You know that sinking feeling you get in your stomach. It's the one when you look in the rearview mirror and see police lights.

It's the same feeling upon discovering the airlines have lost your bags.

Some of you have been fortunate enough to never go through this experience.

I used to be like that -- until last week.

After a week's vacation and a long plane trip, I was looking forward to heading home. I was waiting at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport for my main piece of luggage that contained a week's worth of dirty laundry.

Nothing glamorous, but I needed to retrieve it nonetheless.

After about six or seven minutes, I started looking around to see if there was anyone left. Upon noticing about seven or eight others still around, I didn't start to panic.

Then, it happened.

A rumbling came from the baggage carousel. Soon, it belched out a tattered black suitcase. On it, were the faded words in white masking tape.

"Last Bag."

Huh?

"You're kiddin' me. This is the last bag?" I said to an airport worker, who looked like he was old enough to be flipping burgers rather than presiding over the prestigious baggage carousel.

"Yeah."

He didn't care.

So I rushed to the Delta ticket counter line, unaware on what to do next. All I knew was that it looked like the place where dazed and confused travelers went for answers on how to get back their underwear.

I had one lady in front of me that was trying to figure out how to get a car seat because the airlines lost hers. She had my sympathy. But my patience started to wear after 15 minutes and a conversation that was already halfway to forever.

Plus, it didn't help the lady's mother-in-law was barking directions from 10 feet away.

Finally, it was my turn to give a description of my lost parcel, which I'm sure was halfway down Runway 22-Left in Atlanta.

"Name?"

Fields.

"Shields?"

No, Fields. F-I-E-L-D-S. Fields.

"First name?"

Daniel (which is the "official" name, but for good reason. Anyone calling me at 8 p.m. at home and asks for "Daniel Fields" promptly gets a dial tone in their ear).

"What does your bag look like?"

With that, she pointed to a laminated sheet that had descriptions of about 30 different pieces of luggage.

I told her mine looked like No. 22.

"What color?"

Black and blue. How appropriate, I figured.

"What's your address?"

I told her the address, but was surprised at the response.

"Austin? What's the closest airport?"

(I know we don't reside in the largest of locales, but I figured someone that was in contact with many people from different parts of the state would have heard of our town. I mean, it's not like I said Taopi.)

Rochester.

"OK, here's what we'll do. You can check the status of your bag online by typing in this confirmation number. We'll fly your bag to Rochester and have it to you by tomorrow."

Somehow, I figured there had to be a catch.

I drove home and immediately typed in that number.

"Daniel Fields. One bag. Location: Atlanta."

Well, I had part of it right.

I awoke the next morning and checked again.

"Daniel Fields. One bag. Arrived at destination."

That's good. But I wondered if the "destination" was Rochester or it was simply off the tarmac.

But around lunchtime, a guy pulled up in a Rochester-based cab. Sure enough, there was my luggage. And it was in the front seat, no less, just like it was a paying customer.

The bag looked about the same, except that it had a bunch of tags all over it that said "RUSH" and "FRAGILE".

I didn't care what it said. I was just happy it was home.

So after signing to get my bag back, I wheeled it down the driveway and hauled it upstairs.

Getting the bag back was a good feeling. Although the words "RUSH" and "FRAGILE" left me a little perplexed.

I guess that's what happens when you carry around week's worth of underwear.

Dan Fields can be reached at 434-2230 or by e-mail at dan.fields@austindailyherald.com