Excuse Me, Sir . . .

"Excuse me, sir . . ." I heard the gentleman say, but I kept on walking. Put simply, I didn't want to be stopped. Yesterday we headed for the airport to finally head home. We got to the Qantas (believe it or not, there is no "u" after the "Q") desk to check in for our flight and the clerk warned us that if our carry on luggage was too heavy, then they would send us back downstairs to check it (apparently at an additional fee). "I suggest that you throw away anything that you don't want because it seems as though you might be a few kilos over weight." He then told us that they did random weighings of carry ons upstairs. "Great," we thought before heading upstairs. As Susan passed the clerk, the clerk said nothing. But then when Tyler went by the clerk, he was ordered to have his carry ons weighed. Being a good dad, I tried to bolt past Tyler in hopes of avoiding having my carry ons weighed (don't forget: he is a teenager now and he is taller than me). But the clerk instructed me, and then Amy too, to have our carry ons weighed. Somehow (hmmm?), we were under weight. We breathed a sigh of relief. But then when our carry ons were x-rayed, there was a new problem. Now if we only had two carry ons each, then I would not have felt so awkward, but when you have a few extra carry ons, then you stick out like a sore thumb. After a few minutes, however, the matter was resolved and we were free to go to the gates to board. Susan, Amy, and Tyler then boarded the plane without incident. But as I handed my ticket to the clerk and started walking down the corridor into the plane I heard, "Excuse me, sir . . . " I couldn't believe it, but I kept on walking in hopes that the man was not talking to me. "Excuse me, sir . . . " he politely said again, so I turned in his direction. "I'll have to do a random bag check on you, sir," he further stated. By the time he finished going through my four carry-ons (hey, we did have to add to our rock collection, you know), the plane was held up for a good ten minutes or so. Finally, after being personally searched, I was given the okay and proceeded down the corridor and into the plane. That is, until I reached the door of the plane. They then asked me my name and mandated that I produce my ticket again. Who knew that getting out of New Zealand would be so tough. We then left at around 8 p.m. on Sunday night, but arrived at 10 a.m. on Sunday morning. How that works, I still don't know, but it was a memorable Sunday to say the least. And who was waiting for us at the airport? Good ole' Randy. And before long, we had a McDonald's Iced Vanilla coffee in our hands and we were driving on the right-side of the road again! It's weird to be in America again, but it sure is nice. And we look forward to seeing you guys soon. Thank you, for all the encouraging emails.