering and giving things away.  When our travel day arrived, we were down to 6 duffel bags, 3 suitcases, a large box, and a couple backpacks.  The most valuable and fragile items were in the backpacks and our carryon suitcases.  Everything else got checked.  (To the tune of about $900!)

It took 2 cars to get us to the airport in Lisbon.  Mary rode with our friends Livio and Melinda and I took an Uber.  At the airport, we wrestled three luggage trolleys across the terminal to the check-in counter. 

Our route was:

• Lisbon to London Heathrow, a late afternoon flight with an overnight layover.  Mary booked us into a hotel that adjoined the airport so we could get a few hours sleep.  (A very good move!)
• London Heathrow to Seattle, a flight that left London late in the morning and arrived in Seattle late in the morning.
• 2 nights in a Seattle hotel to recuperate from jet lag.
• Driving from Seattle, across Washington to Clarkston, then across the Snake River to Lewiston, Idaho.

Throughout the journey and in the days since it’s been a torrent of non-stop activity. We have so many impressions – new sights, new tastes, new landscapes.  We’ll sort them out over time.  But for now, here’s a vignette from our morning at London Heathrow.

Day 2 started early

On the second day of our trip, we woke up earlier than planned and decided to go on to the terminal to beat any morning rush.  It was a short walk through some corridors to get into Terminal 5. (The hotel really was convenient!) We made it through Passport Control quickly.  It was very automated with lots of kiosks.  

Then we got to the Security checkpoint and hit a big bottleneck.  

First, there were no trays to put our luggage and stuff on the conveyor.  And when more trays arrived, the conveyor stopped moving.  Everything was backed up going through the x-ray machine.  

A security agent said one of us could go through the metal detector to catch our stuff.  Mary waved me on.  She stayed with the remaining bags until they got moving.  

On the other side of the metal detector, things weren’t moving very fast, either.  Coming out of the x-ray machine, the conveyor forked.  On the right side were the “good” bags that rolled forward to be claimed by waiting passengers.  In the left fork were the “bad” bags, owned by people who could only be assumed to be bad, too, and which would have to be manually inspected by other security agents.  

It was no surprise that the “bad” fork was backed up.  But on the “good” side, things weren’t moving either.  The area was set up with a row of tables about 6 feet away from the conveyor.  The tables were there to give people a place to set their trays of belongings and repack laptops, fill their pockets, etc, – all away from the conveyor, so they didn’t block traffic.

But most people coming through had no awareness – self or otherwise – and stood at the conveyor, collecting their stuff and blocking progress, then leaving their empty trays for someone else to carry to the end of the belt and drop into the return chute.

As our stuff came through, I started pulling bags and trays to the repacking table.  Then I saw Mary’s carry-on had been diverted into the “bad” luggage lane.  I said something to her when she caught up with me, but I’ll admit to feeling a bit smug. Because it’s usually my bag that gets set aside for extra examination.  

But then I saw my bag was in the bad lane, too.

Life in the bad lane

We reloaded our backpacks and went to wait at the end of the bad lane.  There were several other people waiting for one of the two security agents on duty to inspect their bags and pronounce sentence for their misdeeds.  One man ahead of us had his bag inspected because he’d left a bottle of after shave lotion in it.  He was running late and loudly complained “I don’t want to miss my $800 flight over an $8 bottle of Old Spice!”

The agent checking his bag was not amused.  Nor was she spurred into quicker action.  She handed him the bottle, in a plastic bag, after it had been examined.  “I guess I’ll let you have this”, she said in an even tone.  The guy grabbed the bottle, his jacket and bag, and ran off.

The agent was a woman of medium height and build with small rectangular glasses that accentuated the square shape of her face.  She had pale skin and hair the color of rust.  Her hair was cut short, with short bangs across the top of her forehead. 

She had a stern look, like I supposed a proper British schoolmarm might have, and an even sterner tone, which she unleashed with some obvious relish on the next unfortunate victim passenger to face her.  This was a young woman from Brooklyn who had been talking with us while we waited.  Her crime was leaving her regulation-sized bag of miniature toiletries inside her carry on bag.  

The agent chided her.  “Didn’t you see the signs that said ‘Take your toiletries out of your bag?’”  

The young woman was obviously a novice traveler.  (Her new suitcase still had the tag from the retail display indicating its size and features.) She replied, “But they’re ‘travel-size’ bottles.  We don’t have to take them out in America!”  (Apparently the TSA in New York City had not been as diligent as their British counterparts.)

“But you’re not in America”, replied the agent, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the area to hear.  “You’re in England, and here you must take them out!”

The young woman tried to protest again, but the agent cut her off.  “It’s like your World Series.  That only happens in America.  Here, we take out the liquids.”  She paused, looking over the tops of her glasses.  “I went to America four weeks ago and I had to take out my liquids when I came back.”  Then she pushed the tray holding the offending liquids toward the young woman, who grabbed her bag and ran.  

