TRAVEL ADVENTURE

That Time My Carry-On Tested Positive For Explosives

Adventures at a Spanish Fiesta

“Excuse me, sir, can you help me understand why your carry-on would test positive for explosives?” the security agent said.

He wasn’t panicking but I certainly was. And I sensed that he thought this was more than just a routine false positive. I’d already taken off my belt, shoes, and jacket, I wasn’t wearing socks, so I was down to my tee-shirt and jeans. The rest of the passengers filed behind me and I could feel their stares burrowing into the back of my sweating skull. The agent had already emptied my carry-on because I traveled with excessive electronics. A portable DVD player, laptop, chargers, spare batteries, headphones, cables, and camera; I don’t blame him for pulling me aside. This was in December 2001, only a few weeks after the September 11th attacks, and he probably thought he’d hit the jackpot.

But yes, I knew why the bomb test was positive. How do I explain this to the agent?

In March that year, my dad and his wife lived in L’Alfàs del Pi, a small town on Spain’s Mediterranean coast. It’s one of the many Spanish towns where northern Europeans migrate for the winter months. I lived in Brookline, Massachusetts back then, and I called my dad to tell him I was thinking of coming to Spain for a visit. He gave me a list of available dates, so about a month later I booked my ticket. I called him on the phone to tell him and during the conversation, he asked his wife to check something on their calendar. My dad put his hand over the mouthpiece, and I heard muffled, inaudible conversation.

My dad came back to the phone.

“Mark…love,” he said, “are those dates set in stone?”

Uh oh. This didn’t sound good.

“Yep. Why? I just booked it,” I replied. “Is something wrong? Did I mess up the dates?”

My thoughts raced to their sporting commitments. They both played lawn bowls in retirement and took their team responsibility seriously. True story — my dad had a literal heart attack while playing bowls during a competitive match and refused medical intervention. “Don’t worry, love, it’ll pass,” he’d said to his wife while sitting on a bench with his hand clutched over his heart and his head between his knees. When the pain subsided, he stood up and went on to win*. Had I inadvertently booked the trip during a week when they’d be playing in another distant part of Spain? Indeed, if that were a remote possibility, they would have told me, surely.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, “it’s just that the week you are here, that’s the week of the… fiesta.”

Ah, yes, the fiesta. The fiesta was something I vaguely remembered him complaining about. He grumbled that during this four-day event, the racket from the parties would go on until the early hours and the town would be awakened at dawn to the sound of marching bands with their thumping drums, trumpets, and firecrackers. “Do these people ever sleep?” I recalled him saying. So, every year, they packed their car with four days of supplies and drove to a neighboring town where they’d stay in a hotel to get away from it. In other words, they’d go to another part of Spain to get away from Spain.

November rolled around, and my trip was mostly consumed with visiting with my British parents’ British friends in various British bars. And, of course, me tagging along with them to bowling competitions, with post-match celebrations/commiserations held in an assortment of other bars. By fleeing the town early in the morning like common criminals, we avoided being cornered by marching bands and their pesky firecrackers; thus, they escaped most of the fiesta.

The finale culminated in a firework display in the town square on Wednesday night. It was one of the few fiesta-related activities that my dad seemed genuinely excited about. We didn’t know much about the fireworks apart from we were to be at the church square at 8 pm. And by the time 8 pm came around, the square was packed. Despite a pleasantly mild evening, everyone was bundled up in balaclavas, jeans, and hoodies. Perhaps I’d finally gotten used to the relatively harsh Massachusetts winters, but I felt comfortable in a tee-shirt, shorts, and wore my backpack.

The crowd quietened when we heard the thumping bass of distant dance music. I couldn’t determine precisely what it was, but it sounded like it was coming from a slow-moving bus making its way down the main street. As it drew closer, perhaps it was a military vehicle, or maybe even a small tank. Whatever it was, it effused booming electronic dance music via its giant speakers topped with rotating bright multicolored lights. I could make out the silhouette of a man on its roof. He was covered, head to toe, in a ninja outfit, and danced like he was a DJ. The tank performed a U-turn and the ninja gestured for us to follow along. The mad raving Pied Piper led us through the narrow winding streets of Alfàs for about a half mile where the tank came to an abrupt stop. The crowds gathered on either side to watch. Then the lights dimmed, the music fell silent, and from the giant speakers, a robotic voice boomed…

“Cinco, cuatro,” the crowd joined in, “tres, dos, uno!”

A brief uncomfortable pause.

Then it lit up.

