Coming through the airport in Lisbon, my stuff has gone into the metal detector and I’m trying to keep an eye on my worn leather wallet, now out of view, riding on a push conveyor in a grey plastic bin. The agent is fresh on-line for his shift, just presenting to work, and the retiring lady before him, in this position of security, recedes from her station, bedraggled and almost unresponsive. His blue coat is nicely pressed, and I can smell he’s come from his morning shower. It’s 8 a.m.

The agent is polite, speaks English as if he has been there, smiles as he asks, “May I open this?” pulling my black knapsack over from the conveyor.

“Of course,” I respond, curious to see what on the x-ray machine has prompted his suspicion.

He unzipped the free Sierra Club knapsack – free with a $15 contribution – and he opened the sack to find it was full of my unwashed clothes, the underwear and socks from the last few days of my working sojourn. Knowledge of this contamination slowed his pursuit. He put on blue surgical gloves. He pulled out my soiled clothes. I could smell them across the stainless-steel counter. With some embarrassment, his level of pleasantness was not altered. He had a goal – whatever caught his attention on the x-machine, and he dug to the bottom with the precision of someone who has done this all before. He wasted no time on the side stuff.

He pulled out a small designer paper bag with handles.

“Oh gosh, the soap. He thinks it’s plastic explosives,” I thought.

He tipped over the paper bag and pulled out the block of soap wrapped in cream tissue paper. The soap was dark green like its olive oil base and it was stamped on opposing sides with the soap maker’s stamp in French. It was the size of a Rubic’s Cube and clearly handmade. The inspector appreciated it but felt he was losing time.

“It’s for my wife,” I said.

“Where is your wife?” he asked, half looking to the side.

“It’s a rare opportunity I get to answer that question with any certainty,” I responded. We were in a good rapport now, and he knew I was traveling alone. I pulled the plastic tray to the side and began to put on my belt.

The inspector was now into my carry-on bag which had come through on the second tray. “May I open this?”

“Yes, of course.”

Thankfully, this luggage was full of clean clothes. I didn’t want him to get a negative impression of my personal hygiene. Yet, he kept his gloves on.

He opened the luggage and, from along the inside of the semi-ridged carry-on, pulled out my toiletry case. It slid out from where I had stuffed it next to the books and pamphlets collected for my research.

My wallet was in the tray, and I scoffed it up quick and slipped it into my back pocket. There was cash in it, a lotta cash, leftover cash, dollars and Euros. It’s hard for me to adapt. Traveler’s checks are museum pieces now and the entire system of personal and world finance has streamlined itself into a simplicity putting stress on the cash users of the world. Just call your credit card company and tell them which countries you will be in and, bang, you can use your card at any store, restaurant, or kiosk. And when paying you can decide whether to use dollars or the local currency. The world is a chip reader.

Thankfully, I recently noted that the Riksbank of Sweden is calling for legislation to protect the legality of using and issuing cash – partly as a form of civil preparedness, partly as a protection for those without access to the digital world.

The inspector unzipped the leather toiletry bag and quickly took out a small box of double-edged razor blades; then, he deftly removed the blade-in-use from my old-fashioned razor. “These can do a lot of damage,” was all he said, smiling cordially as he transferred the blades to a distant table out of my reach.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “But they came through New York without issue,” I added.

He kept his generous smile in place and waved his hand slightly to the side, a sign meant to display a helpless sorrow for the situation, a motion, I find, common exclusively to Latins. “I’m sorry,” he said. He was moving on.

I continued the conversation in my head. It was one of those times when I knew to speak it aloud would not have changed the outcome, so why bother, why pollute the landscape? When I came to Portugal, I was in full beard. It was winter. My plan was to encounter spring somewhere in Portugal and to have a shave, to visit a real barbershop and have a good shave down. I brought my shaving kit with me for the days following. I hate having a beard, but I hate shaving even more. It is a struggle. I was determined to keep it off once it was off. I knew one thing. I might never get those blades again. Double-edged razor blades were becoming harder and harder to find. It’s all Gilette-triple-micro-whatever taken over the market. And sure enough. I got home. I looked everywhere – four drug stores, two supermarkets, no blades. I knew it. I had to go on-line. That’s ok. They came in mail, what is left of the mail.

I didn’t bother to tell the poor inspector of the decline of America. The world will find out in its own time.

I slipped on my knapsack, snapped up the handle of the wheeled carry-on bag, and grabbed the shoulder handle of my laptop computer case.

“Thank you,” I said, “Thank you very much,” I said because I knew he was only trying to make my flight safe for me and for everyone onboard. Even with my loss, his efficiency and thoroughness were reassuring. We gave each other one last departing, respectful nod.