They Don't Want Us To Fly

It’s early morning.  We should have left the night before, but Hannah had a concert we didn’t want to miss, we didn’t plan well and it turns out it’s a lot harder to get a flight anywhere than it used to be.  And last time we flew, it wasn’t exactly a planned trip (see Dark Days post..)

I’m out of it, as I always am in the morning.  We didn’t make coffee, figuring we’d save time/cleanup and grab some at the airport.  We’ll have plenty of time, since Gerd made the decision about when we’d leave (I would be running late if left to my own devices).  We got a great tip about Park-N-Fly and we drive in, noting how friendly the guy is at the gate for 4am (Gerd thinks this is nice and of course he’s right, but I’m secretly annoyed at early morning cheer of this type).

The sign in the Park-N-Ride van tells us that our courteous driver is Ron B.  Ron is definitely courteous, except that he is searching, searching, searching for someone in the parking ramp that never does appear, causing him to circle the van endless times around the ramp and we nearly throw up on the floor.  But, at last, we’re on the way to the terminal and coffee awaits.

We have a discussion about checking our bags and because we don’t want to be ‘that couple’ on the plane (we are so naively altruistic, we will discover later), decide to check them.  Boom, $50.  OK, no big deal we say (even though we’re both mentally beginning to add up the costs of this so-very-close-to-Christmas “getaway”).

Now it’s time for security.  I want you to know that I DO make an attempt to mentally prepare myself for this experience, in the hopes that I will not have to go off on a tirade later about the injustice of taking off our shoes and hats when the pepper spray I had last time passed through in my purse, unnoticed.  I try. I really, really TRY to get my head into a cooperative place.  First step, get past the “guard” so we can queue up and proceed to scanning.  The patch on his shirt says, “Integrity, Team Spirit, Innovation”.  Here is what these stand for:

Integrity:  We will do everything we can to strip you of your own integrity before you actually board the plane.

Team Spirit:  We will work together as a “team” to humiliate and anger you, all the while feeling the protection of our “team”, knowing that if you fly off the handle or make inappropriate jokes or comments, other “team” members will simply escort you away, and we’ll never have to see you again or care about why you missed your flight.

Innovation:  We will continue to find new and improved ways to create a slow, problematic experience for you.  In addition, just when you think you’ve been embarrassed and violated more than you surely ever want to be again, we’ll take it to the next level.  

Which they did.

I was distracted and bogged down with the details of separating items in bins, taking off my boots and my hat (if it’s convenient ma’am, the guard says - well, no, as a matter of fact, it is NOT convenient for me to remove my hat, but you aren’t actually going to give me that option are you?).  There are so many rules about the bins.  Who comes up with this shit?? Gerd is talking about a sign that says where to put the computers and I haven’t had any coffee and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, why are they directing me to this space-age looking body scanner?  They tell me to raise my arms above my head - what the fuck did I do, anyway?  Am I a criminal now?  Well, I might as well be, because I have made the HUGE mistake of wearing a shirt with sequins and beads to the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport.  

They bring me out of the scanner and down a short carpet and tell me to put my feet on the “foot” pictures printed onto the carpet.  I’m not really appreciating how far apart my legs are when they are in the foot pictures - I’m getting the feeling I’m about to be frisked.  The young, awkward guard, who never meant to have a career this exceedingly depressing, says to me:  Unfortunately, ma’am, you did not clear the scan.  There are a few concerning areas in your abdominal area (What?  Is it cancer? How much time do I have?) and we need to rescan you.  A lady by the Star Trek scanner looks at him, rolls her eyes, and says she can try again but she is sure it isn’t going to change “the results” (Yep, I definitely only have six months left to live).  Arms up, hold still ma’am, this won’t hurt a bit, do you have an updated will, where do you want to go on your final vacation, sorry you couldn’t see your kids graduate from High School, and back down the carpet to the foot pictures.  Here is the guard again with his apologies about how I didn’t pass the scan.  Now, they are calling for a female guard to take me into a private room for a body search.  I just knew I was going to get frisked.  I look over at Gerd, who is calmly collecting all his belongings from the conveyer belt and probably harboring a swiss army knife and lighter and who knows what else but he sure didn’t wear a shirt with sequins, did he?

Now, I’m pissed.  I don’t appreciate being treated like this, and I want to say so, but I’m afraid they won’t let me get on the plane.  I’ve seen the made-for-TV-movies.  You don’t act out in the airport.

The female guard and her bitch sidekick (who nods, but doesn’t talk) swing us by a station of some sort, where she puts on gloves and tells me she is ‘testing’ them, to show that they are all clear.  I have no idea what she’s even talking about.  Gerd is now off to the side chatting with another guard.  We walk by them and I do the “raise the roof” gesture, because what else are you going to do to break the anxiety and humiliation of the moment.  The guard asks if I just raised the roof and laughs and I think for a minute she’s ok.  Into the private room we go.  I’m informed that she will be checking my entire body and yes, that INCLUDES areas that are private and sensitive.  There are places on my body I don’t even want my husband to touch - are you kidding me right now????  Do I have any areas that may be painful if touched she wants to know?  There are opportunities for jokes here, of course, but I sure better not say them.  The questions are coming so fast, I hardly even know how I’ve answered, but I do remember her saying that when she touches my private areas, she’ll use the back of her hand.  Wow, really?  Thanks for that.

