I just don’t like travelling very much. I’m very stuck in my routines and old enough that the thrill of going to some faraway place is really not all that thrilling. I’ve taken enough trips for the Great Yellow Father to experience all the travel hassles, but not so many that I know all the tricks to avoid them. But mostly it’s that I just hate airports, and I really hate the TSA.
For starters, airports are usually out in the middle of nowhere, which means you have to leave your house that much earlier to arrive in time to begin the check-in/security death march. Parking is ridiculously far away. ‘The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step’ probably originated on the way from a car to the airport terminal. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that ‘you can’t go home again’ came from some poor sap standing in front of an airport terminal trying in vain to remember where his car was parked.
Arriving in the terminal weakened and disoriented from exposure to the elements, you are confronted by the first Cruel Inverse Reality of Travel: the amount of time it will take you to check in and go through security is inversely proportional to the amount of time you have before your plane leaves. And for a place where they want you to arrive two hours before your scheduled departure time to complete 20-30 minutes of activity, combined with how often flights are delayed, thus guaranteeing hours of waiting, you’d think there would a comfortable chair. Somewhere. But, since all the airplanes are at the airport, if you want to fly, they’ve got you. And once they’ve got you, you can bet the TSA will not let you go.
Ah, the TSA. The Transportation Security Administration: according to their web site, they are the guardians of the nation’s transportation systems. Puh-lease. More like Totally Slowdown Ave-re-thing. You can’t obtain a boarding pass at the airline without a picture ID. Is that good enough for the guardians? Oh no, they have you stop and present your picture ID and boarding pass just for them. They scrutinize your picture, and then start scribbling all over the boarding pass marking this and that for no apparent reason. When they’re done, it looks like a three year-old wrote a note to his Grandma on it. But at least we’re safe to proceed to the next step: the Inspection.
This is where every good intention comes to die, and every impractical, dopey idea blossoms into reality. A reality that has about as much to do with public safety as I do with exercise equipment. One guy – a single individual out of the millions and millions of people who fly – tries to use a shoe bomb, and now every shoe has to come off. One idiot tries to switch out C4 for the cash in his money belt, and every belt has to come off. You know what happens when my belt comes off? My pants fall down! Talk about domestic terrorism…
I’ve got it down now to three totes when I go through security: one for my laptop, one for my backpack (which also contains everything in my pockets: change, wallet, phone, watch, gum, lint, etc), and one for my shoes and belt. I do that one last so I have one hand free to hold onto my pants.
Except that the new X-Ray-Whirl-O-Rama forces you to hold your hands over your head like you’re doing a jumping jack. Great. Hands over head, pants around ankles. Luckily, I take Mom’s advice to heart and always wear clean underwear. But at least the travelling public is safe to fly. Scarred for life, perhaps, but pronounced safe by our guardians and overlords.
It might be easier to tolerate if they at least had a tote-board of all the terrorists caught in their anally-retentive, stupidly over-reactive security net. Except that if there was a big lighted message board flashing “Still 0 shoe bombers caught in Manhattan, KS, since that idiot redefined ‘hotfoot’, but we’re making you remove your shoes anyway”, the stressed-out flying public might be more likely to toss their shoes at the nearest blue shirt than into a grey tote.
Satisfied that every last shred of your dignity has been stripped away, you are allowed to re-assemble, re-dress, and re-enter the mass of humanity heading for your assigned gate. Where you are confronted by the Second Cruel Inverse Reality of Travel: the distance from security to your departure gate is inversely proportional to the amount of time you have to get there. You can be assured that if you’re running late, you better start running, because you’re going to have to get to the farthest point in the airport.
Eventually, you arrive at your gate. Much more eventually, it’s time to board the airplane. And people, ‘carry on’ does not mean literally whatever you can carry on! Here we confront the Third Cruel Inverse Reality of Travel: the size, temperament, and smelliness of your seatmate is in inverse proportion to what you hope to do during the flight. If you want to get some rest and peace and quiet, you will be tortured by a Chatty Cathy or Talking Tom, who will want you to recount an oral history of the last four generations of your family and half your high school graduating class.
Much, much more eventually, your flight completes its controlled crash (another name for a landing) and arrives at the gate. And then everyone jumps up and starts collecting their stuff, as though they aren’t going to half to wait for a hundred people to file off the plane ahead of them. Seriously, people, they haven’t opened the door yet, and you’re in row 27 out of 30– just sit down!
And then when you just want to go home, there’s the Final Cruel Inverse Reality of Travel: your checked bag is NOT going to be the first one down the magic chute. In fact, the arrival of your bag is in inverse proportion to your need for it. And also, lady, your bag doesn’t come any faster because of how close you are to where the bags come out.
Lots ans lots more eventually, you collect your bag and officially end your trip. It’s time to go home. Except… where did I park the ^%@# car!!
