I have snuck in contraband, in the form of a notebook. I hide it in my lap, along with a mini golf pencil. At this point, I consider myself on an anthropological mission, much like Margaret Mead. I have discovered that this makes almost anything bearable—it would have been such a salvation in my childhood to think I had been sent on a mission to notice. That would have turned my insubstantiality into something useful, even advantageous.
