But Jorge, I forget that sometimes…

July 19, 2010

My most recent posting appeared last Thursday… “Leaving on a Jet Plane”. Well Jorge and I did indeed get away and the flights proceeded smoothly. The one snag occurred at the Houston airport…

Although we had not left the “secure zone”, we needed to get from Terminal E to C which involved passing through another “checkpoint.” After being (literally) herded through a maze… removing shoes, belts, silver bangles, watch and all contents from the pockets… then placing everything we had taken off into separate plastic trays (NOTHING on top of anything else)… we were asked did we have any liquid substance over 3 ounces. “No,” said I… “Wait!” interjected Jorge, “How much cologne did we buy?”

A gleam appeared in the eyes of the “inspector” and she carefully read (through the still-sealed and taped Cancun duty free shopping bag)  3.4 ounces. “This must be destroyed.” No arguing from us… rules are rules, right? But as she prepared to hurl the illegal substance into the bottomless pit, a cooler head said, “It is just .4 ounces over.”  The rather substantial female holding the Guerlain glared and boomed, “See the supervisor!” She passed over the potentially lethal little flask (in a plastic tray) and he carried it to a raised cubical where the Super’ sat. She looked closely at him; words were exchanged of which we only heard, “Are you willing to take responsibility for this?” He solemnly nodded and after waving some kind of (magic?) wand over the bag; he returned to us with a smile, saying “Take it along…” I looked him right in the eyes and thanked him for his kindness. We were grateful but I worry about that young man’s next performance assessment. Maybe he will be deemed as not having the right attitude for the job there at “Checkpoint Charlie”?

After flying diagonally across the USA, we began our descent into Vancouver International.  Looking out at the majestic mountains on one side of the aircraft and the 1,000s of tiny islands on the other… my heart began to pitter-patter. Sighing deeply, I took Jorge’s hand and said, “This is  incredibly beautiful.” “Of course it is and Joanna, it is your home.” I closed my eyes to keep the little tear in place and I answered,

“Yes, it is… but Jorge I forget that sometimes.”

I live in beautiful Merida… it is my home. But so is magnificent Vancouver. How blessed I am to be able to say this. 

 

*** Photos from Google Images (except the one of Jorge and I…