All good things must end

So here we go. Another woebegone orphan entry, devoid of context, with no promise of a more prompt follow-up.

Europe was great. We drove a lot, saw Nice, stayed in Barcelona, ate well, drank too much (on my liver, anything is too much, and I definitely surpassed that limit).

My really good digital camera decided to die about three days into the trip, before we hit Spain. I wanted to chuck it into the Mediterranean, but The Prof convinced me to conserve the effort. Last time we tried to get a digital camera fixed it turned out that replacing it was cheaper. I fear that will be the case this time too, since the warranty wore out sometime last year.

Coming home I got caught up in security at Schiphol Airport. That in and of itself was no big deal. I carry a small pharmacy with me in my carry-on, and it isn’t unusual that somebody in security wants me to go over my different pills and identify them. However, this time they didn’t seem to be after my stash. The really nice security guard (she actually had a pleasant personality) indicated that they’d seen something Weird in the x-ray machine, and we took my cell phone recharger out of the bag figuring that was it. However, they saw the Weird Thing in my bag again. I was asked if I was carrying anything long and metallic. I couldn’t think of anything fitting that description, but then remember that my car keys were clasped to a special clip inside the bag. We removed those and Mr. Bag went for another ride through the x-ray machine. The Weird Thing remained. I was again questioned, and again I denied any knowledge of things forbidden. This time a less pleasant security man came over and did a once over to my bag that would have made Homeland Security’s heart just melt.

This is how they found my Swiss Army knife.

Now, this stupid knife has a history. I’ve owned it for at least twenty-five years. I had asked for a small utility knife for Christmas one year. I was very specific about what I wanted. I wanted a large blade, a small blade, a small scissors and screw-driver heads on it. I showed my mom the very knife I had in mind in a catalogue she had. What I got had all of the options I asked for. It also had a pull out ballpoint pen, a tiny screwdriver for fixing eye glasses, a hacksaw, a fish scaler, a four-inch ruler, a file, several things I’ve never been able to identify, and a tiny ivory colored toothpick. It was overkill in a way that even my mother had never previously managed to accomplish (and she was the major domo of overkill). Over the years that damned knife has solved more problems for me than I can remember. I’ve become very fond of what was originally a somewhat embarrassing item, and it has been on every major trip I’ve ever been on since I got it. Granted, it no longer gets to rid in the cabin with me, but I can still carry it in the checked-in luggage, and that is where the freaking thing was supposed to be. I never used it on the current trip, don’t remember ever taking it out of my other bag, and have absolutely no idea how it got onto my carry-on. I knew one thing, though. Customs in Schiphol Airport was destined to be its final resting place.

It had been a long trip. We’d driven all the way from Spain to the Netherlands the previous day in one huge marathon run, and I’d gotten precious little sleep when we finally got back. I was headed home when I wasn’t ready to go home, I was tired, and they were going to take my mother’s Swiss Army knife away from me forever. My lower lip started to quiver and I could feel the eyes starting well up. This meant that on top of everything else, I was now making an official spectacle out of myself.

The nice security guard tried to comfort me. “You can still check this bag. You can keep the knife if this bag is checked here at the gate.” I looked at all those pills I needed to keep with me and I looked at the knife. There was no way I could possibly justify risking losing those pills to save the knife. I then remembered my spare bag. Every time I take a big trip I bring a folded duffel bag with me, in case I bring back more than I can fit in my original bags. The duffel was still folded flat in the bottom of my carry-on. I pulled it out and it was agreed I could check that duffel bag. I threw the troublesome knife in the bag and started to zip it up.

“I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to allow you to check the bag if all it contains is that knife.” The nice security guard looked unhappy at having to make that pronouncement, but apparently it had to be said. I looked at the damned duffel. I looked at the damned knife. I looked at the damned pills. I tossed the pills into the duffel, tossed the knife into the carry on, and handed her the carry on. All pertaining statutes now apparently satisfied, I was escorted to the gate, where my former carry-on was dutifully checked in.

A short time later, we were boarded onto the plane. I slipped my duffel under the seat in front of me, and went to take my passport holder, which had been slung over my chest, over my head. I couldn’t find the strap, so I started to pat myself down in a way that only the disbelieving would have done. I’d just shown the passport to security minutes ago. I’d literally just had the freaking passport wallet in my hands. I knew it had been there, because the blasted strap got caught twice in the duffel handles, which I’d looped my arm through. Being incredulous didn’t help. It wasn’t on the floor beneath my feet. It wasn’t on the seat after I stood up. It wasn’t in my duffel when I rooted through it. In fact, it wasn’t in my duffel the second time I rooted through it either. Aware that a second security disaster was awaiting me, I decided that it would be better to report the loss now than to “discover” I’d lost the damn thing after we took off (an idea that did flit through my brain for the merest of seconds, indicating how distraught I was to have to present myself to security as a miscreant yet again). I told The Prof that I’d lost my security and was getting off the plane to see if it had been turned in to Security, and was halfway off the plane when he called me back. It seems that as soon as I left my seat for the aisle the wallet was plainly visible under my seat.
I sat in my seat in sullen silence for the entire flight. It was a definite case of “when good trips end badly”.
Oddly, I had a wonderful time on vacation, but the wonderful time leaves me with few stories to tell. My mind locks upon disaster and pending doom, and it’s those tales that I end up telling. Doesn’t say much for me, does it?