It was back in the 90s, and at the time I lived in Japan. This meant numerous times going in and out of the country, usually through Tokyo-Narita airport. Going into the country, you could count on a trip trough customs. Men, always men, in bright blue uniforms would stoically go through your suitcases, ruffling your delicates.
The set-up resembled a grocery store, with lanes leading to black and metal tables on which you would place your luggage for inspection. One such occasion found me stepping up in line to the check-out person, a larger Japanese guy. If memory serves, like all of these inspectors, he wore clean white gloves. He and his royal gloves opened my first suitcase and revealing “what” right on top of all of my delicates? A GO set. He seemed momentarily stunned, then he looked up and asked me (in Japanese), “Do you play GO?” When I answered “Yes,” he began chuckling and laughing, closed my bag immediately, and waved me through. I knew playing GO was good for something!
This second story is not quite as happy. Ever since that experience, I ALWAYS placed a GO set in my suitcase, hoping to recreate the magic. For this little story, I was traveling out of Japan. Leaving from Tokyo Narita airport can be quite a tedious chore. For this particular trip, I was traveling alone and my Japanese mother-in-law had kindly driven me to the airport. She wanted to make sure all was well, so she came in with me and made sure I got checked in at the airline counter just fine. Knowing that all of this can be time-consuming, we had left early, and even after going through check-in, I had over two hours left til my flight. With this extra time available to me, I invited my mother-in-law to lunch, and we sat for over an hour making small talk and eating airport food.
I finally said my “thank yous” and “goodbyes” (in Japanese) and then made my way down. Even though I had already done this trip several times by this point, I had forgotten something that turned out to be important. At Narita airport, before going through security, you also had to go through an immigration check point. Reaching this area, I was stunned to see incredibly long lines. I tell you friends, it was the most crowded I had ever seen it, and to cut to the chase, it took over one hour to get through this check point.
Before lunch I had like 2+ hours to spare; after both lunch and this immigration check point, I had less than 30 minutes left AND I still needed to go through the security check point!! And, by this point the loudspeakers were making announcements for boarding my flight. When I saw the line at security my heart sank as I immediately realized that I was about to miss my flight. To get a sense of my misery, imagine realizing you were out of ice cream, and multiply that feeling by 17.
The first thing I did was just get in this immensely long line, which snaked for about a kilometer down this concourse (imagine four football fields multiplied by 17). There were several security checkpoints ahead, but some were closed and only two lines were functioning, for some reason. I assume the reason for these lane-closures was the universe punishing me for the audacity of eating lunch with my mother-in-law. I tested the line for a few minutes to see how slow it would go and YES it went very slow. As slow as a Japanese truck selling sweet potatoes. Announcements for my flight continued.
I noticed a line to the side where flight personnel could go straight through security without waiting. Panicking, I left my carry-on to hold my spot and went over to this line and asked a Japanese woman wearing a uniform for my airline if she could help me. I explained I was stuck in this line and about to miss my flight. She did not seem too concerned, and told me to just get back in line. Usually I need to talk to my wife for this level of apathy. She was easily the least helpful person I had ever met in Japan, where it is basically cultural to have to help people in need if they ask you for help directly to your face. Glumly, I got back in line with my waiting carry-on.
Ten or twenty minutes later I was closing in on the security check point when announcements started for my flight’s final boarding. Inching closer, inch-by-inch, step-by-step, these announcements began naming missing passengers by name, such as “Would passenger Jerry Jaffe report to gate A 27 for immediate boarding.” This did not help my state of mind when I finally reached the check point.
This security checkpoint was manned by several younger fellows in uniform who maintained a calm demeanor that included doing their job thoroughly (aka slowly). As boarding announcements implied my flight was leaving without me, I placed my carry-on on a belt that would take it through an Xray. Apparently, they saw something they didn’t like because they made me go to a secondary table where one of the young men opened my bag, revealing a box, which contained two bowls, which contained 100s of GO stones. Looking at me as if I used GO sets to smuggle iguana eggs, the young man gave me his best Samual-L-Jackson-stare and carefully opened the GO bowls and began running his fingers through them, methodically and slowly. Words to the effect of “This is the absolute final boarding call for passenger Jerry Jaffe, get your butt over here immediately or suffer all the indignities that will surely follow...” broadcast over the airport speakers. Finally, he released me, returning my bag to me and saying I could leave.
Flustered and in an immense hurry, I grabbed my bag, which was still open naturally, and turned hurriedly like a sprinter beginning a race. Unfortunately, the force required to do this created a perfect storm of centrifugal force, because ALL of my GO stones exploded all over the concourse floor. An announcement to the effect of, “Passenger Jerry Jaffe is a compete idiot and the universe hates you” echoed around the concourse. I would have begun crying right there, but I remembered the old saying, “There’s no crying over spilt GO stones” and anyway there was no time. I threw myself on the floor and began scooping up all of the stones, hurling them directly into my bag (GO bowls were a nicety I didn’t have time for!). It was at this moment that a nice Japanese women dressed in a uniform for my airline spotted me on the floor like the pathetic creature that I was and asked me, “Are you Jerry Jaffe?” I was loathe to admit it, but I said “Yes,” and she reported back through her walkie talkie that she had found me. She then did the most Japanese thing ever, and got on the floor and helped me pick up the GO stones, no questions asked. As she then led me hurriedly down the concourse, she informed me that the captain had just been about to give the order to have my luggage removed (a step they have to do to leave without you, in case you didn’t know) and that would have been an enormous hassle, thus turning out to be what had saved me. She checked me in at the gate and I was indeed the last person to board, having personally made the flight late for departure for everyone else.
The only thing that made it all worthwhile was that since I was obviously the last person to board, everyone else was already in their seats, and the whole plane watched me board, and I could feel their love and admiration for me for having made the flight against all odds. I am sure there was no hostility or sarcasm hidden in their adoration of me.