LAST MONTH, my husband and I celebrated our 25th anniversary, and he asked me what I wanted. A few days in Barcelona, I said, with a very brief stopover in Paris. We settled for a few hours in the Paris airport en route to Spain.

I smelled trouble the moment we arrived at Charles DeGaulle.

What on a previous visit a decade ago had been mere arrogance was now overt hostility. Good luck sharing a smile with a French citizen, being directed to the correct gate or getting information about a delayed flight, especially if you speak English.

But we shrugged it off, found our gate, and I trotted off happily to find us pastry and coffee. While other customers were treated courteously, I received grunts. I overlooked it - even airport French pastry is luscious.

Not long after, our flight arrived, and we were off. Four days in welcoming Barcelona flew by, and it was time to fly back to Paris for our flight home. After takeoff, we were served sandwiches and pastry. My husband was asleep, and I returned our sandwiches and cutlery, and ate the pastry. A guide met us in Paris to help us through security. That's when the real trouble began.

I took my boots off in security, and went on to the next point. Then I heard a security guard screaming in a combination of French and English. He was waving a plastic Air France knife, like the one I had returned mid-flight, and he was screaming at me, demanding to know why a knife was found in my footwear.

I told him I had no idea, and explained that the ride was bumpy. Perhaps the knife had fallen into my boot. The guard was enraged as he exhibited his macho authority to some young female colleagues who thoroughly enjoyed his attempt to humiliate me.

Why, he screamed repeatedly, had I not felt the knife? - a question I had no answer to.

As other guards began to search every inch of my purse and carry-on, and just about every inch of me, the guard repeated his condemning question.

My husband, who had been with passengers in another group, heard the commotion and returned. He was incredulous as he saw the livid guard waving a plastic knife, screaming at me. His response was angry, "You would not be treating us this way if we weren't Americans... you know we are no terrorists."

Here I was in a country that protected the murderous Ira Einhorn, but was happy to humiliate an innocent Jewish grandmother from the same city.

My voice was shaking as I explained that I had to get home because my family was arriving that night. I was told that I might not get out of the airport, much less Paris. In the corner of my eye, I saw that the young women the guard was trying to impress were laughing, enjoying the show. A kind employee tried to reassure me, but the guard shut him up and said that no one could talk to me until the police arrived.

They did, a few minutes later. But the guard refused to let me talk to them, talking for me instead, waving the knife and asking why I didn't know it was there. One of the policemen asked me to look him in the eye and tell him the truth. I told him my story again.

My husband said that because it was an anniversary, we were traveling business class back to the U.S., where stainless steel flatware would be available. "If we were terrorists, this would be our choice, not plastic." The police officer then asked the guide who met our plane if she believed me. She nodded yes.

One more search, and we were rushed to our plane, which was delayed by fog. We thought all was well - but then we were stopped and searched, again.

Finally on board, I went to the bathroom, sick and vowing to never again eat a piece of French pastry.

My husband ordered two glasses of champagne, and I rethought my ordeal. I said: "That bastard kept asking why I didn't feel the knife because he planted it." When I got home I put on the same socks and boots I wore on the plane and placed a plastic knife in the boot. I could feel it.

Message to Jacques Chirac: Next time we go to Barcelona, we're not going through Paris.

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