“Ms. Wilcox, please report to the check-in counter for a message.”  I hear my name over the PA system as I am eating soggy pesto spaghetti in the airport in Guayaquil, Ecuador.  We are waiting to board our flight to Costa Rica.

The four of us race to the counter, half-expecting a message from our miracle-worker of a travel planner, Sam.  “Wow,” I’m thinking, “I’m surprised she didn’t just email.  I wonder what’s up?”

Turns out, Sam has nothing to do with this.  When we reach the desk, we are informed that one of our bags has been chosen for an additional security screening and would I please follow the agent.  I glance at Russ and he says that he should go.  No, I say.  I speak Spanish.  It’s thirty-year-old high school Spanish but he studied German, so of the two of us it makes more sense for me to head down the corridor.   Plus, they paged “Ms.” Wilcox.

I am not alone.  Several other passengers have also been called and we are all escorted down a stairway, across the street, and into a large hangar.  I see several rows of luggage neatly arrayed on the ground.  A man is walking a German shepherd systematically up and down the rows.  Oh no.  My mind immediately starts to race.  My fear is confirmed when I am told to approach a table behind which stands a large man with huge biceps and a t-shirt that says “Policía Narcotica.”  Behind him I can see what looks like a kennel with more dogs.  He doesn’t speak a word of English, nor does he smile.

Holy sh**, I think.  This is a drug search.  I am actually being screened for illicit substances.  In South America.  In a language I don’t really speak.  I feel as though I accidentally stepped into the scene of a bad action movie. 

Moreover, the bag he wants to check is not mine—it is Katherine’s.

Now my heart is racing right along with my mind:  was the bag ever out of our sight for an instant?  I don’t think so.  No one could have possibly put something in it.  Unless something happened to it after we checked it.  Did she tuck an apple into her suitcase?  Would that have made the dog sneeze and prompt this interview? 

He asks me (in Spanish) how long I’ve been in the country and wants to know the purpose of my visit.  Before answering him, I blurt out “Éste bolso es de mi hija; ella tiene diez años.”  He doesn’t care and simply repeats the question and asks for my passport for good measure.  As I hand it over, I respond “Nueve días en Ecuador:  siete en las islas Galapagos, uno en Quito, y uno aquí en Guayaquil.  Hechemos uno viaje del mundo.  Viajamos uno año.  Tenemos dos meses más.”  At this last he raises an eyebrow and a hint of a human emerges.  “Hmmmm.  Cuántos países?”  he asks. “Treinta-tres,” I reply.  He looks down and nods, as if to say “Not bad!” 

These are more Spanish words than I have strung together in almost three decades and I have no clue where they have come from but they tumble out furiously.  I send a silent thank-you to my high school teacher as I watch this mountain of a man paw through every zippered pouch and pocket in Katherine’s bag.  I note that he has systematically unpacked every article of clothing and wonder for a brief second if, like the employees at the Gap, his work has made him good at folding.  I quickly see, however, that re-folding is not part of the deal.  I can’t suppress a nervous giggle when he opens a satin pouch buried at the bottom of Katherine’s suitcase and no fewer than a hundred multi-colored hair elastics pop out. 

He finally looks up at me and smiles.  “Mucho bueno Señora, gracias.”  That’s it.  The bag and I are free to go.

I am so happy that I don’t even resent all the re-folding I have to do.