The Knife

So last year I was in Paris with my mom, and I told her one afternoon that I wanted to go to the Louvre. She didn't want to go, and after she set out to do whatever she did that day, I went to our hotel's concierge to ask if they could book me a ticket for the museum. I learned that this is how many people book tickets to things in Paris, as it saves time. The woman behind the concierge desk phoned the Louvre and was told that the museum had no more regular entry tickets, but they did have tickets for a private guided tour. I asked how much a ticket for a private tour was and was told it was €75. This price was obviously too high, considering I was expecting to pay about €20 for a regular ticket. I told the concierge lady to say no, and she did. 

Now with my plans dashed, I went over to a sitting area in the lobby to research what I could do for the day. About 10 minutes into my being there, the woman from the concierge came over to me and said that the museum had called back and said they'd found a normal entry ticket. I immediately said I would like it, and it was booked. 

About 45 minutes later, I was at the Louvre. I was indeed able to save time by not standing in the ticket line, but I did have to wait to go through security. When it was my turn to put my backpack through the X-ray machine and walk through the metal detectors, I did so patiently and dutifully, just like everyone else. However, when I went to reclaim my bag, the security guard said, "The knife." At first, I was completely confused: What's he talking about? What knife? Then I realized: my Swiss army knife. I always keep a Swiss army knife in my bag, just in case. I immediately apologized, took out the knife and gave it to him for safekeeping. 

About two hours later, when I was finished with the museum and about to leave, I realized that this guy still had my knife. On my way to pick it up from him, I had to laugh. This knife had been through a lot. See, I once erroneously tried bringing this very same Swiss army knife on a plane with me. However, security at Newark Airport told me this wouldn't be possible. So what I did was I took the knife, went outside the airport and hid it by an employee smoking area. After I came back from my trip—and this was a one-week trip—I got in my car and was about to leave when I remembered that I had hidden the knife. I remember thinking, "Oh, forget it; it's probably not there." But then, another little voice came into my head and said, "Oh, come on, Chad, you took the time to hide it. Go check. It might be there." And it was. 

Anyway, back in the Louvre, the security guard gave me back my knife after I gave him a stub of paper that he had given me after he took the instrument into safekeeping. I thanked him graciously, and that was that.