Yesterday, my cousins and I had to end our magical vacation in Cancun. It was time to go home and face our different challenges in life. We began this by getting into our private driver's black SUV to take us to the airport. It was glorious and air conditioned and comfy. We arrived at the Cancun airport still on the high of all that an all-inclusive resort has to offer - where every thirst, hunger, and desire are promptly attended to. Our driver parked the car, got the door and our bags for us and with smiles on our faces and a gleam in our eye, we said 'goodbye'.
We turn around and enter the sliding glass doors and... WHABAM! We are in Mexico. Real Mexico. Not the "fake" Mexico where we just spent our days sleeping, eating, swimming, repeating. There are people everywhere, babies crying, and chaos. We head upstairs to the security checkpoint because we have no bags to check. More long lines. We get in one and watch a lady complain that her plane is about to board and her security line hasn't moved in the last hour. Thankfully, we got there 3 hours early.
As we finally approach the security scanners, we see that there are a lot of people who have gone through the security point and are coming back through the line to empty out their bags of all liquids. Every kind of liquid. Toothpaste, hair gel, shampoo, sunscreen, shaving cream, deodorant, everything - even if it less than 3 ounces. We see the exasperation on their face and quickly learn from their frustration that we need to be proactive and pull everything out of our bags. I watched as a young man in front of me begs the agent not to throw away his $50 hair gel. She tells him that he would have to go back into the chaos downstairs and check his bag if he wants to keep it. He resigns his fate to the tyrant and walks away - likely with a tear in his eye.
When the security agent gets our bucket, we are ready for her at the end of the aisle. She pulls every single item out and scrutinizes it with disdain. She rejects my cousin's toothpaste and then moves on to my bag where she takes away my nice hair conditioner, my contact solution, and then my expensive face wash. I want to scream, "No! Not the face wash!" and I remember the young man in front of me. We feel the same pain and I know that I have to walk away. Curse you, Mexican security agent.
After this gross injustice I go buy overly expensive water and souvenirs that I will likely throw away when we move next year, but I feel obligated because I left my family and I think that somewhere it is written that you must take chintzy junk back to the people you have abandoned to go on vacation. This takes me about an hour to find just the right kind of junk.
One of these items is what I believe to be caramel sauce. I try to ask a lady if that is what it is. She doesn't speak English and turns to find another lady. The second lady also must not speak English well but knows enough to pull out her phone and google translate the name on it. The result? "Goat's milk".
Hmmm. Well, okay. I will buy it anyway.
We board our plane and head back to amazing America.
Now we have done some international travel before, but I must have blocked this out of my memory. When you come back into America, you have to go through security again, just as if you were trying to get on a domestic flight. If you have liquids more than 3 oz, you need to check your bags, etc. So we get back into another security line where I gulp down another bottle of water because it cost me $4 at the overpriced Mexican airport. I throw my bags on the conveyor belt and go through the metal detector and wait. Both cousin's bags make it through with no issue but they pull my bag to the side for inspection. Seriously? Ugh! So I wait my turn for an inspection. I watch as the American security agent goes through people's bags and makes them also get rid of stuff. What the heck? The only place all of us passengers have been is an airport and you can only buy souvenirs there. He opens my bag and rifles through my underwear, essentially (because I have packed almost nothing) and finds the "goat's milk." He pulls it out and says, "If you want this, you will have to check the bag."
By this point, I am tired. I am slightly irrational and I just can't handle them taking any more things from me. I stand up to my full 5'1" height and say, "Then I will check my bag."
This is not what people normally say so he asks me to repeat myself.
"I. will. check. the. bag."
We can both see that this "goat's milk" cost me $8.00. Both he and I are contemplating how important this small bottle of brown goo is but I can't bring myself to let him throw it away. Whatever hassles, and security, and fight that will be required in order to keep the Cajeta, I will do it. I am its savior and I will not let them have it. I have lost too much today.
He looks at me suspiciously, closes down his line, and walks me and my bag back through the other side of security. People are looking at me like I have drugs in my suitcase. The other security guard tries to yell at me that I can't go back through but then sees that I am escorted by this gatekeeper and stops mid-sentence. He deposits me on the other side and says, "have a good day, ma'am."
Oh, I will have a good day. I walk right over to the desk agent and tell her that I need to check my bag. She asks what I have in it, because she can see that I am not the typical passenger. I pull out the plastic bottle. She looks at it and says, "How about this... I will put it into a box and send it through the checked baggage system. You can keep your bags and just pick this up at your final airport." She walks over to the boxing area, finds a goldfish box and says that I will see it in Dayton.
I get back in the lengthy security line and feel vindicated for my efforts. I pass with no issues and walk to my patiently waiting cousins - one of them has a flight to catch rather soon, despite my rebellious efforts to save the caramel. I am certain that they both thought I was nuts. I walk right up to them with the same luggage that I had before all this happened and they are looking at me like, "How the hell do you still have your bag?"
I explain to them that I met Mother Teresa on the other side of security and she is sending my "goat's milk" in its own private box to my airport. We hurry off to get some food and I say goodbye to them both and wait for my flight, which does not leave for another 4 hours.
I finally arrive at my airport after midnight and go to the checked bag area. Guess what is waiting for me. My goldfish box.
Theoretically traveling to far places sounds amazing and dreamy, and really, it is. But until I can teleport to these fabulous destinations, I will continue to pay a high cost for travel - my sanity.
