I recently had an opportunity to discover that although bottled water may not be carried through airport security, a 12″ fondant-covered cake can.  In a weak moment a few weeks ago, I agreed to provide the cake for a surprise birthday party for a long-time friend in Europe.  Given my travel schedule immediately prior to the party, I had no choice but to make the cake in Chicago and carry it with me on the flight to Paris.  Sounds easy enough, right?   Sure…the kicker is that the party was in a small town in Belgium about 30 minutes from Lille.  The plan was for me to take the TGV from Paris to Lille where I would meet a friend who would then drive me to Menen for the party.

I arrived at O’Hare with cake in hand and proceeded directly to an agent to check in, bypassing the self-service kiosks.  Having labeled the cake box with fantastic “Wedding Cake” labels, the agent began asking excited questions.  I figured that if everyone believed I was carrying a wedding cake instead of a simple birthday cake, more care would be given to the handling of the cake.  As soon as the agent realized that I had planned to take the cake on board with me, she insisted that I would have problems at TSA.  I assured her that I had already checked it out with a TSA agent in person at O’Hare on a previous flight as well as by phone with the airline and wasn’t too worried.  Just to satisfy her own concerns, she walked me and the cake over to the security area, cake in hand, to inquire about any special handling required.  The TSA agent she asked saw no issue, so we returned to the ticket counter to complete my check-in.  Still concerned that I would have problems with security, the ticket agent escorted me back to security, passing through the same line where she had gotten the thumbs up a few minutes prior and waited–partly to make sure I made it through, and partly in the hopes that TSA would make me open the box so she could see the cake.  No such luck for her.  I whizzed right through as though I had no luggage while agents feverishly searched an elderly woman with a container of yogurt in front of me.

Once on the plane, I placed the cake on the floor under the seat in front of me so I could keep an eye on it.  It was a little wider than my allotted area, but there seemed to be no one in the seat next to me…until about 2 minutes before our scheduled departure time.  At that point, I needed to find a better spot for the cake.  I asked one of the flight attendants if there was any way to find a safe spot somewhere on the plane for it.  Thanks to the wedding cake label, he was more than happy to try to accommodate my request.  Miraculously, he did find a compartment that was essentially the same size as the cake box, so my “wedding cake” could ride in peaceful solitude all the way to France.  He labeled the outside of the compartment “Wedding Cake: DO NOT TOUCH” and taped the door shut. 

Once I arrived in Paris, I was starting to wonder whether the passport control agent or the customs agent would give me any grief over the unusual box.  Not even a glance.  I was through passport control, collected my luggage and past customs in a matter of minutes.  As I started the long trek from the arrival gate to the RER gate to catch the train into the City, I quickly realized that there was no way that I would easily be able to manage the cake box (which seemed to be getting heavier with every step) along with all of my luggage (which contained everything I needed for the next two weeks along with the fragile sugar flowers for the wedding, I mean birthday, cake) alone on the train.  Well, on the train would be no problem.  It was the stairs and turnstyles that were beginning to make me nervous.  So, I decided to opt for a taxi to get from the airport to a friend’s apartment near the Bastille where I would spend the night before catching my train to Lille.  While convenient in terms of not having to maneuver the turnstyles or stairs of the train, or navigate the change from the RER to the Metro at the Gare du Nord, the taxi ride took nearly two hours due to the ridiculous traffic in Paris that day. 

I had forwarned my gracious host about the girth of the cake box I would be storing at his place so he had cleared out an entire shelf in his little refrigerator for it where it spent the night.  Having heard about my sugar flowers on many occasions but never seeing one in real life, Xavier wanted to see the ones that were packed away in my luggage.  I opened both boxes of gum paste orchids only to discover that one box had been packed a bit too loosely and had sustained some casualties.  Par for the course with something so fragile, but disheartening nonetheless. 

The following morning, feeling rested and wary of another too-long taxi experience, I headed to the Metro with cake and luggage in hand.  I made the trip down the stairs in two trips, wedged my way through the turnstyle and got my way to the Gare du Nord where I would catch my train to Lille.  The trip to Lille was a simple one, about two hours.  About 90 minutes into the trip, my phone rang with a text message from Stephane, the other friend who would be picking me up at the train station in Lille.  The message indicated that he was stuck in traffic and could nto get to the train station, that his father would be coming instead.  Having never met Stephane’s father, I had no idea how this would go down.

As I was getting off the train in Lille, my phone buzzed again.  Once I made it off the train and found a spot to set the cake down, I looked at the call log to see that the call I had just missed was from a “mystery number”.  It was a cell phone number from France, so I assumed it must be my ride.  I dialed the number back, reaching Stephane’s father.  He told me that he had just dropped his wife off at the train station to find me…that I should exit the train station, find the fountain out front, and look for a 60 year-old woman wearing a brown jacket.  Do you have any idea how many 60 year-old women wearing brown jackets there are in front of train stations in Lille?  More than one.  Fortunately for me, she was on the lookout for a guy with a giant cake box so I was easily found.

Once in the car, Stephane’s parents explained to me the plan: drive to their place where I would hide in the garage with the cake and await Stephane who would drive me to the party venue in Menen.  Confused about the garage piece I had to ask…turns out that the whole ruse for the surprise party was a dinner at Stephane’s parents.  So, Laurent, the guest of honor, was also on his way to their home.  Obviously he could not arrive to find me there or the surprise would be spoiled.

I was never so glad to see Stephane shortly after arriving at his parents home so the cake and I could escape the confines of the garage and begin the last leg of what was suddenly feeling like a very long journey.

In the end, Laurent was extremely surprised with the party…and everyone loved the cake. 

My travel story provided much conversation and laughter that night.  And a reason for me to never agree again to tote a cake with me on a plane for anyone.