You can relate to the anxiety of seeing hundreds of nearly identical suitcases go past on the conveyor belt if you’ve ever spent any time at all at an airport looking through the carousel for your most valuable belongings.
An airport employee is cautioning customers against using personal markers because they come with baggage that you cannot unload. Astute tourists have found that attaching a ribbon on their luggage helps it stand out from the others.
Discover why you should never travel with marzipan or use ribbons by reading on!
Even experienced travelers can become terrified at the mere prospect of misplacing their bags while on a trip.
Travelers are fastening vibrant ribbons on their suitcases to ensure that they stand out from the others, lowering the possibility that their luggage will be snatched by another passenger or that they would constantly watch it slowly spin by on the conveyor belt.
However, a luggage handler at Dublin Airport going by the name of John claims that these well-liked tips are more harmful than helpful.
As a matter of fact, it might fulfill your worst travel fear.
Don’t take the ribbon with you.
John disclosed to RSVP Live that attaching identifying ribbons to your luggage may result in delays, potentially causing your items to miss the trip.
John informed the source that “tying ribbons to one’s suitcase to aid in identification can cause issues with the bag being scanned in the baggage hall.” “Your bag might not make it to the flight if it can’t be scanned automatically and has to be processed manually.”
Your suitcase will have a higher chance of arriving at its destination if it is checked in without identifying marks like ribbons or outdated travel stickers.
John suggests: “Remove outdated stickers from the bag as they may interfere with the scanning process.”
If you take marzipan, the delightfully sweet almond dessert, on vacation, John cautions you that it could cause issues with your luggage and possibly result in a security alert.
“Never put marzipan in your suitcase. The Dublin baggage expert stated, “Your bag will be removed and you will be called from the plane for a bag search because it has the same density as some explosives.”
Last but not least, make sure your luggage is wheels side up to prevent damage before putting it on the little conveyor belt for handlers like John.
No more ordinary luggage
You no longer need to carry standard black, brown, or blue luggage because luggage has changed dramatically over the past few decades.
Travel & Leisure claims that black luggage is quite popular since it is “one of the most – if not, the most – versatile color.”
“For this reason, it’s worth selecting a different hue if you want your luggage to stand out at baggage claim,” the outlet says. Consider a suitcase with a design instead, or one that’s brightly colored, like hot pink.
If you’re not a fan of pink, you may still buy baggage that will stand out from the crowd in a variety of vivid, striking colors.
Consider adding identifying elements that won’t obstruct scanning with fabric paint or stickers if you’re unwilling to part with your current containers.
Travelers everywhere should find some relief from tension by following the advice of the Dublin Airport handler!
What advice would you provide tourists to assist them steer clear of airport mishaps? Please let us know what you think and then forward this story to others so we can hear from them as well!
I Invited My Friend Over, and His French-Speaking Skills Uncovered a Shocking Family Secret
When Chad’s French in-laws come over, he invites his friend, Nolan, along — to keep him company while Camille and her parents converse in French. While they have dinner, Chad discovers that Nolan understands French and reveals a family secret.
My wife, Camille, is as French as they come. We met at college when she was an exchange student studying International Politics, and we’ve been together ever since.
Camille’s parents live in France but visit us twice a year. I’ve learned a few odd words and phrases in French, but the language has yet to stick with me.
Other than mon chéri or various dishes from French cuisine, I don’t know much. Now, my in-laws are around, and it’s only been four days.
So, I decided to invite my friend, Nolan to have dinner and meet Camille’s parents. That way, I would also have someone to talk to.
Now imagine this:
We’re all sitting at the table, enjoying our bouillabaisse. Nolan and I talked about an audit at work, and Camille and her parents were happily chatting in French.
Everything seems fine, right? Wrong.
While mid-conversation about work, Nolan’s face goes as white as a ghost, and he nudges my arm firmly with his elbow.
“Go upstairs and check under your bed. Trust me,” he whispers urgently.
My first instinct was to laugh it off — it made no sense. But one look at his wide eyes told me that this wasn’t a joke.
“Excuse me,” I said to the table. “I’ll be right back.”
I reluctantly shuffled to my bedroom, feeling like I was stepping into some strange French noir film. I picked Camille’s silver silk robe off the floor and bent to look under the bed.
My heart was beating ridiculously fast like I was about to have a heart attack. But there it was — a lone black box.
I opened the box with shaky fingers, going through the contents quickly — I didn’t know if Camille would come looking for me. Then, toward the bottom of the box, was a series of photographs of Camille, wearing next to nothing.
My heart pounded harder and nausea rose through my body.
What have I just stumbled upon? I asked myself.
As I was about to put everything back, the world turned black.
It must have been hours later when I woke up in a hospital ward, surrounded by empty beds. The harsh light glared down on me as my eyes adjusted to the change of venue and the sharp smells of detergent.
“Woah,” I mumbled, my throat raw.
That’s when I noticed that Nolan was sitting next to me, his head propped up by his arm.
“You passed out in your bedroom, mate,” he said. “What happened?”
Then, it all came back to me. Camille’s box under the bed, my insatiable curiosity mixed with an overactive heart rate brought on by a panic attack.
But I did get a glimpse into the box. It turned out to be my own Pandora’s Box. There were incriminating photos of Camille, love letters to a man named Benoit, and little trinkets, all piecing together a tale of betrayal.
It turns out that Camille was hiding an affair.
“You were taking forever,” Nolan said. “So, I followed you, and I found you passed out on the floor. I closed the box and pushed it back under before calling Camille and an ambulance.”
“How did you know?” I asked, thinking about the warning Nolan had given me.
“I did French throughout high school, Chad,” he said. “While talking, I understood that Camille said something about hiding everything under the bed. I’m sorry.”
“Where’s Camille?” I asked.
“At the cafeteria, she said she needed to stretch her legs. So, she went to get coffee.”
I put my head back and thought of the letters that my wife had been receiving.
I got discharged the following day, and Nolan drove me home. Camille fussed over me, making me a healthy juice and ensuromg that I was okay. But of course I wasn’t. Nothing was okay.
That afternoon, I had to set the record straight. I couldn’t look at Camille and feel what I had felt before.
“I can’t continue in this marriage,” I said when Camille brought me a juice.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I know about the black box under the bed.”
Camille turned pale.
“I can explain,” she said, jumping up.
“I saw more than enough, Cami. I don’t think your version of an explanation would change that.”
“Just listen,” she said. “My parents set up the meeting with Benoit. They wanted me to be with someone French — to have completely French children.”
I looked at her, wondering how she expected me to sit there and listen to more.
“So, after they arranged it,” she continued. “I met him. And we hit it off, and our friendship grew.”
“I want a divorce. Immediately,” I said, not wanting to listen to anything else.
Camille made a fuss, hurling accusations of me snooping and invading her privacy. She threatened not to sign the divorce papers when they came, but I told her that there was just no love left in our marriage after what she had done.
“Give me another chance,” she pleaded.
But I didn’t want any of it.
The divorce process lasted a few months, and Camille contested everything — from the house to spousal maintenance — and she even wanted me to pay for her tickets to France every year. I refused everything except the house. I didn’t want to be there anymore anyway. I’m living in a bachelor pad closer to my office now.
I’m heartbroken, sure. But at least now, I’m not living a lie. And that’s liberating.
I’m also grateful to Nolan for telling me the truth and staying by my side through the divorce.
Now, I wonder if Camille will end up with Benoit or not — I know her parents will love it if she does.
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