Hubby and I are going to visit our kids in Boston. The airport is bumper to bumper people and I have to say the obvious out loud. “Boy is it crowded. It’s Thanksgiving crowded. Bono at his own concert couldn’t take this kind of crowded.”
“It’s spring break and Easter rolled into one week,” hubby says.
“And Passover. But no one’s ever heard of Passover. It’s like Bora Bora in the 1950s. It’s some foreign, exotic, far away holiday. Forget Yom Kippur-- unless your kid goes to a school with more than 50 Jewish students. I’m thrilled when I go to the bank and see an electric menorah tucked away in a corner during Christmas.”
There are a plethora of signs. Our eyes dart in every direction, trying to locate the correct line. I’m MVP on Alaska Airlines and am hoping for some special treatment, but there’s no sign for my category. We pass the marker for First Class passengers with a line surprisingly long for the pricier tickets. One man with thinning silver hair glowers with impatience. If he was four years old, he would be having a tantrum. I’m always curious about the First-Class passengers. I rubberneck in their direction and my reaction is usually, “Oooo, I love her Chanel boots,” or, “Dang, you better not check that Louis luggage; you’ll never see those initials again.” (LV for the less label-conscious of my readers.)
We continue to the Baggage Drop Only line.
“Maybe we should stand on the Ticketing AND Bag Drop line. There are fewer people.”
“Aren’t you MVP?” hubby says.
“Yeah.”
“First class line also accepts MVPers.”
“Really?” I say joyfully. “Maybe I can rub elbows with that Gucci purse.”
We head back, swerving between people and luggage of all sizes. But there’s an Alaska employee directing those who are “dropping bags only” to a different line.
“But I’m MVP. I know it’s not MVP Gold but—”
“Back to the other line, please,” says Alaska employee.
Hubby follows me back to the Bag Drop Only line, which is now, in just the two minutes of doubling back, double the length.
It proceeds quickly. Alaska employee had good advice after all.
We’re searching for our third line. First was printing out baggage tags at the kiosk, then dumping our luggage and now TSA. We can’t find the sign for our big splurge— Precheck. Silver- haired-glower man from First Class is on some sort of line, so I ask him, “Is this Precheck?”
“Clear,” he says sternly. If he could, he might have said in a drill Sergeant voice, “Clear is for those who can pay through the nose (and eyes) to stand on a line that’s two feet shorter than Precheck. So there.” And maybe I would throw one arm against my forehead and in a 1940’s melodramatic defense declare, “I may not be first class, but I’m middle class, ya hear me? I know I’m not the best customer but I—I play by the rules.” (“Full Metal Jacket” meets any Joan Crawford movie.)
After walking through a maze of peopled rows, we find Precheck. It’s in the Delta terminal which is less crowded probably because they’ve cancelled yet another flight. (Just last week my daughter was going on a weekend trip and both her outbound and return Delta flights were cancelled.)
The Precheck route winds around threaded separation belts like those at Disneyland. I’m feeling lightheaded, overwhelmed by the number of people at the airport. I’m reminded of the E ticket at Disneyland. Amusement parks, concerts-- I was never big on congested parties either. Give me an intimate gathering where I can have a genuine conversation, preferably near a clean bathroom and I’m happy.
The line moves at a “crush” hour pace. Hubby mimics a cow. (Not moo, but the actual sound a cow makes, “Mmmmm.”)
“I get the cow reference,” I say. He’s been mimicking the cow for 31 years. We’ve stood on hundreds of lines over the decades.
“Too much heifer?”
“It was cute the first time. Not the two hundredth. You know the comedy rule, sweetie, three times is the charm.”
“I haven’t had coffee yet,” he says. “And you’re the comedian.”
“Yeah, but somewhere between our second and fourth move across country you became funnier than me.”
“I had a good teacher,” he says and squeezes my shoulder.
“Once we’re on the other side, we’ll get you your fully-leaded java.”
Stay tuned for Flying Part 2
The other side of TSA
Do you have a wacky airport experience?
Have you seen “Full Metal Jacket?”
How about any Joan Crawford movie?
Everything in here is dead on. And drop dead funny. Except Passover...we know Passover in the suburbs of Boston. My public elementary school was 70% Jewish. It has been a shock to move to Colorado and have people look at me like an oddity.
Every time I read a travel story, I'm reminded why I have no desire to get on a plane in the post-pandemic (though we're still in a pandemic) era. I applaud those brave enough to do it. Just a big ol' NOPE for me. I hope you had a lovely time, though. xo