Airport Security Fails to Arrest Me, and I Now Believe in God

It seems I’ve developed a penchant for successfully skirting the law. But this time I don’t have a seven-step guide for getting out of travel trouble. All I have to share is one bizarre story about pretending to not speak English and hijacking an airport security vehicle.

The journey to and from India is always a long haul. To minimize my travel time, I wanted to keep my layover as short as possible. So, I booked a set of tickets that gave me 40 minutes to exit my Delhi-Munich plane, cross immigration, and get onto my Munich-Madrid flight.

Originally, the tight squeeze seemed like a great idea. Less time spent at a layover means less time taken to reach your destination. BUT. If your first flight is delayed, if you get held up by security, or if your next flight leaves from a gate that’s far away, you might miss your connection. In Munich, all three “ifs” are against me.

By the time my delayed flight to Munich lands, boarding for my connection has already begun. A kind man lets me cut in front of him at the immigration checkpoint, but the act doesn’t save me much time. Airport security decides to search my bag, and then they catch my stash of cocaine. This is the story of how I miraculously avoid arrest.

April Fools! The real attempted arrest comes about five minutes later. There is, of course, nothing questionable in my bag. Even all my liquids are under 3 oz and separated in a small plastic baggie. How much more TSA-friendly can a girl get? The unnecessary search costs me a precious 5 minutes, and as I zip my bag closed, the PA announces final boarding for my flight.

I split for the monitors to check the gate. It’s in another terminal, and I don’t have time to wait for a bus to take me there. Because I have no other choice, I do something I never, ever do: I run.

This is not a jog. This is not a “I would be running but with so much luggage I’m sort of fast-paced limping.” This is, straight up, me bolting so hard through the airport that my suitcase wheels literally aren’t touching the ground.

I do this until I’m about half-way to my destination, when I just … can’t. I physically can’t. Doubled over, duffle bag and handbag at my feet, suitcase fallen on its back, I ask God for help (because India has reawakened my spirituality).

Panting, I turn my head to the side, where I see an empty airport security vehicle. It has no doors and no windshield, so I take it as an open invitation to rest and recover. I kick my luggage to the side of this smart-car-esque thing and collapse on the seat. As I rest my forehead on the wheel, I realize I am staring at the silver head of an inserted key.

God!

Though I think I face the classic choice–to do or not to do–the thought of missing my flight makes me realize I don’t actually have any choice at all. I throw my luggage into the passenger seat and start the engine. I’m too tired to think, but I at least have enough energy to put pedal to the metal. For someone who thought she was speeding through the airport on her own two feet, having four wheels feels like flying.

People are in my way, and before I can figure out whether to speak in English or Spanish, I’m already screaming in Hindi. “Huto! Huto! Huto! Dekhe Dekhe Dekhe!”

It works. I, Indian Moses, am parting the sea. Apparently the sentiment “GTFOUTOFMYWAY” is universal and can be understood in any language.

My gate comes into view on the horizon, and though I don’t see any passengers in line, I make out the form of an air attendant at the counter. There is hope.

“Oy!” I hear to my side. I turn my head to see a perplexed security guard. I snap my head forward, lean into the wheel, and keep my eyes on the prize: gate G10. Then I hear loud, angry German, followed by loud, angry English. “Stop. Stop! STOP. STOP!”

Oh, hell no.

I don’t look back once I’ve whizzed past the guard. I decide that I don’t speak English. I decide that I’m as foreign as they come, and that I have no idea that it’s inappropriate to hop onto a security vehicle and use it for personal purposes. I decide it’s okay to go 50 kph inside an airport. This is an international airport, after all. You, airport security, can’t expect people of all backgrounds to know your culturally normative rules, and also one of you is an idiot for leaving the keys in this tempting four-wheeled savior. I am rogue, I am an Indian who only understands Hindi, and I am making this flight.

I’m getting close to the gate now, and I think I’ve lost the guard. I still won’t look back to check. So deeply lost in the realm of illegality, I decide there’s no reason to not drive the smart car onto the carpet and right up to the gate entrance. So I do.

I slam the brakes once I reach, push my luggage out of the car, and present my ticket to a confused and amused air hostess. She gives me a once over, stares at my ticket for a few long seconds, and, for reasons beyond me, scans it. I hastily pick up my luggage and am walking through the gate door when I hear, “HALT! HALT! HALT!” in the distance.

I remind myself that I do not speak English. I do not understand what “halt” means. There is no reason I should stop and turn around. I’m walking briskly down the narrow tube that leads to my plane when I hear the gate doors bust open behind me. “HALT.”

Ef.

I know this will not be over without a confrontation, so this time I turn around. At least I’m checked in, which means the plane shouldn’t take off without me. The small sense of relief I feel in response to this thought vanishes as I see handcuffs swinging in the hand of the guard running towards me.

He slows down when he reaches me and says something in German. I stare at him, perplexed. Then he tries English: “Arrest.”

My heart is pounding. I have a ticket for this flight. I am checked into this flight. I am getting on this flight. I don’t know how, but I’ll wing it. In my beginner’s level Hindi.

I point at him, feign a look of annoyance, and say, angrily, “Thum con hai?” Who are you? 

He stares at me.

“Yeh mera flight hai.” This is my flight.

Silence.

“Yeh gate bohut dur tha, tho, thumka gari muje mudud kiya.”

I’m vaguely aware that I’m making some egregious grammatical errors.

The security guard clearly does not know how to react. The arm that brandishes the handcuffs goes limp by his side. Though it shouldn’t be, my plan is actually working.

“Tik hai,” I say. “Kya kar raha hai?”

I wait for a response to my question. To add to the image that I’m obviously in the right here, I put my hand on my hip and raise my eyebrows, as if this man is nothing but a nuisance.

“Kya?” I insist.

He’s got no response for me, save for a blank stare.

“Phir, bus,” I conclude.

I turn around and keep walking. My entire body is quaking with residual fear, and I can barely keep my grip on my suitcase handle. I am listening intently for his footsteps, but I don’t hear them. Who would have thought you could disarm a security guard with a language barrier?

When I walk onto the plane, the flight attendants close the door behind me. In a few hours, I’m in Spain, not jail. And there’s only one reason I can think of for that: there is a God.