It started with arrival at the airport, where nobody was in communication with the other. The guy at door tells me I can't check-in with him because I have the wrong ticket, so he sends me to line 3. Line 3 tells me that I can't go there because it is for international passengers only. He tells me that the guy at the curb should have handled it. I explained that I was not going back to the door, so he proceeds to show me a phone that will do just as good. That was rather simple, but of course the woman at the other end asks me why I am talking to her, and I reply, "Because somebody told me to.” She replied, “You didn't have to do that.”



After getting checked in, my 11 year old son and I were singled out by TSA as possible terrorists and got to do the pat down and wand between the legs routine in front of God and everybody in Tampa. They tried to explain to me that we were singled out randomly and I laughed. He then said, "Well, not that randomly." I laughed harder, and he said, "Okay, you guys fit the profile." I laughed harder thinking about my son in a Hawaiian shirt and me in my Thai silk shirt and what menacing characters we are.

Actually, we do fit the profile and have been singled out for special treatment for nearly every domestic flight that I can remember taking in the USA for the past four years. Here are a few of the known variables: foreign mailing address, tickets bought overseas, tickets for a domestic flight not associated with an international flight, one-way and hyper-discounted tickets.

Upon arriving in Atlanta, we were greeted with the reality that one bag arrived, and one bag did not. It just so happens that the bag that didn't arrive was my son's that had all the new school clothes that we had just purchased while visiting family. My bag would not have been nearly as devastating, because I can pick all of my things up in a hurry from online stores and the like. The son's bag reflected 15 hours of shopping and much family annoyance. God knows I did not want to go through that all over again.

I spoke to three different guys named Dave, Jim and Peter in Bombay, India who promised me that I would see the bag again (Real names? You tell me.). They were not wrong. It finally appeared 36 hours after it was lost. It had been to Dallas, sat in the Atlanta airport for at least 15 hours, and finally boarded a late flight for Dothan, Alabama. My son will go to school with new clothes and I kept my sense of humor.