Well, mes amis, we got back from a glorious week in Mexico – by the skin of our teeth – though one that has had some unintended consequences. We were scheduled to return late Friday, February 22. But there was an ice storm hitting the U.S. that day, so as we got to the airport we weren’t sure what was going to happen. (The thought of our waiting First-Class seats, however, soothed us, though the sight of so many people dressed like complete and utter slobs didn’t. My god, people, my dear god; unspeakable.)
By the time it was over, our journey had turned into Laurel & Hardy Meet Eugene Ionesco (or perhaps Samuel Beckett is more like it, as you’ll see).
Our flight from Mexico to Atlanta took off about an hour and 15 minutes late, but all systems were go. I was having a hard time hearing because my ears were so stuffed up with what I thought was a cold. Our 2-year-old French niece had had the sniffles, and I figured I just picked it up from her. Tim kept saying things to me and I kept saying, “Excuse me? What? What was that?” But I had three mimosas anyway.
Because of the late take-off and the one-hour time difference, we arrived in Atlanta certain that there was no way we were going to make our connection, especially when we had to navigate the hell-hole of so-called security. You know the drill – land in the U.S. from another country, reclaim baggage, go through Customs, then re-check it with a crew of overworked, underpaid, frustrated baggage guys, before heading to the Line of Folly snaking, a thousand strong, through the total bullshit of totally fake totally meaningless Security.
Sidebar: in the journey towards Customs, as I was merely stepping onto a moving sidewalk, the heel of my left shoe pulled completely off. Gone. And that’s on my good foot, the non-sesamoid-fractured foot. As I watched it recede in the distance, Tim grabbed it (he was behind me) and I stuck it in my purse. So here I am, good foot flattened, trying to keep up with the bum right foot and not break an ankle in the process. Anyway.
With one officious bozo after another yelling at us the whole time – “Keep moving as you hear me making this announcement!” – oh, really? Gee, and here I was going to stand still, riveted to my spot, by the eloquence and poetry of your utterances! – and other assorted absurdities – “Take off your shoes! Men, take off your belts!” – “You cannot carry more than 3 ounces of any liquid on board!” – a few of the less lemming-like among us were muttering to one another and making snide remarks. The totally innocuous All-American-looking family man in front of me was being just as snarky as I was. “What do they expect us to do?” he wondered. “Stop while they talk?” “Just wait,” I said, “the day will come when some idiot tries to light a lock of his hair on fire, and then we’ll all have to get our heads shaved before we board. There’ll be barbers here every few feet, shearing us, and everyone will go along with it, ‘because it’s necessary to protect us from The Terrorists!’”
Oh, and lest I forget, here’s a great one: yet another officious TSA minion was yelling at us that, “this goes on every night! Same line, people! Same line for all, whether this is your final destination or you are catching a connecting flight!”
Excuse me??!
Let me get this straight: many thousands of us are within inches of not making our connections, and you’re routing us all, final destination travelers as well as connecting travelers, through the same goddamn line?? And this makes sense to you? This makes fucking sense??
Oh, no, they’re not incompetent. No, no, silly me.
As we’re undressing, Tim and I form a plan. Since he runs faster and I now have two pedal impediments, as soon as we find the gate on the monitors he will sprint to it, assuming our connecting flight hasn’t left yet. We’re in luck: it’s listed as “At Gate.” But the flight is, of course, on the opposite side of the Atlanta airport. Have you ever been to that airport? It’s HUGE. So we take the little train all the way to the other end, and Tim jumps out and goes.
I limp behind. But I can’t help noticing that he seems to be going the wrong way. He’s headed towards “Terminal” and “Baggage Claim,” which I’m sure can’t be right. I’m looking at a super-escalator going up to Concourse T, which is where we have to go. I hesitate, ready to jump on it, thinking he’ll eventually figure it out and I’ll just see him at the gate. But then I think I’d better not; if he looks back and doesn’t see me, he’ll have no idea what happened. I’d better stick with him.
Ah, yes. The icing on the cake.
We can’t believe our eyes.
No Exit.
Security.
That’s right, another security checkpoint. For those who are newly arrived at the airport, not for those with connecting flights, those who’ve already gone through Security down below. If I could scream, I would. We are now sure we have no chance in hell of making our flight. But hope springs eternal, so as we’re undressing again, Tim and I recapitulate The Plan.
I go through first, without dinging the bell, thank god. Then I hear a TSA voice behind me, hear a bell, and look back to see Tim having to RE-enter the thingy, plus remove his computer and have it searched. They’re questioning him. I am dying.
I go over to the Après-Humiliation Lounge (the plastic chairs TSA provides for you to redress – no pun intended) to put on my shoes. Everything sounds to me like it’s coming through cotton. And I’m a bit non compos mentis.
In a flash my shoes are back on and I look up. No sign of Tim. Anywhere. Oh my god, I think, they’ve taken him into some extra-search area, some curtained-off place, this is going to take forever! Where is he?? I start scanning the crowd frantically. Finally, I just start calling out. “Tim! Tim!” I figure they’ll arrest me if I get too loud. After about 90 seconds of this, I give up and make a run for it.
The monitors say our flight is “Boarding.” It’s at T-2. With my uneven footwear (missing heel, remember?) and still-fractured sesamoid bone in the intact shoe, I sprint down the hallways. Reading signs as you’re running is no easy task. Soon, I realize I’ve missed one of the T turn-offs and am going down the wrong corridor.
There are no words.
I turn and run back, find another T sign, and take off again. I mean I am RUNNING. Leopard-print dress (yes, it’s fab), coat slung over arm, purse flying, my blocked ears and parched throat are starting to catch up with me. Of course, T-2 is at the END of the goddamn concourse!!
Nowhere, before me or behind me, do I see Tim.
In a moment of surrender, I slacken and catch my breath, cussing the whole time. I’m sure we’re screwed. Then I make one last run for it down the hall, as the T-numbers flash by. At the far end of the corridor, I see a small woman all alone, waving a paper. Could she be waving at me?
Yes!
She is standing at T-2! As I grab my boarding pass from my bra, where I had stashed it to keep from losing it in my mad dash, I thrust it towards her, gasping, “I’m not leaving unless my husband--” and then I see him. He’s standing at the otherwise vacant gate. I’m afraid I lost it.
“I’m going to f-ing kill you!”
The attendant, as she waves me through, not even making me show my boarding pass, cries, “Don’t kill him, baby, he waited for you!”
Tim, understandably, is not too chuffed at my reaction, seeing as how we had A Plan and he just followed it.
As I fall into my seat, sweating, panting, with the other passengers no doubt shooting me dirty looks (have I delayed them? Is it all my fault??), I question Tim. My ears, it turns out, have betrayed me.
Apparently, in the seconds when I was bent over putting my shoes back on after Security, when I thought Tim was being detained by the Lords Who Watch Over And Protect Us All, he sprinted by, yelling to me, “I’m going to the gate!”
But I didn’t hear a thing. Not a word. Not a whisper. Not an exhalation of agitated air. Nothing.
Anyway, we made it. I slept the rest of the way, they misdirected our luggage but no big deal because they just personally deliver it to you the next day, and I have a raging sinus infection that has damaged my inner ear, which is bleeding. I found this out yesterday, after days of not getting any better and wondering what was going on. Though we deliberately rescheduled our trip to get back in time for the Spaghetti Disco, I was too sick to go. That has been the worst of it.
No worries, my eardrum will eventually heal, my hearing will get back to normal, and we will live (we hope) to fly another day. But I draw the line at getting my head shaved.
