How I nearly got re-routed to Guantanamo Bay

Returned to Austin early this morning to find a story I wrote about an Olympic weightlifter as the centerpiece on the American-Statesman's Web site. The guy works out daily in a sweltering and musty old bird shed in rural Texas and overcame a physical abnormality to become an Olympian. It's stories like these that truly inspire leading up to the Olympics. 

Give it a read. Or don't. 

Anyhow, I feel blessed to be back in Austin at all. I've been harangued at security in airports before. I've been patted down, forced to walk through the metal detector again, pretty much everything short of being strip-searched and interrogated with a bag over my head.  

I was pretty sure that was what was coming yesterday at Portland International Airport.

When I fly I like to keep in basic. Don't wear cowboy boots because it would be too much of a hassle to get them on and off, don't wear jewelry because it might get swiped by a TSA Agent (not that I wear jewelry ever anyhow). So I figured I'd skate right through in my flip-flops, khaki shorts and polo. 

At the very least, I didn't look like the stereotypical terrorist. At most, I look as much like a terrorist as I do an Olympic weighlifter (heh heh). But that didn't stop a dutiful security agent from holding me up for what seemed like hours, but in reality was probably five minutes. 

The point of interest: My trendy Reef flip-flops. Now, I know Reef makes flips with bottle openers on the bottoms, and I've heard of some with flasks (somehow). But I thought I had a basic, utilitarian pair of beach-quality summer shoes. 

After running my sandals through the X-Ray machine twice, and swabbing them down for explosive residue (my foot odor can definitely knock some people back) the agent brought the shoes over and told me to watch. 

He slowly began to pull my right flip flop apart from the sole, making me wonder how a terrorist mastermind had gotten ahold of my shoes, and also whether I would get to keep my flip flops for the days spent lounging on the beach at Guantanamo. Prisoners get beach access, right? 

Inside my flipper, which turned out to be held together by velcro, was a little space with a pen in it. Yes, a writing utensil had been mistaken for an explosive device (or something worse). This was fine, I understood the precaution. I was more upset to find out that there was a pen in my shoe and I hadn't known about it. I mean, what a fantastic idea! This was the kind of stuff Q was working on in the lab for Bond, James Bond. It was like those shoes were made for the journalist on the go!

Imagine being at the beach and, say, a surfer gets his arm chopped off by a passing boat, the Reef-wearing journalist will be prepared to get the scoop. 

Thanks, Reef! And thanks to PDX security for bringing this invaluable tool to my attention.