Following the recommendation of the airline, la familia Brady arrived two and a half hours early at Mazatlán’s airport for our international flight to the land of the Seahawk for our summer visit to Granny’s farm. There was no lineup, so it only took a minute before the first glitch arose. Our two little tykecitos, born in Mazatlán where they attend school and legally reside, were traveling on US passports, and did not have those pesky little tourist cards that foreigners must present in order to leave the country. The doll at the check-in counter instructed us to go around the corner to Imigracion where we would be charged twenty three dollars apiece to receive permission to leave the country. We did so, and again there was no lineup so it only took a minute for the jovial caballeros of La Migra to be so charmed by our little Spanish speaking brood that they waived the fine and declared them exempto from the usual requirements, though they recommended that in the future we bring their birth certificates to verify their Mexicanicity. So far, so good. We were at the boarding gate with hours to spare, when I discovered to my horror that the bar was charging 38 pesos for off-brand beer. Savvy traveler that I am, I quickly found a duty free bottle of Santa Clara, Mexico’s answer to Bailey’s Irish cream, made by monks, and passed the time agreeably enough sitting on a bench furtively sipping holy liquid out of a brown paper bag while Sra Brady entertained the kids with last minute English lessons. Stylin’!     Our schedule showed an hour and a half layover in LA, which should be plenty of time to breeze through US customs and catch our connecting flight, especially since we checked no luggage and carried everything with us so we wouldn’t have to waste time at baggage claim. Unfortunately, our flight was running late, we spent about twenty minutes taxiing around the LA runway, and when we got to the US customs, there was a myriad of non-English speakers ahead of us. By the time we got to the inquisition desk, our plane was already boarding. After a perfunctory examination,

the tired looking gent asked for my wife’s I-94 form. What’s that? Oh, it’s a new Homeland Security measure required of all foreigners entering a US airport, didn’t your airline give you one? In that case, follow that yellow tape a hundred and fifty yards down and talk to the nice man at the desk. We hustled down to the designated spot, where fortunately there was no lineup (I guess everybody else was better informed) and by the time we filled it out and passed muster, we still had a few minutes to spare before takeoff time. At this point, we switched to our variation of the flying wedge formation that slices through the opposition on punt returns: me spearheading in front with an overstuffed carryon bag over each shoulder and a laptop strapped around my neck, my beloved close behind dragging one backpack toting child, the younger one clutched in her free arm and her purse clenched firmly in her teeth. As we plowed through the crowds of lollygaggers waiting their turn in the frisk line to get out, I kept up an apologetic line of chatter, “‘Scuse us, sorry, our plane is leaving any minute, oops, sorry, ‘scuse us, it’s an emergency...” and nearly got thumped by a husky grouch but thank God for airport security. After what seemed like an eon, we emerged into the open air and commenced the thousand yard dash through scattered pedestrians en route to building number 3 where the boarding gate for our connecting flight was conveniently located. A helpful lady in uniform directed us to the hidden elevator a hundred yards further down, and we spent four or five long minutes punching and cursing the buttons before it finally opened and a swarm of humanity insisted on exiting before they would let us in. By the time we staggered exhaustedly to Gate 32, it was nearly half an hour past takeoff time. “Any chance of catching the Seattle flight?” I gasped. “I’m sorry, sir,” said the doll behind the counter, “that flight is sold out.” “But we have tickets!” “Oh, well, in that case, no problem. We’ve been holding the plane for you latecomers.” I love a happy ending.