Flames. Flashes. Deafening thunderous bangs and more electronic dance music. This wasn’t like any fireworks display I’d ever seen. Then dancing penitents wearing capirotes (who looked startlingly similar to the Ku Klux Klan, but they’re not) aimed bazookas over our heads, and sparks shot out and showered us and everyone around us in the flaming, fizzing, hot matter. I felt the heat tingling in my hair and on my bare arms. Packed tight with the crowd, we had nowhere to go but crouch down and put our hands over our heads. As it turned out, the townsfolk weren’t cold; they were sensibly overdressed to prevent second-degree burns.

“Christ,” said my dad.

He had a way of saying Christ in a way that only he could. It was base, guttural; it erupted from his innards like a birthing rhino.

And the rain of fire continued upon us.

“Christ,” he said for a second time, and I couldn’t ever recall him saying it twice. His references to Christ were quite apt given that this was a religious festival.

Another penitent sprinted at full speed with a shopping cart laden with rocket launchers in tow, fired them on the move, and showered us again with biting sparkles to more cheering and dancing. And then dad laughed like it was the end — a gleeful we’re all going to die laugh that you’d never want to hear from a parent.

In my naïveté, I’d assumed we’d watch these fireworks as one might after a baseball game on a warm summer’s evening. I thought we’d lazily rock back in comfy chairs to enjoy Roman candles and pinwheels from a distance. Perhaps we’d contribute to the “oohs” and “aahs” with polite applause while vivid and vibrant supernovas boomed and fizzed high into the night sky synchronized to Beethoven. I grew up in the UK where the bar for exciting fireworks was exceedingly mundane. Organized Bonfire Night events were mainly an appreciation of ground fireworks observed from at least a hundred yards and behind the safety of a fence. Those events were run by overly-officious municipal workers armed with nothing more than stern looks and red buckets of water labeled “FIRE” in case things got a bit out of hand. Not this. God, no. Whatever this was, it was a terrifying (con)fusion of street combat, medieval religious imagery, and urban guerrilla warfare. And whatever this was, it was splendid.

The tank rolled forward and away from us. My dad, now coming to his senses, suggested that we wait. We figured that if we stayed put, the tank and the following hordes would move on, and we could observe at a safe distance, assuming such a thing was possible.

And that’s when things went from bad to worse.

The tank moved to the end of the street and I watched one of the penitents climb a short stepladder a few feet up the side of a building. At first, I couldn’t determine precisely what he was trying to do — he had a large lighter. He lit something which sparked, and then it slowly made its way toward the roof.

“What do you think that is?” my dad asked. Without saying anything further, and through narrow eyes, we both stared at it.

I followed the sparkling fizz as it advanced on its upwards journey. It was connected to a zigzag arrangement of ropes tied up high between all the buildings on either side of the street. The arrangement continued right above our heads and ended another twenty yards behind us. My thoughts settled on Roadrunner (meep meep); Wile E. Coyote; a giant keg of ACME dynamite; and a sparking gunpowder fuse. So, if I’m frank, I’d become terrified about giving my dad’s question (i.e., “What do you think that is?”) any serious thought. I was sure that Damocles’ sword was about to drop, and as it turned out, I wasn’t far wrong at all.

So — I gave out a giant dejected teenager sigh because I knew exactly what would happen about a second or so before what happened, happened. And it was too late to do anything about it.

The lit fuse reached the first rope, and then, in quick succession, each connected rope erupted in an ear-splitting bang while white phosphorus sparks rained down from above and onto the road below. We watched, frozen, as each exploding rope, with atomic boom and skin-blistering fallout, came ever closer to where we stood. The inevitable result was, once again, that we’d be taking an unplanned shower in a monsoon of sparks.

Dashing across the street while covering our heads with our arms, we found refuge in the doorway of a closed shoe store. My dad laughed his we’re all doomed laugh again, which was about the same time I noticed his sweater was on fire. Not a full-blown blaze, more like a gas grill set to low. An eerie blue flame swished and swept over his shoulders, back, and arms. I, along with a couple of other bystanders, immediately smothered him in a series of rapid hand pats and successfully put him out.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said, confused and fighting off our perceived attack.

“Dad. Dad. You’re on fire.”

“Oh Christ,” he said, yet again. And not for the last time that night.

“And so, officer, that’s why I think my backpack may have tested positive for explosives,” I said to the security agent.

“And this was when?” he said.

“Just last month,” I replied.

With one more bag check, I was allowed to put the rest of my clothes back on. I made it to the plane, on time, where I watched The Heartbreakers on my portable DVD player.

Footnote

*If you suspect you have a heart attack, call 911, 112, 999, or whichever emergency number is applicable in your region. Seek medical attention immediately. My dad’s refusal to be treated caused further heart damage and had dire consequences for him in later life.