Will I Get Past the Pearly Customs Gate?

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Just before the plane descends, I make a quick trip to the bathroom. I've sat in the middle seat on every flight and hate to disrupt my fellow passengers in order to get out - particularly the young, serious man sitting beside me who boarded the plane in Paris. Though we sit nearly touching, we haven't spoke a word the entire trip. I did hear his voice right before take-off as he concluded a phone call with someone I somehow suspect was his mother, or a lover. "Ciao!" "Ciao" "Ciao!" he bellowed before hanging up. I had a feeling he needed his space and decided against aimless small talk. I settled into my seat again only to remember that I needed to get my backpack from the overhead bin to ready my passport for customs. I nudged the young man again, regretfully explaining that I needed to retrieve my bag. I made a swift move for the bag and sat down again. Seconds later, I remembered that my coat was still up top. I decided to sit and stay. The plane landed effortlessly and the young man stood quickly to grab his bag from the bin. But first he took my coat and handed it to me with a kind smile, which I returned. Ten and a half hours sitting next to each other and we'd finaly connected.

We left the plane and headed for customs, which always makes my palms sweaty. It's as if I'm secretly harboring hashhish or a random piece of forbidden fruit and I'm just waiting to be found out. It's sort of the same sensation I felt as a kid in church when suddenly I'd get the feeling I was going to stand up and scream an obscenity. I decided to slip in with the nuns. Surely no one would give them any trouble. Though I'd be traveling with a small group in India, they had all left Louisville the day before. I was traveling alone on the planes to India. And through customs. If trouble developed, I'd be on my own, at least until Father Nelson arrived. Father Joe had kindly emailed from India a few days earlier describing the airport to us in great detail. He'd also told us exactly what to put on the customs form -- where we were staying, the retreat house, and the purpose of our visit, religious pilgrimmage and visiting with friends. But he'd forgotten one thing - the phone number for where we were staying -- which is exactly what the customs guard demanded I provide at 12:35 a.m. after 19 hours in the air. I scrambled in my purse. I knew it was in there somewhere. Unlike my usual scrambles at home, I quickly located the number. I walked on through the customs gate, only this time, more than my palms were sweaty.

Next up -- baggage claim, another point of potential disaster. Yes, I'd made it safely here, but what about my bag? Each of my connections were amazingly close; each time I barely had time to go to the bathroom before boarding began. What if the bag didn't make it? As a Six on the Enneagram, I am ususaly prepared for the worst. And I was. I had a change of clothes in my backpack, as well as the medicine I needed and enough snacks and hand sanitizer to last week. Still, my heart raced as I watched the same bags snake through the claim area over and over again. Then a bag I recognized - not mine, but a bag I brought for one of my traveling companions who would be arrivinging the next day from Israel. Ok, I thought, she's covered. But what about me? Back to the swirling snake of bags. Then, amazingly, there it was having traveled from Louisville, to Atlanta to Paris to Bangalore. I'd just witnessed a minor miracle.

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