Cockpit Chronicles: Argentina

Now on with the story,

Last week, I left you at an airport in Santiago, Chile, with seventeen bottles of Malbec and an inspector saying:

“No. No. No.”

Here’s how I got myself into that situation.

I had a week off in February, and a blizzard blew through Michigan. Mendoza, Argentina, was enjoying summertime.

Easy decision.

I hadn’t yet developed a taste for Malbec, and Mendoza is the heart of Malbec country. Seemed like a good place to work on that.

I flew to Atlanta, then caught a nine-hour flight to Santiago. The airplane was full, so I rode in the cockpit. From there, an eight-hour bus ride took me over the Andes to Mendoza, with a stop at the border high in the mountains.

At the Mendoza bus station, the hotel desk arranged a room and a taxi. Dinner recommendations were plentiful.

Order steak and wine in Mendoza, and they bring you the biggest chop you’ve ever seen and a bottle of amazing Malbec.

I was beginning to understand.

For two days, I hired a taxi driver to take me to wineries. We discovered beautiful, world-class wineries. While I tasted at one, he arranged our next stop. The aromas of fermentation were in the air.

I fell in love with Malbec and Mendoza.

By the time I packed for home, seventeen bottles were squeezed into my suitcase.

At the border crossing back into Chile, the customs officers gathered around my open bag.

There was a problem. They said there was a duty on imported wine.

I suggested paying the duty and being on my way.

They explained that I wouldn't like the duty, as it would be 100 percent—about $700.

Now we both had a problem.

They asked where I was going after Santiago. Straight to the airport, I explained, to catch a flight to the United States.

Could I prove it?

Fortunately, I had printed my cockpit jumpseat reservation, showing my name, the date, and the flight number.

The officer lit up.

“¡Tránsito!”

With proof that I was passing through Chile on my way home, they had found a way to let me continue without paying the duty.

I closed my suitcase before anybody changed their mind.

I hadn’t planned on bringing home seventeen bottles of wine. I had no wine shipping box, and I wasn’t about to trust my soft-sided suitcase to the cargo hold. So I would have to schlep my treasures aboard—and hope my pilot’s uniform got me through.

In Santiago, I caught a taxi to the airport and wrestled myself into my uniform in the backseat.

At the reservations desk, the clerk told me to wait until they knew whether I would get on the airplane.

I fidgeted.

Finally, with departure approaching, she called my name.

At security, I lifted my suitcase onto the conveyor and pretended it wasn’t heavy. I chatted with the inspection officer, collected my bag, and pretended it wasn’t heavy again.

Made it.

Or so I thought.

At the gate, I had to wait until the other passengers boarded. With a little time to spare, I changed back into comfortable civilian clothes and stashed my airline ID under my shirt. Then the agent handed me a boarding pass with a seat assignment.

A seat! No cockpit ride home.

I rounded the corner into the jetbridge.

Secondary bag inspection.

No way to turn back to put my uniform back on.

The inspector opened my suitcase and touched the bottles, one after another.

“No. No. No.”

Just as panic was setting in, the gate agent came along to close the aircraft door. He saw what was happening, explained to the inspector that I was crew, and told him to let me go.

The inspector glared at me.

“¡Gracias!”

I scooped up my bag and scampered aboard, relieved to hear the aircraft door close behind me and the jetbridge pull away.

Every overhead bin was closed. The flight attendant had no closet space and wished me luck.

Then I remembered the pilot rest seats on the 767. The bin above them ordinarily held pillows and blankets for the crew.

I opened it.

Empty.

I hoisted my suitcase overhead, startled by how light it felt.

For a moment, I wondered who could have swiped my wine. But the suitcase hadn’t left my possession.

I was running on pure adrenaline.

Then I had nine hours to worry that a bottle might leak red wine onto a pilot sleeping below.

At dawn, we landed in Atlanta. A couple of hours later, I boarded my connection to Detroit.

I lifted the same suitcase toward the overhead bin and nearly dropped it. It was crazy heavy.

One last flight, plenty of open seats, and I was home free. No pressure. The adrenaline had worn off.

I landed in Detroit, drove home, and worked the Tasting Room till dark.

Two days later, I flew a trip to Barcelona. After an amazingly rich dinner with my crew, I woke the next morning in enough pain to send me to the hospital.

My gallbladder needed to come out. Delta arranged a replacement crew and flew me home for surgery.

Of all the luck on that trip, the best was this: my gallbladder waited until I was with my crew in Barcelona—not alone in Mendoza.

Cheers,

Lorenzo