OF TRAVELS, TRAVAILS, AND TURKISH DELIGHTS

Well, I'm back from my short stay in Ireland. Safe and sound too, unless you count a pulled muscle in my leg, sustained while doing the Can-Can and trying to do a Matrix-style wall-run in a nightclub with my mother and brother. Don't ask. With the past few days I've been doing nothing but trying to recover from (a) more walking than I've done in four years* (b) more drinking than I have done in four years* (c) talking more than I have in four years* and finally (d) spending more goddamned time in airports and dealing with their Machiavellian security procedures than I have EVER had to do.

However, on this occasion the latter was actually funny. Wait...no it wasn't. It is on reflection but at the time it was nerve-wracking as hell. So let me set the scene for you:

It's Sunday. Rather than go to bed at a sensible hour Saturday night, I went out to a farewell party of sorts. Got in at 3. a.m. My drive to the airport was leaving at 6 a.m. Cue frantic packing and no sleep. So, I get to the airport feeling like a Romero extra, go through the security shenanigans and get on the plane. Phew. Made it. My intention is to sleep through the eight-hour flight. It doesn't happen, for two reasons. Firstly, there is a child screaming bloody murder in the seat behind me and who, when her parents continue to ignore her, decides to hammer on the headrest of my seat FOR EIGHT HOURS!!!! And, more benignly, the guy who sits next to me turns out to be from my hometown. What are the odds? And for some reason I'm sure only weary travelers will understand, we discussed the goshdarnedness of that fact FOR EIGHT HOURS!!!

Anyway, eight hours later I arrive at Atlanta airport, where I have a six-hour stopover. Ugh. Feeling completely trashed and worthless, I stagger through the crowds and security only to turn when something tugs at my carry-on bag. I groan and promise myself that if this is another shrieking kid I'm going to launch him or her onto the baggage carousel, but lo! T'aint. It is, in fact, nothing more malevolent than a sniffer dog. Surprisingly it wasn't a big slavering brute Alsation-type like you see in those internacionale espionage movies, but a little yippy-yappy terrier type dog that, in my confused state, made me think I was being assailed by Donald Trump's toupee. After a moment spared to realize what the hell was going on, I looked at the dog's handler, a beautiful Asian girl, who smiled and asked that question all pasty-faced hungover Irish guys reeking of Carlsberg wait a lifetime to hear:

"Do you have meat in the bag?"

I said something like: "Snerf."

She continued to smile. "Has there been meat in your bag lately?"

This struck me as funny.

Her smile vanished. "Would you mind opening it, sir?"

I obeyed. Nothing inside but a mountain of Irish chocolates and crisps (chips, to you).

Satisfied, the girl wished me a good day. Relieved, I petted the dog, who glared and all but told me he'd be watching me every time I stepped foot in an airport henceforth.

Roughly one hundred and eighty-seven steps later, I go through the metal detectors, security whoozits and whathaveyou. My bag is yanked off the conveyor belt to be inspected behind a screen while the panic arises again. Sweating sweat that had a higher alcohol content than Ibiza in June and struggling to remember if my shoelaces needed to hear a particular tone of voice before they'd BLOODY OBEY ME! I waited eagerly for the verdict on whatever mysterious object had excited the yipper dog and the large scowling men at the checkpoint.

A few minutes later, shoes on, jacket slung over my ears, I found out.

It was a bar of chocolate called a Turkish Delight.

Yep, and call me a silly goose, but in this day of terrorist attacks and boxcutters, I'm at a loss to understand what it was about this common bar of delicious chocolate that caused such a stir. Was it a racist thing? Did the name of the bar combined with my hungover countenance suggest I was on my merry way to kick the pants off some Czar who had called me a 'daft Mick' over a pint of green vodka on Paddy's Day?

Unfortunately no answers were forthcoming. Instead, my belongings were shoved into my bag and it was handed back to me, but not without a caustic look that reminded me very much of the yapper dog's parting glare.

So what now? Do I travel sans chocolate for fear of being pulled aside and strip-searched lest I have a Twix stowed up my blowhole? Should I get my family and friends to mail me chocs on the offchance that terrorists decide to bombard the world with fat-free Easter Eggs?

Sigh.

As a result I'm one of the few people I know who's afraid of airports instead of airplanes.