Since our return from vacation, I have been suffering from a knitting obsession. I have no idea from whence it came (perhaps the brisk mornings out west?) but, Heavens to Betsy, I am suffering! If I find myself sitting anywhere for longer than ten minutes, which is a rare occurrence I must admit, my hands itch to grab a set of needles. I've begun three different knitting projects over the past five days, and I'm beginning to doubt my sanity. A good part of the frenzy was devoted to finishing Little Bear's hat, a companion to her cousin Cousin T's . In fact, I used the last of Cousin T's maize colored yarn to create a stripe through the purple.
I devoted an entire Saturday afternoon to finishing the hat (it felt quite decadent) with periodic interruptions from Little Bear when she would point to her head as a request that she try it on. Then there was yarn pulling and some needle grabbing, all of which set me back on my knitting time table. I'm pleased with the final result, but after so much badgering for the hat, I failed to make Little Bear hold still long enough to snap a picture of her wearing all my hard work. So I had to settle for Rosita as my model.
Rosita (the pig) is Ecuadorian by birth and the only peluche that I purchased during my year-long stay in that beautiful country. She isn't as pink as she used to be, but she still oinks when you squeeze her stomach. After a whirlwind life of traveling through South America, she has since retired to play with Little Bear and to go on the occasional ride in the stroller.
On my final trip home from Quito, Ecuador, I naively placed Rosita in my backpack as part of my carry-on luggage. I was heartbroken about having to leave, and my only thought was that I could cry into her soft pink fur as I said goodbye to my adopted country. We had a plane change in Panama, and as part of the normal routine, we had to go through customs. If you've never traveled through South America, it's typical to see a lot of machine guns. Most security professionals carry one, ranging from police officers to the security guard at the grocery store. (Just try thumping melons under the baleful stare of the security guard brandishing an AK47.)
We filed into an institutional looking waiting area as four military men stood behind a long table. One by one they searched through the carry-on items of the plane passengers, all of them obviously armed and very serious about their jobs. I dutifully handed over my backpack, and a soldier pulled out Rosita and began asking me questions.
Policeman: What is this?
Me: It's a stuffed animal. (I did not mean this in a sarcastic way at all. Remember, I was looking at an intense gentleman with a very large gun.)
Policeman: I know it is a stuffed animal, but why do you have it?
Me: (Seriously starting to panic and maybe not translating as well as I should have been.) She's a pig. A stuffed pig.
Frustrated with the language barrier, the man began carefully feeling Rosita. In hindsight I realized that he was searching for drugs that I may have stashed in her innards, but at the time I was baffled. He got to her stomach and started squeezing, so of course she began oinking. The ridiculousness of the situation hit me, and although I had better sense than to snicker at an irritated soldier handling a snorting stuffed pig, the image will forever be ingrained on my brain. After much oinking and another squeezing search, Rosita was returned to me and I was permitted to continue my journey home. But I made a note to myself about carrying stuffed animals overseas. It's much better to pack them in the luggage you check and to just cry into your hankie.
Recent Comments