It was easier saying goodbye to Daniel— I know I”ll see him in a few months. Who knows when I’ll bond with dulce de leche again?
Not that I should. I ate enough on this trip to last me a long, long time.
At least until I got to the airport in Buenos Aires…….and saw that one of the souvenir shops sold cardboard containers of the authentic local stuff.
Fortunately– I still had a few pesos in my pocket.
Unfortunately— I had promised not to eat another bite.
Fortunately— I was traveling alone; not with Daniel the Food Police.
The Spanish say: Vaya con Dios.
I say: Vaya con Dulce de leche.
And I barely felt guilty as I stuck the container in my bag and began the long journey back to Carmel.
I was numb from traveling by the time I had to switch planes in the Dallas–Fort Worth airport. I stumbled out of the plane and into customs. An overly–chipper Texan waved me towards my next flight….when I learned I had to go through security again.
I had already been through security in Argentina—which is looser than ours. This was American style— Shoes off, bag of liquids out, laptop in its own plastic bin.
Even half-asleep it’s worth the hassle to keep America safe. And I fully woke up when the TSA guy plucked off my carry-on from the line—and carried it over to the side for a closer inspection. People were watching, as he opened and went through my bag—resting it on a stainless steel surface and handling all of the items with rubber gloves—until he found what he was looking for—liquid contraband.
The agent wouldn’t allow me to identify him; but he did allow me to record a photograph for posterity—- of the illegal substance he confiscated, that I had attempted to smuggle across the American border:
Either this was a sign from the universe….or a subconscious warning from the Food Police.
So Adios Dulce de leche. It”s been sweet.