Today I am going to dive into the deep well that constitutes my own personal reservoir of WTH moments. While researching flight options for my latest business trip, I took a moment to reflect on the joys of air travel. Growing up overseas, I was used to flying on planes even before I could walk. Big planes, little planes, well-constructed planes, malfunctioning planes - you name it, I've flown on it. I've flown over hurricanes (not fun), on flights where some of the plane's engines failed (thank you, China Air, for another memorable experience), and on planes where the food they serve rivals the food whipped up by the likes of Wolfgang Puck....merci beaucoup, SingaporeAir first class cabin.
But I digress. Many people have a fear of flying, but for me the biggest hassle is just getting on my flight. (My three day honeymoon spent waiting on the cold floor of JFK Int'l in New York last summer - sans luggage, of course - only reinforced this little truism.) But of all the weird things that have happened to me in airports, I think this one might take the cake. (And, no, I am not the woman from this article....I have more taste, at least.)
It was just after 9/11 when airport security was ramped up to absurd levels. I was flying back from Berlin, through Detroit, and I had to re-enter a metal detector (even though I'd just been on a plane for the past 9 hours and had never left the confines of the airport - good thinking, guys). My carry-on bags scanned fine, but when I walked through the metal detectors, they went haywire. The TSA agent, a friendly and (bless her) infinitely patient Southern woman of perhaps 55, made me remove my shoes, belt, jewelry, jacket, ad nauseum, and still we could not figure out the source of the beeping.
By this point, airport security is examining me with newfound interest, and they're getting ready to pull me off to one of these creepy little rooms....visions of strip searches danced unpleasantly through my head. The woman is now patting me down, as I stand there in jeans and a tank top, trying not to look concerned, while a crowd of gawkers (and pissed off travelers, I suppose) amassed to check our the Terror Suspect du jour. Finally, the woman's face lights up, and in a very relieved - and very loud - voice that showcases her definitely-not-from-Detroit Southern accent, she exclaims, "Good Lord, Heaven of Mercy, Chile', it's your bra!!!"
Oops. I survived my mortification long enough to unhook my bustier so it could be put through the x-ray machine....but an indelible lesson was left with me that day. Do not, my dear ladies, wear underwire bras on planes. It is a recipe for embarrassment, at best, and at worst, you could end up on one of the Homeland Security Department's endless list of Terror Suspects. Right along with, ya know, Cat Stevens.
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3 comments:
I always wondered about the whole Cat Stevens thing, not only because of the name mix-up, but what was the point then of turning the plane to land in Maine instead of in Jersey? Are people in Maine less important so HS doesn't care if they get blown up?
yeah, for real. personally, i can think of more things to like in maine than in jersey.....lobster, stephen king, clam bakes.... haha. i just find it hard to believe that the guy i grew up listening to as a lullaby singer is really some jihadist. morning has broken, allah has spoken? i think not.
Maybe they had the metal detectors set to "stun" at that time because I've never had one even make a small beep about a bra... weird. Definitely WTH worthy.
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