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Maryville, MO —
Author’s note: This is the second of four parts.
Walking through the front doors at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport in Austin, Texas, I smiled quietly at all those people at check-in, handing over enough luggage they may have been moving. I didn’t have to wait because I pack like a man who has nothing, which is frighteningly close to being true.
I strolled toward the counter, one carry-on bag hanging off my shoulder. Hmm, the Texas Longhorn lacrosse team got here before me. No problem, I still had a half-hour.
Before I flew into Houston two days before for my daughter’s college graduation at nearby Texas A&M, I hadn’t been on an airplane since 1998. Getting on an airplane in 1998 was a lot like getting on a bus. You could walk into the airport five minutes before takeoff and still have enough time to use the bathroom. Now getting onto a plane was like getting into the Pentagon.
Still, I’d naively thought a half hour was enough. It wasn’t. The line for TSA screening snaked through the airport like we were waiting for a ride at Disney World. The lacrosse team in front of me laughed and had a good time because their flight left an hour after mine.
If my experience is closer to the norm, horror stories of TSA agents in latex gloves fondling you like a prom date are the exception – I hoped.
As I went through TSA screening in my sock feet, my shoes with the rest of my personal items in a dish tub passing through an X-ray machine, I didn’t think of how non-invasive the whole process was (it’s true – not groped once), all I could do is watch the large clock inconveniently placed right in front of me. And it was ticking.
“My plane leaves in three minutes,” I told the TSA lady screening bags.
“Which one?”
“I’m going to Kansas City. It’s boarding now.”
“Oh, you’ll make it,” she said, smiling. See, these people weren’t so bad.
“Great.” I grabbed my bag, but it didn’t budge. She still held the strap.
“Except I have to run your bag through again.”
Again? Clock’s running, lady. “Why?” I asked.
She held up a tube that made it through the screeners in Kansas City just fine.
Author’s note: This is the second of four parts.
Walking through the front doors at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport in Austin, Texas, I smiled quietly at all those people at check-in, handing over enough luggage they may have been moving. I didn’t have to wait because I pack like a man who has nothing, which is frighteningly close to being true.
I strolled toward the counter, one carry-on bag hanging off my shoulder. Hmm, the Texas Longhorn lacrosse team got here before me. No problem, I still had a half-hour.
Before I flew into Houston two days before for my daughter’s college graduation at nearby Texas A&M, I hadn’t been on an airplane since 1998. Getting on an airplane in 1998 was a lot like getting on a bus. You could walk into the airport five minutes before takeoff and still have enough time to use the bathroom. Now getting onto a plane was like getting into the Pentagon.
Still, I’d naively thought a half hour was enough. It wasn’t. The line for TSA screening snaked through the airport like we were waiting for a ride at Disney World. The lacrosse team in front of me laughed and had a good time because their flight left an hour after mine.
If my experience is closer to the norm, horror stories of TSA agents in latex gloves fondling you like a prom date are the exception – I hoped.
As I went through TSA screening in my sock feet, my shoes with the rest of my personal items in a dish tub passing through an X-ray machine, I didn’t think of how non-invasive the whole process was (it’s true – not groped once), all I could do is watch the large clock inconveniently placed right in front of me. And it was ticking.
“My plane leaves in three minutes,” I told the TSA lady screening bags.
“Which one?”
“I’m going to Kansas City. It’s boarding now.”
“Oh, you’ll make it,” she said, smiling. See, these people weren’t so bad.
“Great.” I grabbed my bag, but it didn’t budge. She still held the strap.
“Except I have to run your bag through again.”
Again? Clock’s running, lady. “Why?” I asked.
She held up a tube that made it through the screeners in Kansas City just fine.
“You’re running my bag through the X-ray machine again for Preparation H?”
She smiled again and nodded. “It’s the rules.” Then she put my bag on the conveyer belt that, of course, stopped halfway through for no other reason than it could. I no longer thought she was nice.
Running through an airport is a cliché 1970s movie thing, but I did it all the same. I had to. Of course, in the 1970s, the man running through the airport always wore a suit and carried a briefcase. I ran with my open bag strapped across my shoulder bouncing who knows what contents onto the carpeted floor, and I carried my shoes. They were in my left hand because my right hand held up my pants. TSA also makes you remove your belt.
Next week: Denver.
