It's quite cold tonight. Snow and wind projected. Tomorrow, weather professionals expect temperatures at seventeen degrees below freezing.
With good fortune, my flight to South Africa will still depart.
My trip from SF was mostly good.
A little bump was tossed on the road when I arrived in JFK airport to test my travel spirit.
When our plane landed, I gathered my carry-on bag and walked through the crowded airport to the baggage claim arena. I stood waiting for my duffel bags for some time. After about twenty minutes, I started to become restless.
Then, "it" happened. My world became a bit less calm.
A sharp, firm voice came forward from the loud speaker above my head.
My heart beat quicker. My thoughts started to race.
"If Jeff Davis is in the baggage area, please come to the airline office immediately."
Why was the airline paging me?
I checked to make sure I still had my wallet.
Perhaps, my luggage missed the flight.
I hoped the message did not concern an emergency with family and friends.
As I arrived in the airline office, I noted a dark skinned, unshaved man in a bright red vest with a large, clear plastic bag in his hands.
He stretched out his right arm, held the bag up in the light, and asked me if the contents were mine.
Turns out, he had found my malaria medicine on one of JFK's conveyer belts.
My name was on the pill canister. Thus, the ominous message from the airline office.
On one level, I was grateful. It was kind for this professional to make such an effort to try to connect a stranger with a little canister of greenish pills.
On another level, I felt a sense of fear. The malaria medicine was positioned at the bottom of one of my bags when I left the airline counter in San Francisco.
What happened to the rest of my belongings?
I had visions of my duffel bag ripping apart in the conveyor belts system and my gear separating into independent piles for wild rides all through the airport. Not a pleasant thought.
I acknowledged my ownership, held the bag, thanked the kind gentleman, and went back to the baggage area.
I stood in silence. I wasn't sure what to feel. I figured all I could do is wait.
In about five minutes, my first duffel bag arrived. The straps were wide open. The zipper was wide open. One of my shirts was draped over the top of the bag. A small equipment sack was hanging out.
As I looked at my open luggage, I recognized a standard, printed note from TSA, our beloved national security force.
Apparently, a TSA staff member had opened my bag in San Francisco, rummaged through the contents and thrown the bag back on the conveyer belt for the airplane. It was clear that carefully replacing the contents in the duffel bag and closing the zipper and re-fastening the clips to hold the bag shut was way, way too much trouble.
Big bummer.
At this point, one of the airline staff members saw my bag, threw up her hands, and said "sorry, we have no control of TSA."
My first emotions were not constructive, certainly not remotely compassionate.
I so, so wanted to have a "conversation" with the TSA staffer who went through my luggage.
In the end, I believe I found all, or almost all, of my gear. I lucked out. I may have lost a shirt and some other clothing as well as other small items, but I think I am "good to go" with regard to equipment.
I wish I knew what set off TSA's concern.
One culprit stands out. All four boxes of pencils, which I packed as gifts for children in Malawi, were torn open. Perhaps, the United States government has concerns about exporting lead and wood. These are, after all, very dangerous.
On the cab ride into the City, I tried to tell myself 'it's just stuff." Deep breath. Let it go.
There. I am ready to roll with the day tomorrow!
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