Coming BACK to America
It was the summer of 2002, which, in 
retrospect, was a particularly unfortunate 
time to be both British and in possession of 
shoes at an American airport. Six months 
earlier, Richard Reid had tried mid flight 
to detonate a bomb hidden in his training 
shoe, hence his nickname: The Shoe 
Bomber. Consequently, air travel to the USA 
had shifted tone and was no longer, “Have a 
nice trip,” but more “Let’s just confirm you’re 
not about to blow up the plane.’’
I had travelled to New York with a girlfriend 
who had always approached life with 
enthusiasm, intensity, and a noticeable 
resistance to perceived injustice. As I was 
soon to realise, she was not ideally suited to 
airport security environments.
We were in the queue with our shoes off, 
dignity lowered but not yet lost, when I 
was asked to step aside for “additional 
screening.” It was delivered politely, 
almost casually, as if inviting me to enjoy a 
slightly upgraded version of the standard 
experience. Appreciating that the polite 
question was not really open to a negative 
response, I complied. My girlfriend however 
did not have my level of appreciation. “This 
is ridiculous!” she announced immediately 
and at volume, as though she had been 
waiting for precisely this opportunity to 
address the issues of social unfairness.
However much in isolation I agreed with 
the accuracy of her announcement, 
unfortunately context does matter, and in 
an airport on high alert, where the operative 
assumption is that nothing unusual should 
be happening, a loud objection represents 
the opposite of ‘nothing unusual’. Security 
attention intensified enough to suggest 
they my situation had been promoted from 
“routine” to “unusual”.
“It’s ok, no problem” I said, attempting 
to restore routineness. But the moment 
had passed. I was escorted away, gently 
but decisively, to what became my own 
private room for “enhanced screening 
plus.” It was less of a room and more of a 
holding area, and I spent some time there 
emptying my pockets and bags, explaining 
in increasingly detailed terms, that I was 
calm, have always been calm, and will 
continue to remain calm, as I had no plans 
to detonate anything, anywhere, at any 
time. American security personnel love 
calm. Eventually, after a more thorough 
search that thankfully did not require any 
coughing, torches or rubber gloves, I was 
released back into the airport, a free man.
By the time I returned, we were already late 
for check-in which as it turned out, created 
its own set of difficulties. When we finally 
reached the desk, slightly dishevelled, we 
were informed apologetically that there were 
no longer two seats together on the flight.
There are moments in life when you can 
observe a situation deteriorating in slow 
motion. This was one of them. My girlfriend, 
whose mood had already darkened to 
something approaching a minor weather 
system, reacted in a way that was entirely 
consistent with her earlier performance, but 
now with added annoyance.
“We are not sitting separately,” she said, 
which was less a statement of preference 
and more a declaration of intent. Again, loud 
enough for our conversation to be received 
by others like a public announcement.
The airline staff adopted the careful stillness 
of people who have learned that loud noises 
and sudden movements are prohibited in an 
international airport. The calm atmosphere 
once again had shifted. Again. Calm 
security staff appeared. Fortunately, tot the 
same faces as before, but the same calm 
efficiency.
They listened briefly to the check-in lady, 
intervened professionally, and – without 
inviting further input – accepted the seat 
allocations on our behalf. We were guided 
away from the desk and seated at a 
suitable distance away 
from the 
check-in desk. There 
we sat. I listened. My 
girlfriend continued 
to describe in 
considerable detail her 
dissatisfaction with the 
situation, the system, and, 
at points, the general state 
of travel in the modern age.
After a while, I considered 
the flight ahead and, more 
specifically, the possibility of 
spending several hours in the air with her 
seated elsewhere, building momentum. I 
also considered the alternative: her beside 
me, where at least the anger could be, if not 
contained, then managed. There was also 
a third, darker thought, involving the in-flight 
security throwing us from the plane into the 
Atlantic Ocean just to be rid of us.
“Let me try speaking to the lady at the 
desk again” I said, “alone.” This was met 
with scepticism, but there was enough of a 
pause that I believe I could have convinced 
any jury that I was being given tacit consent. 
As I approached the desk, I formulated a 
strategy: apology first, explanation second, 
English charm throughout.
“I’m very sorry about earlier,” I began, in the 
tone of a man who had accepted that he 
was part of the problem, although indirectly. 
I explained that my girlfriend’s reaction, 
whilst being regrettable and at times 
somewhat offensive, was not born of malice 
but of a profound fear of flying. (Not being 
able to arrive at any suitable explanation I 
clearly had to substitute explaining for lying.)
“I’m really worried” I continued, “that if we’re 
not seated together, she may find the flight 
too much to cope with and could possibly 
create stress for the other passengers and 
the cabin crew. You saw what she was 
like at ground level. Imagine what it might 
be like at 40,000ft.” My memory is a little 
vague now but I’m pretty sure my voice 
was as hushed and calm as a snooker 
commentator.
The woman behind the desk listened 
attentively and looked at me carefully. I 
could see she was thinking... 
contemplating... Imagining!!!! Then she 
began typing on her computer furiously. 
When she finished, she had printed 
something, and promptly handed over 
two new boarding passes. I looked at 
them. First class. She then apologised 
repeatedly for not having shown sympathy 
and understanding earlier and hopefully we 
could still enjoy the flight, more so with our 
luxury seats. I took the passes and returned 
to my girlfriend who was still ranting. 
“Sorted. We’re in first class 
now” I said.
“How did you 
do that?” she asked.
Feeling that my girlfriend’s mood had now 
lightened, I joked that I had told the airline 
attendant that I was my girlfriend’s carer, 
and that life had never been the same since 
the accident! I described how that story, 
plus a full dose of the legendary Kafai charm 
(accompanied by my phone number) had 
won the day.
As it turned out, my feelings were entirely 
wrong, But at least my flight home in first 
class was luxury itself. And in silence.
Mr Kafai
19

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