Suitcases and Visa forms

When it was time to board, DF failed me.  I'm not sure if it's Continental or if it's every international flight, but I despise leaving the country from DF.  They won't let you through with any liquid- even one you've just bought in the airport that is still sealed.  They also search your carry-ons, as if you haven't already been through the scanner.  It's a frustrating, time-consuming process.  Then, you wait in line, standing, for about 15 minutes until it's time to board.  I could tell them a thing or two!

As I get to the spot where you pass by the gate agent before getting checked by security before waiting in line, I'm told I don't have the right forms.  This time, I came in using my FM-3 visa instead of just coming in as a tourist for 180 days because I didn't think I'd be going home before July and I would need more than 180 days.  This trip was a surprise.  If I had used just a tourist entrance, all would be well.  However, I used my visa and I didn't realize what responsibility came along with that.  

Apparently you're supposed to stop at Immigration and get some form.  The woman was neither friendly nor helpful.  I also could've told her a thing or two about customer service.  But I didn't.

I asked her where this alleged Immigration form was.  She so pleasantly told me outside security at the front of the airport.  "Of course," I mumble in ugly Spanish tones.  As if boarding time is the appropriate time to send a customer outside security.  As if she didn't have a walkie talkie to call someone for backup.  I let out a sigh and she tells me to come with her.  Great.  Now I've made her mad and am going to be locked up.

She takes me up to the gate where that agent doesn't really look me in the eyes either.  She tells me that next time I need to do it before I get there.  What I want to do at this point is scream at her, "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THIS IF NO ONE EVER TELLS ME?!" but instead I shake my head yes and try to stay silent.

The also unhelpful agent shoves a sheet of paper and pen in my face.  I sign or do whatever I'm supposed to do.

The competence of these two will be revealed shortly.

She takes her copy, shoves mine back in my face and sends me through to be screened.

Ashley and I get to our place to stand in line and begin to feel the weight of Talavera pottery on our backs...  I'm in a foul mood from being treated like a moron.

We get on the plane and I'm next to a mom and her precious little 4-ish year old who is so tired, but is being good.  His brother and aunt are in the row behind us.

Ashley is on the other side, one row up.  Alone.  She has all three seats to herself.  I'm going to move.  As I make my plan, a woman with a walkie talkie comes walking up the aisle and says, "Laura (Spanish pronunciation) Klapheke (cluh-PECK-eh)?"  The genius on the aisle seat across from me raises her hand.  Are you kidding me?

I tell the woman that's me.  She tells me they don't have my boarding pass.  Competence I tell you.  Agent Rude and Agent Ruder were so set on cutting their eyes at me and pushing papers in my face that they forgot to take my boarding pass. 

As I hand her my boarding pass (which of course is so conveniently located in the overhead compartment), she seems satisfied, but annoyed, and makes her exit.

I move to Ashley's row and you can almost hear the excitement from Big Brother that he gets to sit with Mom and Little Brother.

In a few minutes, she's back to ask if I have a suitcase.  I have moved, so I feel like I've broken more rules.

Are you kidding me?!  Do I have a suitcase?!  I mean, have you seen that my carryon is actually a bit too big to be a carryon and that my "personal item" is a backpack heavy enough to be checked and stuffed big enough that it doesn't fit under the seat in front of me?  Of course I have a suitcase...  It's big and red.

At this point, I'm ready to wring some gate agent necks.

She gets on her walkie.  Asks for my last name again.  I tell her.  She starts spelling it.  She asks for details about my suitcase.  Big.  Red.  Important.

She leaves and I begin to freak out.  I'm going to be home less than 48 hours.  If my luggage doesn't make it, it won't even have time to be delivered anywhere (my Nashville condo, Dad's, or Mom's) before it's time for me to leave again!  Not to mention, all I'll have to wear is pottery!

A flight attendant comes on the intercom and says she's sorry for the delay, but we'll get on our way as soon as possible.  Guilt ensues, of course, for causing our plane to wait.  Not my fault.  Rude and Ruder's fault.  But I'm the one feeling the guilt.

Thankfully, she came back on to tell me they had "found" it and it was on the plane.  She wanted me to be "tranquila," the only word she spoke in Spanish.

Tranquila I was.  Feathers ruffled, but beginning to be settled.

The flight attendant comes back on saying our pilot has arrived (so it wasn't my fault!) and that we'll be departing shortly.