The Great Penguin Debacle

Weeks ago, my dad who is temporarily living in the Dominican Republic asked my son whether he would prefer to have a turtle or a dolphin.  My son promptly responded that he wanted a pink flamingo.  Specific, I know, but my kid happens to know what he likes.  My dad did not hear "cute little pink flamingo that I can play with".  Oh no!  He heard "4-foot tall fiberglass flamingo that pays rent".

Meet Miguel Rosado, or - as my brother calls him - the mastermind of The Great Penguin Debacle.

My brother, a few friends, and I went to the Dominican Republic for Thanksgiving this year since my son was with his dad (and I deserve a vacation, dangit).  While down there, my dad asked a local friend (Miguel, as in the Miguel from Miguel Rosado) to get the penguin, I mean flamingo, so we could take him back with us.

Of course, my dad was depicting a much smaller bird when we convinced the airline people to let me check Senor Rosado as one of my bags.  It took the airline guys a minute to decide to allow it, so we jumped on the approval and promptly had him wrapped and ready to ship.

We made it almost all of the way through airport security when our favorite airline guy approached me to tell me that I would have to do a second check on our big, pink friend.  Still on vacation mode, I assumed he meant that I would have to bag check the bird at the plane door, so I took my time finishing security and doing my duty-free, souvenir shopping for the kiddo.

Bah ha ha, Silly Lisa.

As the rest of the folk in my party were ordering their first round of beers, I suddenly remembered that Miguel Rosado still needed my attention.  Mr. Airline Employee explained that airport security saw solid black when they x-rayed him and wanted to do a further check.  As he led me clear across the airport, down the stairs, and into a dark, dingy corridor, he further explained that they would probably want to drill a hole in him to make sure I wasn't trying to smuggle drugs.

Given the depth to which my squareness reaches inside of me, I found the idea of me smuggling drugs laughable.  As I am also pragmatic and realize a large fiberglass flamingo is the perfect way to smuggle drugs, I acquiesced with the stipulation that they be respectful in where they drill the hole.

Many minutes later, after they checked several other bags for contraband, they got around to checking Miguel Rosado for the suspected drug cache.  This is the part where I expect them to bust out their drill and make quick work of the job.  Nope.  No such luck.  There were no drills to be had.

Instead, Mr. Muscles took out his car keys, put one in his palm with the point sticking out between his pointer and middle fingers, and began punching the bottom of the bird.  I tried to explain that there was no way something so blunt would gain enough force to break a fiberglass shell (think car exterior, people), but his machisma wouldn't allow some woman to tell him he was wrong.  I sat back and let his knuckles do it for me.

Next up was a three-inch Swiss Army Knife.  I again tried to explain that it wouldn't work and again quickly realized wasting my breath was futile.  The tip breaking off and almost taking out his eye explained more than I ever could have done.  His compatriot finished the job for him after that and managed to punch a nickel-sized hole in the bottom (and I'm being generous).  After much congratulations around the security team, they tried to put their eye up to the hole to see what was inside, effectively blocking their only light source to actually see inside.  Instead of admitting defeat and just letting us get on the plane and on our way, they next decided to hold him upright and shake him to (I imagine) jostle the drugs loose and have them fall out.  The nickel-sized hole.  With jagged edges.

I'm a pretty easy-going person that tends to give the benefit of the doubt and consider the opposite point of view, but I eventually got antsy to get on the plane making my patience run short.  I finally explained that they could either let us both on the plane, or they could give me my 2500 pesos back and keep the bird.  Either way was fine with me, but I was NOT missing that plane.  Five minutes and much posturing later, the paperwork was signed and we were on our way.

The joke was on me, though, because they informed me as I walked toward the door that I had three minutes until the plane doors closed.  I immediately took off running with the techno hit from Run Lola Run playing in my head intent on making my plane.  Flip flops, a long flowing skirt, a cowl neck shirt, and the wrong bra do not make for good running gear.  Add my carry-on and the absolute furthest point from my flight gate, and I almost died getting there.  Get there, I did, though!  And I gave the security detail congregating in the middle of the corridor the peep show of their lives (cowl neck shirt and wrong bra, people.  It wasn't intentional).

Now, Miguel Rosado stands guard in my son's room dutifully eating any monsters, witches, or clowns that try to enter!  Totally worth it.