Saturday, April 21, 2001

I arrived at the International terminal around 11:00 p.m. for my 1:00 a.m. Asiana Airlines flight to Seoul. The five-hour flight departed on time.

I knew I had an eight-hour layover in Seoul which included a free city tour. I was content to accept the free tour until I heard another passenger talking about a free hotel. Neither the travel agent nor the airline personnel ever mentioned anything about a free hotel. But, knowing how long a flight I had ahead of me AFTER the eight-hour layover in Seoul, I would much prefer to get a few hours sleep. Besides, I had heard that the city tour really sucked.

When we landed in Incheon, I went to the Asiana Airlines information counter and asked about a free hotel. The young Korean gentleman told me that hotels were available, but airline rules required me to share a room with another passenger. I crinkled my nose up at him and he immediately gave me a voucher for the hotel and told me the shuttle bus would leave in 50 minutes.

The drive to the hotel was almost an hour, traveling along a super highway unlike anything in Vietnam. We passed the invasion mud flats where General MacArthur and his troops landed in 1950.

The Hotel River Park was a small, clean hotel. The staff was polite but not nearly as friendly as the Vietnamese to which I had become accustomed. The room was small, but nice and quiet.

The flight to Los Angeles was only 9 hours long compared to the 13-hour flight from LAX to Incheon. We were greatly assisted by the Jet Stream which travels from west to east. With the benefit of a 140 MPH tailwind, we were actually flying at supersonic speed over the surface.

We arrived in Los Angeles on time, and proceeded to queue up to clear Immigration and Customs. With 400 people on our flight alone, I expected a painful process. The Immigration officers were very efficient, passing a passenger through each portal every 30 seconds or so. That is, of course, until he got to me....

He took my passport, slipped it through the scanner, stopped, stared at his computer screen, and, motioning in the direction of a detention area, asked me, "Would you wait for me by that counter, please, Sir?"

Of course, I agreed, thinking to myself, " Oh shit, just what I don't need. I haven't even reached Customs yet, so it can't be the dried squid I bought in Nha Trang."

I waited by the counter for about 10 minutes when a second officer arrived, took my passport from the first and approached me. He asked me where I had been, whether I was there on business or pleasure (let's not go there), whether I was military, how many bags I had, and what I was bringing home. Then a third officer walked up. They talked among themselves for a moment when I overheard one of them say, "Why don't we just walk him through?" The third officer told me that sometimes the computer will select a passenger at ramdom and initiate a search of his baggage as a way of keeping the system free of human error. He then instructed me to claim my bags and wait for him.

I proceeded to the baggage claim area, and about 10 minutes later, a fourth officer approached me from behind. It must have been my guilty conscience, because I was aware of him at least 50 feet before he reached me.

"Mister Capps, here are your documents, Sir."

I breathed an audible sigh of relief and politely thanked him. All the stress and negative anticipation of the past 20 minutes disappeared instantly.

I waited over 30 minutes before my bags finally plopped onto the carousel, the larger bag wearing a sticker declaring, "LAST BAG". At least they were together and I did not have to search for a straggler.

The transit from the international terminal to the shuttle terminal was a pain-in-the-ass. Walk over here, take another bus, walk some more. This sucks....

Then, as we waited to board the little Saab 340 that would take us to San Diego, I noticed that the baggage handler was exceedingly rough with our bags. He threw them up onto the conveyor belt, often missing the belt entirely, with the bag landing on the tarmac. He would then snatch it up and throw it again. I promised myself that if anything in my bag was broken, I would call the airline and complain.

When I arrived in San Diego, I called my friend who was supposed to pick me up. His cell phone was turned off. "Damn." After calling his house and not reaching him, I took a shuttle bound for home.

I checked my wallet and noticed I only had a $100 bill. I told the driver who, of course, did not have change. He suggested we stop at a cheesy little liquor store on Market Street to change money. I went inside and bought a 2-liter Diet Coke and noticed a couple of ne'er-do-wells hanging out at the register. "Oh great." I thought, "I spend 3 weeks in Vietnam, travel 25,000 miles, only to get my throat cut 2 miles away from home."

But, I finally made it home safely. Niki was very glad to see me.