Rusty screwdrivers and airports DO NOT mix.

As I mentioned a few entries ago, my trip to Germany started off without a hitch - that is, with the exception of a small security debacle while departing PGH airport.

Flying, as many know, can be a super stressful experience. There are all those damn rules about what you can and cannot bring on board. This is certainly true when it comes to flying internationally - make that internationally for a few weeks. There is so much to pack, such little space to pack it and then the whole stress of getting those packed bags checked.

The day we left for Germany, my brother and boyfriend dropped off my mom and me at the airport. We each had our fair share of belongings to worry about. On top of that, we were running slightly behind schedule - nothing unusual for my mom and me. A few minutes tardy is nothing out of the ordinary for either of us. However, those who fly know very well that those few minutes behind schedule can really add some stress to the whole process. On top of that, I was still convinced at this point that the thousands of dollars we paid (so last minute) for this impromptu study abroad experience, had all been stolen by the International office at RMU and never really used to pay for a trip at all.

Therefore, you can understand my excitement when I checked into the Delta (if I recall correctly) counter and heard the male customer service rep mutter those enchanting words, "You may place your bags on the scale, Ms. Krampe."

After completing my check-in, I began to calm down a bit knowing I had plenty of time to make it through security before my plane for JFK took off. One last thing needed to fall into place before I felt really good about the experience - my mom needed to check-in.

Up until this point, I had worked with the International Office to make all of my mom's trip arrangements. She joined the trip super last minute because we had lost a few students and were at risk of losing our discounted trip price. There were talks early on that she may not be able to get on our flight to JFK, but at the final meeting, one week before departing the U.S., I SWEAR I was told they were able to get her on our flight. (Granted, I had copies of all the flight confirmations, but I never took the time to make sure my mom's were identical to mine. I assumed, and you know what they say when you assume...)

Anyhow, there we were at the Delta counter. Everyone in the group had officially checked-in and were well on their way to the never-ending security line. The minute the check-in guy began asking my mom to spell her incredibly simple last name, I knew we were in trouble. It took a little bit of time, but eventually I whipped out the copies of the flight confirmations to shove in his face, when (to my surprise) he said, "Oh ma'am, your flight to JFK is not with us, it is with Jetblue. But, yikes, you better get moving."

Frazzled and convinced my mom wasn’t going to make it to Germany; we grabbed her bags, ran to the Jetblue counter, demanded cutsies and began the check-in process. I no time, we were headed down the elevator, peering in disbelief at the ridiculously long security line.

My mom had something like 10 minutes to make it to her flight. The line went surprisingly fast. I apologized for the mix up the whole way through until we got to the man who checks your ID and assigns you to a conveyer belt. At this point, we were briefly separated. I made it through the check-point with flying colors. I regret to say my mom was not so fortunate.

Luckily, I was on my way over to her when I saw her get flagged and pulled aside for an additional, manual inspection of her carry-on backpack. (FYI, the backpack she was using, although technically hers, I use all year to transport my laptop while at school. Also keep in mind, this was mid-May, meaning I had just recently moved out of my on-campus apartment to come home for the summer.)

I stood next to her as the unnecessarily, intimidating security man went through the backpack. If I recall correctly, she said to him something along the lines of, “This is odd. I fly all the time and nothing like this has ever happened.” To which the man replied, “Don’t worry ma’am, odds are it’s just your computer setting off the alarm.”

My mom and I began chatting about how much time she had left when suddenly we heard the stone-cold security man clear his throat and interrupt with a stern, “Excuse me.” Together we turned our heads to see the man holding up a 12-inch-long screwdriver. (Mind you, this was no ordinary screwdriver. No, this just happened to be the rustiest, dirtiest, oldest, most terrifying screwdriver you’ve ever seen. This screwdriver looked like it was used to kill someone 50 years ago and had since been buried away in a backyard somewhere.)

Now why this screwdriver was in the computer backpack isn’t completely clear to me. But, I’m thinking I must have used it at some point when moving into my apartment and had since stowed it away in one of the many (too many) zipper pockets in the bag.

Knowing my mom had no idea why it was in there and fearful she was going to be taken away in handcuffs, I cleared my throat to provide a logical explanation. By this point, the guard had called over back-up. They were all looking at my mom, asking her for an explanation as to why she would try to sneak such an odd item onto an airplane. She was speechless and could only reply with, “I have never seen that before. I have no idea why it’s in there.”

Luckily, I swooped in to save the day. “Gentlemen, I said. I am soo embarrassed. That screwdriver is mine. I had no idea it was in there when I leant my mom the backpack. Truly I am shocked. Please just throw it away.” They all looked at me for a moment, wondering whether or not it was all just a ploy. Hesitantly, without one word, the man handed my mom the infamous backpack and sent us on our way – not without first glaring hard and heavy into each of our eyes.

A few steps past security I turned to my mom to say, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” To which she replied with an even worse glare than the stone-cold security guy.