1) Passport. After the dreadful displacement of 2011, I am so paranoid about losing my passport, I highly doubt it will reoccur. I routinely place it in the smallest pocket of my luggage and transport said luggage to my vehicle only upon the day of departure. Idiot proof - or at least Anna proof.
2) Clothes. The outfit must be the ideal balance between comfort and adjustable temperature, one difficult to strike. Sneaks are obvious, paired with calf length leggings, stretchy enough to reach my ankles should the plane ac blow vigorously. Clothing the upper body requires a bit more tact. I begin with a shelf bra tank top, knowing all to well the grating nature of under wire. Since society demands a certain level of discreteness, I layer a loose tank top to hide potential protrusions. The sweatshirt is a zip-up for ease of removal, and my look is completed with a loose head band to keep hair at bay while not tugging follicles.
3) Appropriate level of exhaustion. I begin the morning with a vigorous workout, spend four hours at the office and drive to Dulles. I entertain myself the first leg of the journey with John Grisham's latest work, knowing I can not concede to the seduction of sleep. Further, my final flight coincides with a bedtime of one o'clock in the morning, well past my usual time of retirement.
4) Food and water - yes, even the bare essentials require a systematic approach. I choose not to risk the entrance of foreign substances into my digestive track when the only place of relief is a 1'x 2' box that smells either sterile or foul. I have a simple sandwich and banana for dinner. Prior to boarding my marathon flight, I buy a two liter water, easily transferable to my own dispenser, to avoid dehydration. Although I plan on sleeping through this entire flight, I need to be prepared for an onset of insatiable hunger. I choose a granola bar, dried fruit and a banana (which I have trouble justifying because I already had one banana), pay the reasonable price of twenty dollars, and meander confidently aboard.
5) Generally I have no issue sleeping in any position amidst copious amount of noise, as numerous professors can attest. Leaving nothing to chance, however, it is time for the piece de resistance - pharmaceudicals. I swallow half a sleeping pill as instructed by a friend, curl into a cozy ball and enter blissful rest.
After ten hours of sleep, I awake with only three hours remaining. Those passed quite smoothly with a cup of coffee and an omelet. Despite my aversion to airline food, I find the odds of infecting eggs is quite slim so I partake. The fleeting thought of a banana passes through my conscience but makes a quick exit.
The plane lands at 6:55 AM New Zealand time, and I disembark with a spring in my step, knowing I had conquered the travel woes of others with ease. I even have the mental wherewithal to buy alcohol at the duty free shop. There is a deal on the desired rum, 2 for $69, a veritable steal. My spirits heighten.
I continue on my trek to customs, disregarding the sign prompting me to rid myself of all biohazards, focused on an exhilerating destination. I smile widely at the agent, knowing my vacation is within reach, and when asked about the food I claimed, I reassure him it is merely granola bars for my sister. All processed. Nothing fresh.
I place each bag on the conveyor belt for x-rays, including my purse, which I consider odd since it has already been through a security check point in America. The yellow satchel comes through the machine, and the following exchange ensues.
Agent: Is this yours?
Me: Yes
Agent: You are aware of all contents of your purse?
Me: Yes
My head: What if the sleeping pill is actually illegal? Should I confess it?
Agent: Your customs sheet is correct?
Me: Yes
My head: Why do they make me fill this sheet out when I first am roused? Alright, I will come clean regarding the half sleeping pill.
Me: I do have a pill in there.
My head: I hope this does not parallel Brokedown Palace, landing me in a New Zealand prison the remainder of my life. What could be in there? Perhaps the family man playing tetris beside me was not as innocent as he seemed.
Agent (pulling out a banana that is now passed ripe): Please come with me.
Me (rolling my eyes): You have got to be kidding me.
Agent: This is a biohazard.
My head: Your face is a biohazard.
Me: I bought this at a Starbuck's, I forgot about it, please have mercy on me.
Agent: Please read this.
I read and am informed I owe the small fine of $400, the tinge of which was lessened slightly upon realizing that was only about $340 US dollars.
Me: Do you enjoy doing this?
My head: Do you realize you are only in this position because you could never be a cop, or even a traffic cop? There are real criminals out there and you are enacting a sick power trip on an innocent, health conscience girl. You are adopted and your parents do not even love you.
Silence.
Me: Sugar.
I am happy to assure you New Zealand has been compensating for this rude welcoming with wine, food and gorgeous scenery. As for my relationship with the banana, I had a nibble of a friend's yesterday. Though I have faith our fire will be rekindled, it will certainly take time to heal the wound inflicted by the most expensive banana never eaten.
