I really hope he'll go someday.
But I don't think he will — the serious luggage inspector who crossed my path at the airport last weekend. He was an official-looking, older man with a big badge who groaned out loud when he opened my carry-on case and noticed all my tiny, recycled vials of nothing at all that could take down an airplane. Face lotion. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Liquid soap. Bug spray.
"Aw, now you're going to have to take all of these out and put them in a plastic bag at the end of the line," he fumed.
"But they're already in my own plastic bag," I said. I wasn't arguing. I was just stating what was true.
"This bag of yours isn't see-through enough." He flashed me a frown that wasn't the least bit intimidating. Chief inspector may have been the title on his badge. But I could see that his heart wasn't in it as much as he pretended it to be.
"I don't mind putting these things in another bag," I said cheerfully. "But it seems strange that this is the first time I've ever been stopped for having them packed this way. I went all the way to Scotland and back last summer, and I was fine."
"Aw, don't tell me that!" he blurted out.
At first, I thought his anger — or frustration — was directed at all the airline employees between here and Glasgow. All the people who had failed to live up to their jobs by letting my bag pass them by uninspected.
But then I looked at his face. Stared at it, really. At his clear blue eyes outlined by tiny wrinkles. At the wrinkles sketched into his forehead. I saw an almost smile that was trying to win a place on his face. And then I realized: He wasn't upset with all those other employees who let my bag pass through. He was upset with the fact that I had been to Scotland. And he hadn't.
"Would you like to go to Scotland? You would, wouldn't you? Oh, you should," I said. "You would love it. It's the most beautiful place. It was the most wonderful 10 days I've ever had."
"Stop. Don't tell me about how wonderful it was," he grimaced as he emptied all my tiny containers into a big black plastic bin. "My father was actually born in Fort William."
"Fort William?" I exclaimed. "I went there. It was one of my most favorite spots. The western highlands. Mountains, rivers, little cottages. Quiet, and untamed. You should definitely go. Your roots are there."
He smiled and said he would walk me back to the beginning of the line to get a proper plastic bag. He really didn't have to do that. I could find my way back. But I was glad for his company. A fellow Scotsman, he could tell me more about his father. I could tell him more about his homeland.
"My father was from Scotland. My mother came from County Cork, Ireland. Quite a combination," he laughed. "We had a sign in our house that read, 'There may not be peace here, but there will always be love."
They fought all day long, he mused as we walked back to the end of the line. But they never went to bed angry. As the motto proclaimed, there was always love.
"You really should see Fort William for yourself," I said. "I know you'd love it."
He shook his head and sighed.
"Why not go?" I asked. "Are you afraid? I was, too. But then I remembered what my friend Edna said: 'You think you're going to be young forever? Go while you can. You never know how long you have.' So I went. You should go. While you still can."
"You're all set," he announced when we reached the place with the proper plastic bags.
Then he turned and raced back to inspect someone else's bag. I knew from his eyes that he'd love to be the one going on his own adventure someday. Sadly, though, I don't think he'll ever give himself permission to get there.
nnn
Lorraine Lordi lives in Londonderry. To order her collections of Derry News columns or sign up for one of her writing workshops, go to www.plumriverpress.com.
