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COPYRIGHT 2002 Mothering Magazine
Every time I fly, I look forward to flirting with the handsome man who checks my bags at the Albuquerque airport. I'm grateful for the curbside check-in service and tip to show my appreciation. But times have changed. The lines are long, and people are serious. My man and I no longer banter about the ocean; I barely have time to say, "Hey."
Now in line with people who have come hours before their flights, compliant with the new system, I barely have been able to improve upon my one-hour window. With curbside check-in, I'm confident there will be enough time, however, and there is.
The tension and uncertainty outside is palpable but does not compare to the "war zone" inside. Armed men in military uniforms patrol the airport. At the security check-in, a uniformed guard looks at my ticket and allows me to enter the area. I put my purse and backpack through the scanner along with my jacket and shoes. As I walk through myself, the attendant asks me to take a drink from the water bottle I carry. I notice that my purse does not come through the scanner and that the woman scanning has it hung over her shoulder and is requesting someone to search it. A woman comes to get my purse and summons me to a counter, where she proceeds to go through, rearrange, and leave in disarray the contents of my purse.
The culprit is the 1-inch Swiss army knife that has been attached to my keys so long that I have forgotten I had it. But I realize, much to my chagrin, that I've unwittingly "smuggled" this item on several previous flights. An armed young man in uniform asks me to surrender my Swiss army knife. I can, he tells me, go back downstairs and reclaim it there, but of course I don't want to take the time. He also confiscates one of the two boxes of matches I have, telling me that only one box is allowed, although later I find a matchbook...
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