LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Check your sense of humor at the gate.... |
by Fay Jacobs |
For a person who's not real fond of flying, I've spent a ridiculous amount of time in airports lately. Three times in one month to be exact. The first was an April 1st business trip to Indianapolis (or Indian-no-place as we former Baltimore Colts fans call it).
The second was a quick trip to visit an ailing friend in Rochester, N.Y., and the third will have taken place just a few days before you are reading this. That's the biggie where we fly overseas for a vacation in Spainthe only one really worth battling airport hell. It's illegal to have fun in airports anymore. Literally. You can't go twenty yards without seeing a sign reading "comments about bombs and guns are taken seriously. Please, no jokes." They must not let Charlton Heston fly at all. Heck, a sense of humor is the only possible way to survive air travel these days. And don't you love the scolding tone from the ticket agents, asking if you're the kind of person to take bomb-filled suitcases or candy from strangers? And how about that incessant PA system warning "Do not leave your luggage unattended. Luggage found unattended is subject to being searched and may be destroyed." I wanted to ask if that fate is any worse than the regular treatment of bags checked through to Indiana. And since I arrive for flights pathologically early, I get to hear them beg me not to leave my luggage unattended over and over and over. I wish they'd bring back the Hari Krishnas. At least they had tambourines and flowers. As if we haven't gotten the message by the time we get to the gate, we file past a bank of video screens spelling out "Comments about bombs and guns are taken seriously. Please, no jokes." Jeesh. Alright, already. Which is why I found it ironic that as our flight was ready to board, a chipper attendant let us surge toward the gate, jockeying for rail position like horses at Churchill Downs and then called out "Ladies and Gentlemen. Your attention, please, I regret to inform you that this flight has been cancelled. See the clerks at the desk to make other arrangements." As chaos erupted and several travelers appeared to lunge for his throat, he yelled "APRIL FOOL!!!!" No jury would have convicted any of us. Then, as we finally started toward the plane, anti-terrorist warnings fading into the distance, we saw a wooden box with a sign reading "if your carry-on can't fit into this box, it won't fit in the overhead compartment and must be checked." Great. The line to board backed up a mile with people cramming ugly step-sister sized bags into Cinderella's carry-on slot. Not co-incidentally, the FAA just ruled that airplanes must carry medical defibrillators. It's for all the people having heart attacks trying to stuff two tons of carry-ons into the overhead compartments. What's worse is Southwest's idea of customer service: first-come, first-served seating. When you finally get inside the plane it's a mad scramble to keep from having to sit between the incredible hulk and a nursing mother with a drooling baby. By that time, even if joking were legal I'd have no stomach for it. Well, I eventually made it to Indianapolis, survived the business trip, did a little shopping and headed back to the airport for the ordeal home. Things went fairly smoothly until I tried to pass through the security check-point to the gate. Bells and buzzers erupted, my carry-on bag was whisked away and I was ordered to stand aside. Had I accidentally made a joke? No, the surly guard explained that they were dusting my bag for explosives. Great, I pictured them detonating my Samsonite, sending shoes, shampoo and dental floss out like shrapnel. Apparently, the uniformed zombi staring at my carry-on bag through the x-ray machine thought that the electronic gauge I'd just bought at Brookstone to determine if my plants need watering was really a bomb. By the time they got through dusting me and the bag, I was late to the gate. That won me a seat in the emergency exit row beside a retired linebacker with bronchitis. Every time he coughed, he leaned his bulk against the emergency exit. I was sure he'd eventually pop the door, sucking us out over Akron. At least the trip would be over (Speaking of the trip being over, I was sorry when the Mir Space Station landed off Australia. I wanted it to come down over Israel so that folks who saw it coming could say, "Oy Vey, It's Mir. Sorry, I'm still suffering from the no jokes thing...). Anyway, for my second trip this month I innocently headed from Baltimore to Rochester on a carrier called U.S. Air Express. What is that, cargo class? Once I realized I wasn't being overnighted to Tom Hanks on a desert island, I figured that the word Express in the airline's name must imply expediency. So why was the gate as far away as you can possibly travel and still be in Baltimore? For a while I thought I was walking to Rochester. And what's with Baltimore anyway? Everyplace else they have moving walkways, stairs, trams etc. In Baltimore it's the Gate 44 10-K. And forget about a tunnel to the plane. You go down metal steps, dodge the luggage and snack carts on the tarmac, and shlep back up some more metal steps into the aircraft. There were twelve of us boarding a plane so small I expected to see Amelia Earhart smiling from the cockpit window. How small was it? The fuselage had Glue Side A to Side B written on it. Okay, so I got to Rochester, visited for two days and then got ready for the infuriating return trip home. But it was Easter Sunday morning and the airport was spookily empty. There were no delays anywhere and I think they only warned me about blowing up my bags once. And the ticket agents all wore bunny ears. Sure, we still had to run out to the tarmac, keep from joking and have our personal belongings searched, but everyone was pretty pleasant. And since there were only a handful of us, there was no pushing or shoving, no cardiac incidents and best of all, nobody else sitting in my row. The flight attendant passed out chocolate eggs. Now that's what I call hospitality. Okay, so air travel isn't all bad. The true test comes next on that long flight to Barcelona. In the immortal words of Professor Henry Higgins, I hope the plane to Spain won't mainly be a pain. I'll let you know. A national award winning columnist, Fay Jacobs is a regular contributor to Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 4, May 4, 2001. |