Lost in Transit

After a restorative solo visit to Miami, I was scandalized to find my knickers missing from my luggage. Not exactly my undies, but my bikini bottoms nonetheless. And not only missing, but stolen.

I didn't leave them at my dear friend's house nor did I find them sometime later crumpled in the side pocket of my carry-on. My very last act in sunny FLA had been a few laps of the kidney-shaped pool soaking up the last drops of golden sunshine (his jammy, impossibly glamorous South Beach condominium, a topic for the future). I had only time to change, wring out my bikini and stash it inside a large sunhat neatly compressed as the top layer in my suitcase before he dragged me kicking and screaming back to the airport and the chilly real world.

By the time I arrived home in New York, my luggage had been rifled through with the expertise of a trained TSA agent, an art I believe requires hours of specialized training, so they can poke and prod neatly folded clothes with a technique akin to salad tossing. It ensures maximum disturbance of any master plan to limit creases and spills. Perversely, like a serial killer, they will leave you a complimentary calling card letting know you’ve just been had by the TSA. In the confines of my perfectly innocent case, the hairdryer and oversized bottle of conditioner were left alone, but the striped bikini bottoms vanished.

Luggage handlers have been getting a pretty bad rap recently. Justifiably so, it seems. An entire racket was operating within the belly of American Airlines, with a posse of enterprising baggage handlers only pilfering Rolexes, cameras, and designer clothes as a side habit to their cocaine import business cleverly concealed in the walls of the plane fuselage. When Homeland Security scheduled luggage searches, the clever baggage pit bosses would simply leave the contraband in the walls and send the plane on its way until the next inspection-free landing. Any YouTube search turns up reams of CCTV airport footage from Luton to Joahnnesburg with baggage handlers rampantly plundering carousel-bound bags.

It's true, the Missoni label may have caught someone’s eye and been mistaken for something fancy, but that would overlook the magical week when a Missoni ready-to-wear line for Target was ever so briefly in stock. Anyone with sticky fingers only had to read the small print on the label. Even so, it doesn't explain theft of the bottoms, leaving the rather cute flower-embellished top behind.

I still rely on the post-9/11 directive that forbade travelers to lock checked luggage. My parents, on the other hand, arrived stateside with nifty TSA-approved locks that can only be opened by agents armed with a universal key. Unfortunately, the locks they traveled with were not the same locks placed back on their bags on either the outbound or return legs. How difficult can it be to procure a spare universal key when you are an airport employee? Or perhaps there’s a lucrative trade in luggage locks.

Flying is so devoid of any niceties these days we’re conditioned to practically stripping at security screenings and staring at the ceiling during pat downs with the sort of ho-hum ambivalence normally reserved for annual health check-ups. We could probably pass ourselves off as skilled extras in a remake of The Wall.

Dogged fastidiousness among security personnel seems greatest in small hubs, Albany (nearly-) International among them. In the safe hands of Albany's TSA I have been required to break the seal, taste, and submit for fume testing, three unopened bottles of Pediasure while traveling with a toddler. Liquid medicine has gone through without a hitch, but I've nearly come to fisticuffs when the freezer pack keeping it cold was about to be confiscated. Nail clippers, razors, and lipgloss have all met their maker, though a friend once made it through with a full-size hammer. My laptop has been swabbed for traces of explosives too many times to mention. And breaking all laws of probability, I’m invariably on the extra-screening list. If only my luck was as good at the craps table.

On this trip I caused great excitement by blowing up the body scanner. Albany, rather surprisingly, has one of the high-tech full-body scanners, something like a 360 degree changing room with mirrors designed to give you body dysmorphic disorder. Despite the 6am hour, a flight without car seats, snack bags and pooping children drastically increased my chances for a frequent flier upgrade so on went the heels and a sequin-speckled top. Unfortunately, the sequins dazzle and confuse these body scanners – in my mind it’s like an x-ray machine encountering a disco ball – so alarms sound and the next thing you’re having the most thorough pat down of your adult life.

I’d like to thank the TSA’s finest for keeping us safe (except when my friends travel with hammers) but if we’re going to get meticulous treatment when it comes to security operations, please take better care of my swimwear or I’m really going to get my knickers in a twist.