My big fat Greek nightmare
This writer shares with us what it's like to fly in the middle of a terror crisis and survive.
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 I woke up the morning after my bon voyage party to a text message from a friend: “Did you hear? There were terrorists in London. Hope you have a safe flight.” Turning on CNN while organizing my toiletries, I learned of British police spoiling a plot to bomb jets flying from London to the United States. “Great,” I thought as I repacked all the contents of my carry-on into my suitcase. With the security level at red — the highest ever — that morning, passengers were allowed to carry on only bare essentials in a clear plastic bag. Eye glasses with no cases, prescription medication with the prescription label, passport, boarding pass and money were some of the items they could take. Luckily my family had time to prepare for a 9 p.m. departure for a luxury Greek vacation and cruise. We had our contact lens cases pre-filled with solution; we were only asked to pack or throw out our reading books and that Thursday’s issue of Nguoi Viet 2. My brother and I silently scoffed when the gap in the line behind us got longer as hordes of unaware travelers looked confusedly at the Ziploc bag handed to them by airport personnel. Very slowly but surely our Athens-bound foursome crept toward the British Airways check-in counter; all the while my sibling and I hoped to be interviewed by the many camera crews. An extra three-hour delay later, tummies filled with a $40 dinner compliments of the airline, we set off for Heathrow Airport in London. Upon our arrival we were met with even more stringent restrictions and police strolling around with automatic AK-47s. As luck would have it, I was the only one in our group to have my toothbrush — with those cool new built-in tongue scrapers — confiscated. They even took the complimentary British Airways travel toothbrush and overlooked the mini tube of toothpaste. I grumbled bitterly the whole flight about the jealous British security guard who eyed my pearly whites. It then became even more depressing to wander Heathrow’s warmly lit duty-free shops to kill the extra two-hour delay on top of our layover. Why? Because I couldn’t buy the new bottle of Bvlgari perfume I discovered, we couldn’t carry on ice-cold bottled water, we had to read the European magazines in the store, and last but not least, we didn’t expect to lose our clothes and ever find the need to buy a beautiful Burberry shawl. Yes, that’s right. My mother, brother, and I were without our suitcases for seven days out of the 10 days overseas; only my dad had his. Thus began my fight for survival. On day one, we ran across Athens’ virtually non-existent crosswalks and found a supermarket the size of a liquor store. Wouldn’t you know, they make razors, toothbrushes and face wipes in Europe, but no “modernized” tampons. Contact-lens solution? Only sold at pharmacies, said the concierge who couldn’t supply us with any necessities. Being across from the ancient Temple of Zeus didn’t help when looking for those present-day pharmacies. They ended up being blocks past Plaka or “Old Town Athens” in Kolonaki, the new chic shopping district. However, even if we had tried the next day, Sunday, when the major jet lag wore off, they would have been closed. In fact, almost two thirds of Athens’ residents had left town for their holidays. The second day in Athens, I realized that we, like our 30 or so fellow passengers, were not going to get our luggage anytime soon. Then came the search for something else to wear in the 110-degree heat other than the clothes that seemingly had been on me for days. The result from the tourist shops: bright blue short shorts with “Greece” on the back and a handmade, white summer dress. That night, my mom taught me how to handwash my only underwear and white T-shirt in the sink and hang it by the air conditioner. I’d have to say backpacking across Europe sounded like a more glamorous idea. Every morning we woke up with hope that our belongings would appear outside of room 238, but no luck, even when we boarded our cruise ship. The first island, Mykonos, had contact-lens solution, but only for my brother who wears soft contacts. I, with the ancient hard ones, had no choice but tap water. We ladies found a bikini shop across the narrow alley from the pharmacy, where a very plain panty was 40 Euros, or just more than $50. We decided to keep washing in the sink. Even Kusadasi, Turkey, with plenty of faux luxury goods, didn’t appeal to me or agree with the sweltering weather. Afterward, Patmos — a small island with religious sites — produced a short wrap-around skirt, a souvenir little boy’s T-shirt and a seashell bracelet; the latter was for our gala dinner the next night. Finally, I was ready in Rhodes, one of the larger islands, where I bought a bikini to double as underwear, a pair of designer shorts and tank top, and contact-lens solution. I found my booty after an hour and a half of weaving through the walled “Old Town,” past the Casino of Rhodes and into “New Town.” That night for the captain’s dinner, with refreshed eyes, I ironically opted to wear the cotton dress I found the first day with my new blow dry and style, compliments of the ship’s beauty salon with a 15 percent discount. No perfume? No problem; I just went down to the duty-free shop and spritzed on a sample of Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle. On day seven, a vendor at Crete’s flea market offered me for 3 Euros — almost $4 — a very convincing Burberry plaid bikini, but by then we received word our beloved luggage was waiting in Athens. Finally. I could cover up my awful sunglass tanline with makeup. Despite a strange dampness to all of my clothes, I had never been so happy to hug my USC teddy bear. That evening, our family enjoyed an awesome sunset stroll to take pictures of Hadrian’s Arch, conveniently across the street from our hotel. Art history had never been so glorious. For our return flight, we were once again delayed, 10 hours this time. Being put up in the airport’s very posh Sofitel, I finally had the chance to plan and plot. No more anxiety about losing my cell phone with all my personal and work numbers; in my boarding pass carrier went my SIM card as well as my camera’s memory stick. No more losing my last two Chapsticks in my brother’s pockets and having to buy more; in they went into each of my jean pockets. Although we were allowed carry-ons now with electronic devices only a week after the London crisis — “no to water, yes to iPods” was the saying — I didn’t want to take any chances. After four levels of security each on British and American soil, I caught sight of a palm tree and my heart fluttered. Yes! I quietly jumped up for joy and smiled smugly at my disapproving mother. And by the way, no one ever asked me to unzip my 11-inch by 4-inch travel holder to expose my electronic devices. Even the female guards who frisked me twice, never found the Chapsticks. This was never meant to be a political piece, but I sure am glad to be American. And although our tour group and lunch mates on the cruise said we were extremely calm and optimistic, I have to admit I didn’t enjoy this time in Europe to the fullest extent. Most of the time was spent hopping the Cycladic Islands for clothes and toiletries. I also was bitter every night before my head hit the pillow. I dreamt of all the full liters of water I had to toss, the airport policy of tasting breast milk in the presence of guards, the news of a 12-year-old boy who made it onto a plane without a ticket, and of my electronics, six new bikinis, and expensive Italian heels that I almost lost. Don’t get me wrong, the sights were gorgeous, my belongings were material and I am thankful to be alive, but I am still angry. Angry at the ridiculous security measures that were never routinely enforced, the 15 hours of delays, the incompetent airports. Nonetheless, this holiday disaster taught me to keep my head high, and enjoy the ride because there really isn’t anything you can do about it in the middle of the sparkling Aegean Sea.
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