![]() “Wait for the next shuttle from Paris-it’s probably on that plane.” “Bags don’t make it onto the right flight sometimes,” said the big lug working in baggage handling. Fighting a rushing tide of panic, I asked in my mangled high school French what had become of my suitcase. When I arrived in Belgium, I looked for my black rollie at the baggage claim. I had done exactly as I had been instructed, checking my bag in Chicago through Paris, where I had to switch planes to take a short flight to Brussels. I wore black silk pants and a beige jacket, a typical jeune fille, not a bit counterculture, unless you spotted the tattoo on my neck. My Doc Martens had been jettisoned in favor of beautiful handmade black suede heels. ![]() I was twenty-three in 1993 and probably looked like just another anxious young professional woman. ![]() Because it was stuffed with drug money, I was more concerned than one might normally be about lost luggage. I scurried from one to another, desperately trying to find my black suitcase. International baggage claim in the Brussels airport was large and airy, with multiple carousels circling endlessly. ![]()
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