Next up was my bag, which held a mix of breakable pottery wrapped in towels and tee-shirts, and smaller items put in for filler. 

I stepped up to the stainless steel counter as she pushed the tray with my bag in it toward me.  I’d been prepared to offer a smartass crack like “Here’s the circus bag” or something, but she spoke before I could. 

“Take the bag out and open it.”  Maybe she said “Please”.  

There was a computer monitor on a swivel arm to her left.  She moved it so I could see the x-ray of my bag.  She pointed to a red rectangle in one corner.  “There’s something there I have to look at.”

I opened the bag and pulled out a small wooden box.  She said, “Open that.”

I knew what was in the box and didn’t really want to open it, but decided not to protest.  The box had a metal latch and an adhesive seal that kept the lid from opening.  I pointed to it.  “It’s sealed”, I said.  “Do you have a pair of scissors or a knife?”

“Give it to me.  I’ll open it.”  She took the box and carefully peeled back the seal.  She unlatched the latch, opened the lid, and stared at the plastic-encased block inside.

“What is this?”, she asked.

“Those are the ashes of my dog who died several months ago”, I replied. ¹

Instantly, the agent’s whole attitude changed.  

“Oh my”, she said.  “I’m so sorry”.  She closed the box, latched it, and smoothed the seal back in place.  She handed it back to me. 

“I’m so sorry”, she said again.  “I lost my dog a month ago.  He was 13.  How old was your dog?”

“She was 14 years old”, I said.  “We miss her every day.”

The agent pulled out her phone.  “I know, I know”, she said as she opened the screen and started scrolling and tapping.  “They say you shouldn’t get another dog too soon.  But I did.  Here he is.”

She showed me a photo of a young dog.  He was slender, with brown hair, a long black nose and big eyes that looked straight into the camera.  It was a look that said, “Hi Mom!  Can we go outside now?”

I thanked her, put Sox back in the suitcase, zipped it up, and stepped away from the counter.  

I suppose the folks in line behind us were tapping their feet impatiently while me and the agent chatted and swapped photos.  But I didn’t care.  I figured that the next person in line got to meet a calmer, friendlier agent than I did.  

Mary had a turn, too

While I was being interrogated, Mary got her turn with another agent at the next counter. Her carry-on suitcase also held several breakable items along with two iPads and some gifts for our grandson.  

Mary approached the counter and said, “I know what I did wrong.  It’s the iPads, isn’t it?”

The agent, a stocky woman who towered over Mary, replied, “No, the iPads are fine.  But do you have a big cup in your bag?”

Mary was puzzled.  “No”, she replied.  

“Then maybe a bowl with something… something you could hit with?”

Mary smiled when she realized what the agent was asking about.  “Oh…yes.  I have a mortar and pestle.”  Mary opened the suitcase and pulled out the box that held the utensils.  

The agent looked them over, then said, “Oh, okay, you’re good to go. No problem.”

As we walked away, both of us were a bit slack-jawed. We have had a few things confiscated by security people over the years – a beautiful Swiss army knife that I forgot to stick in a suitcase, a corkscrew that had a tiny foil cutter, and a pair of itty-bitty sewing scissors. But Mary was allowed to go through with a ten pound solid marble mortar and pestle that could knock out a pilot or flight attendant in a heartbeat. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

There’s a sitcom in there somewhere

We also marveled at the composure of the security agents. They never lost their cool. Never got angry, even when dealing with a red-faced tourist about to blow a gasket. Maybe they raised their voices. And the two of them would tag-team, leaning across into the other’s area to scold an unrepentant passenger.

Now don’t get me wrong. These women were stern. But they were also thorough and professional. And in their own way they were comical as they bantered with each other to comment on what they were seeing.

Maybe if Lucy and Ethel had worked for the TSA instead of the chocolate factory…

As we walked through the security area, on our way to find our gate, we stopped to talk to several other agents who were waiting for traffic to begin in their lanes.  Mary asked how they unwound at the end of the day.

“Well”, said one, “I go home and have a glass of wine.  Or two.”

The short version of the rest of the trip

After 3 more days we arrived at our son and daughter-in-law’s house in Lewiston. Our grandson Guy William – the person who motivated us to make this move – was surprised to see us in person after months of FaceTime calls. And we got a big surprise – our daughter Katie had flown in from Indianapolis to greet us.

We have lots to learn about our new neighborhood. Luckily we have some good teachers close by. We’ll share some of the lessons in future posts.

Until next time,

Mary and Mike

The Cook and The Writer

---

---

What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen in an airport security line? We all need a laugh nowadays, so leave your story in the comments below or via the Contact Us form.

Footnotes

1. New readers who want to know more can read about our dog, Boston Red Sox, here: Remembering Sox. ↩︎

Credit for the featured image at the top of the post: Warren Rohner, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.