Made in Oregon
In May I capped a solo hiking trip to the Northwest by staying with a friend in Oregon. After three days, I said goodbye and drove my rental to the airport for my morning flight home.
Thank goodness I left with plenty of spare time because I used every minute of it.
My boarding pass printed out at the airline’s kiosk, I retrieved a luggage tag for my one bag and dropped it to run through X-ray and be conveyed through to loading.
Not in a hurry, I window shopped before queuing up for screening.
After showing the security guy my boarding pass and ID, I proceeded to the screening conveyors. I pulled two plastic gray bins from the stack and into one placed my GORE-TEX® hooded jacket; my shoes and cell phone went into the other, and I pushed them on their way through screening behind my day pack. Then, in socks, I proceeded through the walk-through X-ray. I passed without incident and turned to retrieve my shoes etc. from the conveyor. A guard holding my day pack asked if it were mine. I said it was.
“You have a couple jars of jam in here that we can’t let you through with.”
Ugh. Earlier at a Portland mall my friend and I visited a store called Made in Oregon, where I bought the jams: one for Mom and one for my mother-in-law for Mother’s Day. And, what made me feel stupid was that my friend had just told me about something similar that happened to her with BBQ sauce as she lay over at the Memphis airport.
“Gather you other belongings and I’ll escort you out,” the guard said to me. “Maybe you can catch your checked bag and stick them in there.”
If only I hadn’t shopped for 10 minutes, I thought.
My suspicions were right: My bag was long gone. The lady at the baggage X-ray suggested I ask a ticketing agent for a little box and check the jams as another piece of luggage. Again, I had my doubts at the possibility.
I explained my predicament, and the ticketing agent said, “That’ll be $25.” The jams themselves were only $13 so I passed on that solution.
Dejected, I walked to screening. I asked the security guy checking my boarding pass and ID if he liked jam. He did, he said, but was not permitted to accept gifts from travelers. Another security fellow heard me and said he’d be happy to dispose of the jams for me (wink-wink). I pulled them from the bottom of my day pack, and the big jam fan saw that they were from Made in Oregon.
“Why don’t you return them there,” he said, pointing behind me to a Made in Oregon store, “and buy them back at the store that’s after screening?”
I loved that idea!
Even though it was a food return—and the store doesn’t take food returns—and I didn’t have a receipt, the lady at the counter processed my return because of my unique circumstance.
Satisfied that the simple solution seemed to be settled, I strode to screening a second time. Oh, wait; actually, at that point, it was my third time. Once again, I removed my shoes, jacket and cell phone. And again, after I passed through the personal X-ray, I saw a security guard with my day pack. Into a phone she spoke: “Supervisor to line 7.” My shoes, phone and jacket were held back, and people behind me were diverted to other lines.
What now?
The supervisor arrived within seconds, and I heard “spent casing.”
Several years ago Dad gave me a spent bullet casing to use as a safety whistle when hiking alone. Blowing across the casing like a bottle opening produces a loud, high whistle. I’ve wondered how wise it is to travel with it, but it’s gone through screening several times. That was the first time a screener honed in on it.
Eventually the rest of my things came through, and a guard, the supervisor and I met—with my pack—off to the side. As the guard scanned the contents of my pack with a special wand, I told the supervisor how ironic this all was because recently published in The ASA Newletter (Applied Science and Analysis, Inc.) was an article I’d written on passenger profiling and the unreliability of screening technologies.
My pack passed the guard’s inspection, he handed me the casing and ran the pack through X-ray one more time.
Cleared for takeoff, I gave the supervisor a business card as he’d expressed interest in reading my article. With my phone in my pocket and my jacket and pack on my back, I hustled to Made in Oregon to re-buy the jams. Too bad the store didn’t sell whistles. I’m getting rid of the casing.
Thank goodness I left with plenty of spare time because I used every minute of it.
My boarding pass printed out at the airline’s kiosk, I retrieved a luggage tag for my one bag and dropped it to run through X-ray and be conveyed through to loading.
Not in a hurry, I window shopped before queuing up for screening.
After showing the security guy my boarding pass and ID, I proceeded to the screening conveyors. I pulled two plastic gray bins from the stack and into one placed my GORE-TEX® hooded jacket; my shoes and cell phone went into the other, and I pushed them on their way through screening behind my day pack. Then, in socks, I proceeded through the walk-through X-ray. I passed without incident and turned to retrieve my shoes etc. from the conveyor. A guard holding my day pack asked if it were mine. I said it was.
“You have a couple jars of jam in here that we can’t let you through with.”
Ugh. Earlier at a Portland mall my friend and I visited a store called Made in Oregon, where I bought the jams: one for Mom and one for my mother-in-law for Mother’s Day. And, what made me feel stupid was that my friend had just told me about something similar that happened to her with BBQ sauce as she lay over at the Memphis airport.
“Gather you other belongings and I’ll escort you out,” the guard said to me. “Maybe you can catch your checked bag and stick them in there.”
If only I hadn’t shopped for 10 minutes, I thought.
My suspicions were right: My bag was long gone. The lady at the baggage X-ray suggested I ask a ticketing agent for a little box and check the jams as another piece of luggage. Again, I had my doubts at the possibility.
I explained my predicament, and the ticketing agent said, “That’ll be $25.” The jams themselves were only $13 so I passed on that solution.
Dejected, I walked to screening. I asked the security guy checking my boarding pass and ID if he liked jam. He did, he said, but was not permitted to accept gifts from travelers. Another security fellow heard me and said he’d be happy to dispose of the jams for me (wink-wink). I pulled them from the bottom of my day pack, and the big jam fan saw that they were from Made in Oregon.
“Why don’t you return them there,” he said, pointing behind me to a Made in Oregon store, “and buy them back at the store that’s after screening?”
I loved that idea!
Even though it was a food return—and the store doesn’t take food returns—and I didn’t have a receipt, the lady at the counter processed my return because of my unique circumstance.
Satisfied that the simple solution seemed to be settled, I strode to screening a second time. Oh, wait; actually, at that point, it was my third time. Once again, I removed my shoes, jacket and cell phone. And again, after I passed through the personal X-ray, I saw a security guard with my day pack. Into a phone she spoke: “Supervisor to line 7.” My shoes, phone and jacket were held back, and people behind me were diverted to other lines.
What now?
The supervisor arrived within seconds, and I heard “spent casing.”
Several years ago Dad gave me a spent bullet casing to use as a safety whistle when hiking alone. Blowing across the casing like a bottle opening produces a loud, high whistle. I’ve wondered how wise it is to travel with it, but it’s gone through screening several times. That was the first time a screener honed in on it.
Eventually the rest of my things came through, and a guard, the supervisor and I met—with my pack—off to the side. As the guard scanned the contents of my pack with a special wand, I told the supervisor how ironic this all was because recently published in The ASA Newletter (Applied Science and Analysis, Inc.) was an article I’d written on passenger profiling and the unreliability of screening technologies.
My pack passed the guard’s inspection, he handed me the casing and ran the pack through X-ray one more time.
Cleared for takeoff, I gave the supervisor a business card as he’d expressed interest in reading my article. With my phone in my pocket and my jacket and pack on my back, I hustled to Made in Oregon to re-buy the jams. Too bad the store didn’t sell whistles. I’m getting rid of the casing.
posted by Elizabeth Evans Fryer | 6:59 AM
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