(enroute to El Paso)
Just outside El Paso traffic was directed off of the highway by the boarder patrol. I rolled my window down, got my ID ready, practiced reciting my job title without stumbling. I adjusted my belongings in the passanger seat, looked through the grate into the back analyzing its contents. I removed the knife from my pocket and put it in my bag. Images flashed in my mind of three small Mexican children tuck and rolling from my van leaving me shackled to a prison wall, like in Three Amigos. My cheeks turned red.
I rolled up to the police shanty and was waved on before reaching a complete stop.
Immediately a new feeling rushed over me.
What? Not menacing enough to get stopped, huh? Don't think a white chick in a flowered van could be sneaking anyone in? Don't think I'm a drug smuggler? We'll see about that when I cross back through...
I really had no desire to be searched. Unloading and loading all of the bikes would have been a huge pain. Justifying tools and oils that could be used for alternative illegal purposes would have been time consuming. Explaining the story behind two knives with my limited Spanish just wouldn't be the same (see, this one has a wooden handle, every collection needs one- not that I'm a collector, I just don't like using plastic ones, you feel me on this?... That one? Well look at it! it's so dainty! and I don't know about you but when I go looking for knives, something foldable and cute just works, right?).
Maybe next time I'll tie a bandana around my face on the way through.
(rest stop; 60 miles outside of Tucson)
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