It wasn’t a matter of scary people with explosives, drugs, or even overspending without reporting. It was a matter of apples. Red ones.
Jet lagged, sporting airplane hair, and cranky about Air France’s awful food and noisy Frenchmen who refuse to close the window shades, I arrived at baggage claim.
Whack! A double-stuffed bag crashed into the thin rail, barely preventing the bag from jumping off the belt and crushing my feet. I couldn’t help but stare at the woman who pushed past me and began struggling to get the bag off the baggage belt. Dressed in white platform sandals with black socks, aqua-colored leggings, and too many rings, she barked at her husband for help.
With an I am too tired for this sigh, he waddled over and tugged the bag off the carousel. He grumbled that she bought too much stuff, and she gave me a none of your business look. Busted, I dropped my gaze to see a perky little beagle, clad in a tiny cop’s vest, trotting up to my rolling briefcase. He sniffed it, circled it three times, sat at his handler’s feet, and let out three tiny yelps.
“Miss, do you have fruit in your bag?”
Faster than a pilot late for his own flight, I was on my knees unzipping my computer bag to retrieve yesterday’s lunch apple that I hadn’t remembered until now. I handed over the shiny red contraband, signed my agriculture declaration card (violation circled in red), and said, “I can’t believe these little guys can sniff out an apple.”
Like what—I was testing this little, long-eared, sharp-nosed cutie to see if I could smuggle in bananas on my next trip home from Europe?
The dog-cop captain pulled a treat from a pouch around his waist, popped it into the beagle’s mouth, and patted the puppy on the head. I looked up to see the legging-clad woman, shaking her head at me like I'd just been busted for carrying a kilo of something very illegal.
Ears burning, I lifted my minimalist travel bag off the swirling shiny circle, walked to the agriculture control officer, and handed her my card. She pointed the way to an airport police officer, and I handed him my card with the big red circle on it.
The platform-sandals wearing woman tottered past me, turned and gave me a you want to say anything now smile. How could I? She had lots of new treasures, and I had a record. Finally, outside the terminal, the noisy Frenchmen rolled past me, and in perfect French-accented English kindly asked if I was okay. I nodded. My face now redder than the apple, I queued for a taxi and disappeared into my phone.
