Salons Patrick Smith forsøger at flyve uden at blive desillusioneret over tåbelige sikkerhedsregler. Det går ikke så godt.
She opens the compartment and takes out a small vinyl case containing the three pieces. After removing the knife, she holds it upward with two fingers and stares at me coldly. Her pose is like that of an angry schoolteacher about to berate a child for bringing some forbidden object to class.
“You ain’t takin’ this through,” she says. “No knives. You can’t bring a knife through here.”
It takes a moment for me to realize that she’s serious. “I’m … but … it’s …”
“Sorry.” She throws it into a bin and starts to walk away.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “That’s airline silverware.”
“Don’t matter what it is. You can’t bring knives through here.”
“Ma’am, that’s an airline knife. It’s the knife they give you on the plane.”
“No knives. Have a good afternoon, sir.”
