Last summer found me for a week in Seattle attending a conference for school. I was blessed to spend the entire week at a dear friend's home instead of a hotel. He and his wife had shown me the sights in the evenings and kindly dropped me at the airport for a noon flight back to Memphis at week's end. We had spent a pleasant morning at the Pike Place Market, but I was really worried about making it through security. Few things on earth strike me with as much fear as the possibility of missing a flight. That presented itself as a distinct possibility the moment my friends drove away from the curb, and I walked through the airport doors. You will readily observe that my travel experience shows its metal here.
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We had just parted company on the curb in front of the airport and you were hardly back in traffic when I walked into the terminal. Which is a rather interesting term considering my reaction upon witnessing the line to check luggage and knowing that time was short to get to my gate (or rather, short for me and my insistence on always being EARLY. You had been right to suppose that my blood pressure would soar given the remotest time constraints for checking my bags and passing through security and finding my gate.)
However, the remotest constraints very quickly became imminent constraints as I passed SLOWLY through the luggage check in line only to be informed by the agent that I had not checked in my luggage. This seemed pretty danged obvious to me since I was still dragging it behind me. Of course my first reaction was an overwhelming temptation to shout, “The devil you say. That must be why I'm hoisting this big ole bag up on your scale here, buddy. So you can CHECK it in!
Oh my gosh I’m gonna miss my flight, I’m gonna miss my flight. Come on jackass check the bag, check the bag. I am starting to sweat. Holy crap, I can’t miss this flight”.
He explained that unfortunately I had apparently missed a step when I checked in on line and then directed me to the “kiosk” within ear shot of his station to check in the infernal bag. Being as American as Mississippi, I predictably struggle with all things foreign, especially Russian, so it was no surprise that I was quickly brought to a babbling mass of sweating futility in front of the winking Soviet son of a kiosk.
“Oh my gosh, I am reallllly realllly gonna miss this flight now. Clickety clack clickety clack. What do you MEAN wrong number? Clickety clack clickety clack. Dang it Dang it Dang it. Clickety clack clickety clack. Son of a Russian piece of no good foreign crap!!!!!” “Hey Buddy!!! Little help here!!!” “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, wipe your forehead you look like you are drowning.”
“Sir, do you have a credit card? Try sliding that right here. You can come to the front of the line when you get this done, Sir.”
“Wow, ha, ha … look at that. Works like a charm. I’ll be right over. Thanks!”
“Whew, back on track. Gotta get through security now. OK, speed is of the essence. Strip all metal from your person and put in your pack. Awesome, gotta chance, gotta chance. Now get your boarding pass and your ID and you are golden. ID, ID, ID (frantic shuffling of papers and ripping apart of all pack pockets and exposure of their contents) ID, ID, ID, ID. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh…..holy crap holy crap holy crap! Where is it! Where is it! Where is it! Left it on the counter at the non-baggage check in? Yea, Yea that’s it! Wipe the sweat idiot”
In a strained almost frantic voice a few octaves higher than is manly, “UHHH pardon me but is my driver’s license still at your station?”
“No man, but you are welcome to look all over my station”
The ID was nowhere to be found at the baggage non-check in station or the electronic Russian frustration station, so I started shaking violently every item in my possession over a seat in the waiting area. All the time I could hear this tremendous DONG, DONG, DONGING in my head. Then after one particularly violent shake out popped the missing ID. I snatched it out of the puddle of sweat that had accumulated in the seat depression, crammed everything back into the pack and sped to the security line groping myself all over for any metal that might slow me down at this point.
Every second the DONGING was getting louder and making it hard to hear instructions. I chose the line that looked the most promising by the speed and "intelligent" look of the TSA officer manning it, and just like every Wal-mart express lane I have ever been in, it instantly ground to a halt while the person in front of me rifled through her purse looking for HER ID. “AHHHHHHHH idiot. How could you not have your ID handy!!!!!! Come on Come on DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG Curse you rookie traveler!! Come on.”
Things began to slow down all around me. People looked as if they were walking in jello, sounds were slurred, no one spoke distinctly and there was the horrific DONG, DONG, DONGING.
“S i r, W e e e e w e e e e e l h a a a v t u a s s s s k u u u u t u u u e m p t e e e e y o o o r b o t t t le”
“What bottle?” “Holy crap!!! My Nalgene has water in it NOOOOOOOOOOO!” Where can I get rid of the water?
“O o o o v e r t h e r e.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Just ten feet away!!! And then back in line with my stuff!”
“ S i r, w e e e e e w e e e e e l h a a a v t u r u n y o o o r b a a a a g t h r u u u u a g a a a i n.”
“ N OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, dang it. Your doomed, your doomed, your doomed.”
The instant the bag cleared the x-ray, I feverishly began grabbing my stuff and shoving things in pockets and strapping on my belt and tying on shoes and then lurched into a frantic, blind with fear, wildebeest stampede down the terminal in search of my gate. Now if you have ever participated in a blind with fear wildebeest stampede, you will instantly recall that it creates tunnel vision, and you cannot see anything except that which is right in front of you. This was unfortunate, since the sign that would have directed me to the tram to my gate was high and to the right. I thundered past it for a good 50 yards or so to run into the terminus of that particular terminal, at which time I was forced to look about me.
Upon finding not a hint of direction as to the whereabouts of my gate, yet being able to see it across the tarmac through the windows, I had a lucid moment in which I ASKED for directions. The fellow proved to be trustworthy, and I was soon on the tram to the gate. Of course by this time, there was an obvious lather coming from under the straps of my back pack and the panting caused people to stand at a distance from me, which proved to be advantageous since it cleared the path to the tram’s sliding doors and allowed for the last leg of the blind with fear wildebeest stampede to be unimpeded all the way to my gate and most of the way down the boarding ramp.
I skidded to a halt just before the plane door to be greeted cheerily by the crew who wished to relieve me of my fresh salmon from the Pike Place Market and who had obviously seen many a lathered, panting traveler before, because they hardly took notice of my wet clothes and wild eyes.
I declined their offer and moved down the aisle to my seat only to be greeted by a portly fellow from Arkansas who promptly requested a seat belt extender. My right thigh will never be the same. Four hours with my leg pressed to a chubby old man’s left me with my first case of heat rash since infancy. Being a world traveler is tough.
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