![]() Nora was the only one of that group of older women who paid any attention to me. ![]() ![]() ![]() Among them was Nora Jansen, a short, raspy-voiced Midwesterner who looked a bit like a white Eartha Kitt. My loose social circle included a clique of impossibly cool lesbians in their mid-30s. I decided that the latter choice was slightly more terrifying. Maybe I should try to get through customs and run? Or perhaps the bag really was delayed, and I would be abandoning a large sum of money that belonged to someone who could probably have me killed with a simple phone call. ![]() "Wait for the next shuttle from Paris - it's probably on that plane." Had my bag been detected? I knew that carrying more than $10,000 undeclared was illegal, let alone carrying it for a West African drug lord. "Bags don't make it onto the right flight sometimes," said the big lug working in baggage handling. Fighting panic, I asked in my mangled high school French what had become of my suitcase. When I arrived in Belgium, I looked for my black rollie at the baggage claim. I had done exactly as I had been instructed, checking my bag in Chicago through Paris, where I had to switch planes to take a short flight to Brussels. Dressed in suede heels, black silk pants, and a beige jacket, I probably looked like any other anxious 24-year-old professional, a typical jeune fille, not a bit counterculture, unless you spotted the tattoo on my neck. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |