I've rarely had any problems getting through customs, security and immigration in all my travels. Some say it is my innocent face and calm demeanor that doesn't raise any alarms in the official gatekeepers of the various countries to which I've traveled. I've also learned that it just doesn't pay to be cheeky or arrogant in these situations - I've seen plenty of cocky travelers led to one of those windowless rooms for further questioning in the past, and I don't plan on being one of them.

After 9/11, I wasn't so sure that I'd be able to pass on just my charm alone and fully expected to be singled out for further searches and questioning as to the motives behind my frequent visits to the U.S.

Shortly after that tragic day, I had an opportunity to visit my old hometown - Montri©al. I had managed to circumvent the outrageous last minute holiday pricing by the national Canadian airline by taking a flight from Seattle, a couple of hours south of Vancouver across the Canadian/US border to Washington D.C.

From there, I'd catch a connection to Montri©al for less than half the cost (which ironically turned out to be an Air Canada 50 seater jet upon which I was the sole passenger). I was advised to be at Sea-Tac Airport three hours in advance, which meant spending the night in an airport hotel and dropping my car off at a Park 'n Fly lot.

I arrived at the airport that morning a little over three hours before my flight was scheduled to depart. It was the last day of that tragic year and I was planning to be in Montri©al to celebrate New Year's Eve with some friends. I had checked all my baggage and had purchased a magazine and a book for the flight. There was no queue for security, so I passed through the metal detector, picked up my coat and coins and proceeded through to my gate with my obligatory Starbucks in hand.

I was a smoker back then, and an hour before my flight was due to leave, I was experiencing a little nicotine withdrawal. I decided to go back through security to 'enjoy' a couple of cigarettes outside. I don't know how freezing your vital appendages off outside in the rain and wind huddled in the doorway for warmth constitutes enjoyment, but that is the predicament of a smoker these days.

On my return, there still wasn't a queue so I passed through the metal detector once again. The security officer was busy with an older Japanese couple. The lady had removed her shoes and sweater and the officer had emptied the contents of her handbag all over the counter and was sifting through them. He looked up at me and asked if I had been checked. I looked behind me and there were no other officers in sight so I turned back and simply nodded. He waved me through once again. Real tight security.

This has been so typical of my experiences traveling to and within the U.S. that I never thought anything of it. Even when friends or colleagues ask if I've ever experienced greater safety measures due to my perceived ethnicity or my Muslim name, my response has always been a simple 'no.'

The only difference since 9/11 is the occasional anxious look from a fellow traveler as I board the plane. At least, that was the case until my last visit to the U.S. I had gone to Las Vegas having secured tickets to see Roger Waters in concert at the MGM Grand and to spend some time with friends that live there. The journey to the U.S. was, as usual, hassle free - the return journey, on the other hand, took me by surprise.

*****

I'd spent another brilliant long weekend in Vegas, had been treated to possibly one of the best concerts I've ever seen - Vegas truly knows how to put on a show - and as usual, I was well in time for my direct flight back to Vancouver aboard a Philippine Airlines flight that was scheduled to make a stop in Vancouver before completing its journey in Manila.

I got to the short line at the checkout counter and waited. There were three people ahead of me so I figured I'd be on my way shortly. There was a Transport Security Administration (TSA) officer behind the Philippine Airlines ground staff. He kept looking over in my direction in a way that I found a little unnerving. The family already at the check-in counter seemed to have more bags than Emelda Marcos. Meanwhile, at the other counters there didn't seem to be any activity other than the inattentive ground staff chatting amongst themselves. So I kept waiting.

The one thing I love about traveling and airports is people watching and I had spotted two very attractive couples in the next line joking amongst themselves so I watched them, figuring that they were far more interesting than what was happening ahead of me. Besides, I didn't want to look at the TSA official any longer as he seemed somewhat preoccupied by me.

Someone joined the queue behind me. He was a little shorter than me, a well-built Filipino guy in his early thirties with very short-cropped, military-style hair wearing a light blue golf shirt and pants. What struck me as odd about him was that he had no bags at all. I looked to see if I could make eye-contact with him and he returned my smile with a cold stare. I turned back and now the check-in clerk was finally loading the family's bags on the carousel and tagging them.

Finally it was my turn. I handed over my passport and ticket confirmation number. He typed in my coordinates and printed out my boarding pass, which he handed to me. I turned to look at the next counter where the check-in clerks were still yammering away amongst themselves oblivious of the line building in front of them.

The TSA official was still looking at me so I ignored him and bent down to pick up my carry on bag. The check-in clerk said "Sorry, can I have that back" pointing to the boarding pass so I handed it back to him and he put it directly into the shredder by his side. What the f*@k?

