December 30, 2004

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation, Part I

In which the author recounts his adventure from the night before departure until the boarding of his flight.

It all started uneventfully, as these things tend to do.

The night prior to my departure, I drove to my friend's townhouse for the night. As it was the holidays, I expected parking at the airport to be an automotive version of Munch's The Scream; thus my friend agreed to drop me off at the airport early in the morning, allowing me to beat the rush of my fellow holiday travelers.

After a night of beer, pizza, wine, and Boggle with my friend and his lovely wife, he and I awoke at 4am for our trek across town to the airport.

I checked in for my 11am flight at 5:30am. It sounds insane, I realize, but - after all - it was the Christmas travel season and every message from the airlines, the airports, and your mother says "Get there early!"

So, there I was, at the airport.

Early.

As I checked in for my flight, even the desk agent commented on my arrival time, agreed with me that it was a "very good thing," but then said that because of it my bag would have to go through an extra security screening. I found it curious, but knowing full well that my luggage contained nothing of an explosive or publicly shameful nature, I let it go.

She failed to mention that it also meant I would get to go through an extra security screening as well, something I found out shortly thereafter. Beaming inside because my plan of early arrival had brought me to a security line with no more than a five minute queue, I was soon dismayed as I was shunted off to a side line. The slow moving one. The pat-you-down, search-your-bag, smell-your-feet line.

This was one of the stupidest things I had ever encountered with airport security; and, having traveled a good bit, I've encountered more than one stupid thing in my lifetime.

You see, apparently a chief terrorist tactic is to get there early so that the TSA has every chance possible to find a bomb in their luggage. There's no possible way that a terrorist would show up as late as possible to pass through without having someone check his waistband for a plastic knife. No, no, it is I - the responsible traveler - who is punished.

Thanks, TSA!

Eventually I made it to my gate, with no outward sign of my previous adventure other than a wobbly walk and a general aversion to sitting on hard surfaces. I took a nap until boarding time and then was off to Old Blighty (well, Chicago first, actually - then a plane change - and then Old Blighty).

More to come