By Genevieve Chornenki
“Not allowed!”
The airport screening officer in São Miguel (population 140,000) pointed to knitting needles in my clear, Ziplock bag. “Not allowed.”
“But I just flew across the Atlantic,” I said, “Six hours, and I knit with the bag in full view most of the way.”
I was working on a top-down sweater of drop-spindle Alpaca yarn from Peru. My work and knitting tools, including extra circulars, had made it through security in Toronto, Canada, no questions asked. As is my practice, I had placed the project in a clear bag on the conveyor belt at security and displayed it like carry-on toiletries and liquids—in the open.
The São Miguel screening officer gestured to a uniformed supervisor who hurried over. “Not allowed,” she echoed, taking hold of two 4.5 mm circulars—a 24-inch ChiaoGoo Red Lace set and an Adi Click set on a 12-inch cable.
I was about to board a small plane in Ponto Delgado for a half-hour flight to the island of Pico (population 14,000) and was, apparently, too armed and dangerous to be a passenger. But, there was nothing to be done. I surrendered the needles and stuffed the rest of my knitting back into my carry-on, relieved that the sweater itself—on 3 inch wooden Lykke needles—had not been disturbed.
Three weeks later for the first half-hour flight en route home—from an airport smaller than the one in Kenora, Ontario—I made sure that my carry-on luggage contained no metal knitting needles. But airport security in the Azores was not yet done with me.
“Not allowed.”
This time the airport screening officer pulled a 3.25 mm metal crochet hook out of the clear bag. Like many knitters, I use a crochet hook to correct mistakes, and the smaller the hook, the better.
“Not allowed!”
“Oh, come off it,” I said. “This doesn’t even have a point on it.” I pushed the tip into my index finger to demonstrate.
A uniformed supervisor then appeared. She wagged her finger and shook her head. “Not allowed,” she repeated.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I said.
Meanwhile, the first security officer discovered a small pair of folding scissors. He opened and closed them. Satisfied that they weren’t as threatening as a crochet hook, he put them down and began pulling the in-progress sweater out of the bag.
“Hey, take care!”
Both officers ignored me. At the bottom of the bag they simultaneously spotted a darning needle threaded with bright red yarn.
“Not allowed!”
I yanked out the red yarn, and handed over the needle.
“Have it your way,” I said.