"Is there a problem", I asked. He replied "No, no - I just made a mistake," printing out another. The little voice in my head expelled another silent expletive. "Are you sure?" I asked calmly. He handed me the new boarding pass, no eye contact this time, so I grabbed my bag and headed upstairs to the security check.

The queue was colossal, zig-zagging like a Texan cattle line. "This is going to take hours," I thought and grudgingly resigned myself to the wait. There was a group of Canadians that had been on the same flight from Vancouver to Las Vegas ahead of me. They looked as though they hadn't slept all weekend and were still fueled by cocktails. Only this time they were louder. One in their group was particularly obnoxious and encouraged by the large audience waiting in line.

When my turn came, I took my shoes and belt off, removed my laptop from the bag and placed them on the carousel feeding the x-ray machine. At the metal detector, a second TSA official arrived and waved me through before stopping me and motioning me to stand aside. Okay, I've gone through this before, where you place your feet apart on the designated mats and hold your arms out as though emulating Jesus on the cross.

This time, however, it was conducted in a plexiglass cube which I found very odd as I was facing everyone coming through the security check: Hardly the private windowless, and therefore, anonymous room. The security official patting me down was, like me, of Indian origin, which I found ironic. I caught the stare of one traveler and the look in his eyes seemed to say check that guy properly. The same expression was on several other faces too.

Once that was over all my belongings were spread out on the counter and the same official started swabbing them all and placing the swabs into a device that presumably can detect signs of explosive devices (or drugs?). Meanwhile, I slipped on my shoes and put my belt on. My fellow travelers nonchalantly passed me on their way to their respective gates and I wondered to myself that for the first time in my life I no longer belong to that group.

Yes, it is humiliating to be singled out and assume the position in front of everyone else. Does that bother me? Yes, but in the grand scheme of things, I understand why.

I got my belongings together and hurried to my gate. My flight was already boarding so no time to pick up my usual list of duty free goods. As I boarded the flight I recognized some of those faces from the security line. They were all looking at me, no doubt one or two of the guys sizing me up in case I was a terrorist - probably harboring some fantasy of being an American hero like those on the ill-fated United flight 93 that was brought down prematurely. I found my seat.

I had been seated next to an Indian family and the entire row behind me was filled with people that also looked like they might be from the Middle East or the Subcontinent. The rest of the plane seemed full of Caucasians and Filipinos. So we had been corralled together like a herd of potential terrorists, which would explain the second boarding pass. I took my seat on the aisle, buckled up and pulled out my iPod. The very chubby kid next to me was playing some game on his father's PDA and I wasn't about to spend the next three hours listening to the aggravating sounds that it was producing. To make matters, worse his chunky elbow had already claimed the armrest.

There was something going on behind me. A young woman that had been seated one row behind and across the aisle was now standing and reaching for her bags from the overhead compartment. She was being replaced by the guy in the blue shirt. He sat down and buckled his belt. He looked at me with those cold eyes again and I turned back to face the front. This certainly wasn't your average commuter flight and he had no bags, no magazine, no book - nothing to occupy his time assuming that he was flying all the way to Manila where he apparently wouldn't need any belongings either, as he hadn't checked anything in.

I wondered if he was the flight marshal. He was definitely the only person within grabbing distance that could have given me a hard time if push came to shove. The flight was uneventful other than reclaiming the armrest from the elephantine kid to my right.

At long last, we arrived in Vancouver. The plane had come to a complete stop and only when everyone was standing waiting for the doors to open did I gather the courage to ask the guy in the blue shirt if he was the air marshal. This time he looked at me with that cold stare and turned to look out the window without responding.

I haven't flown to the U.S. since, and I know the next time I fly I won't be taking anything for granted. I sometimes wonder what if I somehow fit the profile of someone the U.S. authorities are watching.

How far could it go? Would I be on a one-way trip to Gitmo? Could an overzealous TSA officer get it so wrong that one day I might be the recipient of waterboarding techniques, the likes of which Dick Cheney seems so proud of? Who knows?

For now, I take comfort in the fact that I still love traveling despite the added indignity. Perhaps I'll do more road trips instead, seeing as there are few flights that can rival the beauty of driving along the west coast of North America. I will of course fly again - hopefully - and will one day visit Cuba on my own volition.

I have actually traveled on September 11 since 2001 and that was as uneventful in terms of security, as most of my other trips. Whether I will ever experience carefree air travel again is another question entirely.

*****

If you thought this story was interesting, you may also want to read:
Remembering 9/11 [1]
One Step Forwards, Two Steps Back: Ramblings About 9/11, Iraq and Northern New York [2]
The Dive [3]