She proceeds with the frisking, and let me tell you, other than the female doctors & nurses who delivered my babies, I sure didn’t think I’d ever be this TOUCHED in these places by another woman (not that there’s anything wrong with that...).  I’m feeling completely discombobulated and she and bitch sidekick test the gloves again.  I ask what she’s looking for on the gloves and she says chemicals.  She then proceeds to explain that all this security has been ramped up because of the recent “Underwear Bomber” incident in Amsterdam.  I have no idea what she’s talking about, so she elaborates... She says there was a guy who got on a flight and had a bomb in his underwear.  He attempted to light it, it burned his crotch and pants, and he was then taken down and beaten by the other passengers.  I feign interest in this story (when really all I want to do is GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE) and she says - no lie!  Look it up!  OK, now we’re what?  Friends?

Here’s the deal.  I DID look up that story.  It’s from 2009.  And frankly, I fail to see how the story justifies the ridiculous, unnecessary humiliation I felt on this day at the airport.  I am a relatively well-adjusted adult woman, who has never been the victim of physical or sexual abuse and it took ME a while to get over this experience.  What might it be like for someone else?  An abuse victim?  A mentally challenged person?  Or, as my victim advocate friend pointed out, what about KIDS?  We teach them that they shouldn’t let anyone touch their private areas.  Oh, except for those STRANGERS at the airport, let THEM touch your privates!!  Bullshit, that’s what this is.  And if all these security measures are keeping us safe, how come people keep getting killed and crotch-burned with plastic explosives and terrorists are still hard at work terrorizing.  Sorry, but we’re getting a lot of things all wrong and we don’t seem to be getting much right, if you ask me.

After this, and the subsequent tirade I went into, that I never wanted to have to go into, and Gerd sure didn’t feel the need to have me go into, we made it to the gate.  Oh, you bet there wasn’t time for coffee after that security delay, doing nothing to improve the sour mood, that’s for damn sure.  We got into the line to board, and just as we were about to get onto the actual plane, a flight attendant came out and stated that it was time to start checking bags people, because they were about out of room in the overhead compartments.  I look behind us at an endless line of people with bags the same size as the very bags we just checked at the customer service desk. I ask the flight attendant if they will have to pay and she says no, it’s free.  Are you kidding me, I say????  We paid $50 to check our bags and all these people get to check for free, after the entire boarding process has been delayed while people attempt to cram their too-large bags into the plane????  Seriously??????  And she says yes, and “you didn’t hear this from me, but always check your bag at the gate”.  I wanted to like this woman, because she was kind of edgy and had a cool New York accent, but I hated her at that moment.  HATED HER!!!!!

Of course we were in the VERY last row of the plane (on this AND the connecting flight), where the seats don’t even recline and there is just a wee bit (shit ton) of engine noise. Thanks, Priceline.

They don’t want us to fly.

Of course Gerd’s LOOOONG leg (the other one was folded up into who knows where) was extended out into the aisle, where they had to ask him to remove it because it was in the way of the beverage cart. I guess he should have what, checked it?  Put it in the overhead compartment?

They don’t want us to fly.

Because if they did, on the return trip home, they would have let us try to carry on our bags (even though we knew they were probably too big for the little connecting flight aircraft we were boarding), so we could check them at the gate FOR FREE.  Nope.  Another $50.  

They don’t want us to fly.

Because if they did, they wouldn’t have changed our departure gate during the 4-hour layover in Atlanta.  By the time we noticed, ran through one giant gate, took the tram, and ran through another giant gate, it was too late.  We were told the plane was already gone (technically, it was still 20 minutes before take-off).  The guy goes on the intercom saying maybe we (along with the many other people who also missed the flight and are out of breath after recent panicked dashing through the terminal) can catch another one.  Oh sure, Delta, we’ve been down this road with you before and we KNOW you’re going to try and charge us.  So we went to customer service, where they chastised us for being at the airport for this many hours and still missing our flight.  Please, people.  We can only take so much shaming in one week!  So they finally give us new tickets, tell us to be to the gate at least 45 minutes early (at this point, the flight is scheduled to leave in LESS than 45 minutes, by the way).  And of course, the tickets they gave us require yet another gate change/dashing/tram ride/dashing.

They don’t want us to fly.

Remember when we were little?  Remember meeting the pilot and getting your “wings” pin?  Remember free meals?  Sure, they were bad, but they were free!  You never knew what you were going to get!  It was all part of the experience.  Sure, they sexually discriminated when hiring what were then called “stewardesses” and only hired them if they were skinny and pretty, but remember how much FUN it all was? 

What happened?

It’s like they don’t want us to fly anymore.  

But we will.  We will fly, because like childbirth, the hellish experiences we endure to travel to other parts of the country or world fade in our memories over time.  We swear we’ll never do it again, never put up with this kind of pain, but we will.  The excruciating memories will become fond, and we’ll tell our stories with a chuckle, as we plan our next vacation...