Is that a bomb in your pants?

So last week I had the pleasure of returning to England for a few days to meet with colleages and wrap up some left-over research business. Now typically anytime I am involved in air travel, something goes horribly wrong. I've been delayed, subjected to traffic accidents, had my luggage lost, been party to bus accidents, been seated next to smelly, loud children (sometimes not even my own), and that's just on the way to the airport! Haha, but seriously folks...

Anyway, this most recent trip to the UK was going swimmingly, suspiciously free of anything even slightly irritating (I did get seated next to a mother with a nine-month-old baby on the trip home, but they both slept almost the entire flight, so what do I care?) Both going over and coming back, all the flights were on time, I managed to get the really comfortable bulkhead seats where I can stretch my legs all the way out, it was perfect...until I was collecting my bags at customs coming home Sunday night. That's when things went a bit pear-shaped. First, I had brought back a plastic crate full of books and other assorted items that I had left either at my office in Durham or at a friend's house. When it came down the baggage claim belt, it was wrapped in a plastic bag, and the crate was completely smashed. I think all of the contents are still there, fortunately. But then a woman from Customs and Border Protection came around with a dog who was sniffing at everyone and their luggage (the dog, not the woman). The pair of them had past by me once while I was in line to have my passport checked, and the dog ignored me. Then they came around while I was waiting for my luggage, and they ignored me again. On a second pass a few minutes later, the dog started sniffing me and stuck his nose in my crotch (as dogs do), so the woman started asking if I had any prescription drugs or food in my pants. I didn't so I told her no. She took my customs declaration form and wrote "K9" on it and off she went. Then they came around a third time, and this time the dog started nosing around my busted-up crate. "Oh, great...some malevolent and
opportunistic baggage handler has shoved some kind of contraband into my crate during their 'repair' job," I thought. Anyway, she asked me what was in the crate (the woman, not the dog), and I told her it was mostly books, a pair of computer speakers, and other assorted items one tends to accumulate at the end of moving across creation. So anyway, my backpack finally came down the belt and I was on my way to check out with the customs guy, but of course since my customs form bore the clever K9 mark, I was subjected to "additional screening." I was fearful that I would be put into a dark room while some giant woman named Frieda snapped on some elbow-length rubber gloves and asked me to bend over. To my great relief, it was just a couple of guys who rifled through my computer bag and my backpack (although they did slip into some rubber gloves beforehand). So, while it was a little unnerving to have all of my dirty underpants enthusiastically examined for hidden drugs or explosives, then put on display for the delight of my fellow passengers, at least I wasn't groped by anyone. They didn't bother unwrapping my plastic crate, though. So the two items that the dog actually showed interest in - my crotch and the crate - were left unmolested. My backpack felt humiliated and dirty afterwards, though.

For the record, neither my crotch nor my plastic container contained anything worth getting excited over. I know that doesn't sound right, especially in relation to my crotch, but you know what I mean: I wasn't smuggling anything illegal.

Anyway, I should have known that I can't get away from a transatlantic flight completely free of inconvenience. I think from now on I will just drive...