It’s not fun to travel by airplane anymore. Any excitement I have about my impending destination is obliterated by the pain of the travel experience itself.
I should have started years ago putting notches on my luggage. That way I could amuse myself with the illusion that I am working towards some imaginary milestone. Instead, I pack my collection of clothing and other essentials with a sense of abject futility. Not only have I done this thousands of times before, but the act itself reminds me of the greater chore that awaits me on the other end of the trip—when I must do it all again in reverse, a load of laundry thrown in. In the end, what have I accomplished? Everything is back where it started. It reminds me of one of my mother-in-laws neighbors who, every day, brings out a vast collection of gnomes to adorn his front lawn, only to return them all to the garage at dusk.
Then there is arrival at the airport itself. Nothing makes my heart sink like the sudden appearance of the alphabet of airport signage. As lanes merge and converge, I begin the transformation from free-thinking human to faceless object. I am forced through a series of chutes and ramps, like the marbles that once sent pings and dings resonating around the Logan Airport arrival lobby, the irony of the huge Rube Goldberg contraption soaring comfortably over the heads of most of the travelers. The journey from “Central Parking” (a euphemism for “one mile walk”) seems to blend with countless similar expeditions—creating a moment of clarity when I acknowledge that my life has been spent waiting to depart or arrive. Although I now pull luggage on wheels, I spent years carrying bags and heavy equipment while wearing high heeled shoes. I contemplate the very real pain in my knees as the bones rub together, no longer able to maintain the space in the joints. Would I have chosen a different career path had I known the toll it would take on my body? Ten years ago I was awarded Million Miler Status on Delta. How many foot-miles through airports correlate with that much air travel?
But all of these experiences dull by comparison to the ritual that is now the airport security screening process. On a recent trip, I had a bottle of hair product confiscated because my husband convinced me at the ticket counter to forego checking my luggage. This was a discontinued product that did wonders for taming my naturally frizzy hair; I bought up the last bottles on the Internet and was savoring every last drop. I hope everyone in America felt safer as the self-righteous TSA agent, shaking his head disapprovingly, seized the six ounce spray bottle with one inch of golden liquid remaining.
I understand the significance of Boston’s having been the origin of the American Airlines flights that terminated in New York on September 11th. This does not mitigate the humiliation of removing half of my clothes and then “assuming the position” for the hi-tech body cavity search. Let’s not pretend that Homeland Security has a renewed interest in my scars, or the wires in my bra, or the screws that hold my connective tissue to my bones. Violating our personal space always has been the modus operandi of airport security. When I was a pregnant business traveler, back in the 80s and 90s, I was subjected to all manner of indignities, implying that my baby bump was something more nefarious than an innocent burgeoning life form. I had so many “hand pats” and “wand exams” that I began asking the agents if they understood that they, too, had sprung from such a beast.
But as much as I mock the TSA, its agents, and the appropriateness of their efforts, I keep in mind that this is serious business. As a child, the most horrific airline tragedies I can remember were occasional hijackings. We would sit by the television, breathless, waiting for word of the passengers’ fate. Airline security has its origins in trying to bungle these plots, hoping to find concealed weapons before they could be deployed on board. When I was fifteen, I had a first-hand scrape with the business end of airport security. I headed to North Carolina to attend a summer music festival. It was the first time in years that I was flying, and the first time ever traveling alone. Arriving at Miami Airport’s security, I was asked to slide my violin case through the scanner. Ignorant of the protocol, I thought the process ridiculous. Certainly they could open it and see it was a violin! I looked up at the agent and said, “What do you think? That I’m carrying a machine gun or something?” My father—who was permitted to accompany me all the way to the gate—was instantly horrified. He was a seasoned business traveler and realized the gravity of my ignorant comment. Immediately, I was surrounded by federal agents; their walkie-talkies blaring randomly from their hips. I could not see my father and I imagine that he could not see me through the human holding cell they created with their broad shoulders. I remember turning in circles and looking up at the cold faces, realizing slowly that I was surrounded by muscle and guns.
“Do you want to fly the plane?” one of them asked. “Huh?” I responded. “Are you interested in taking over the plane?” he clarified. “No,” I insisted, “I just want to go to music camp.” “Have you ever been to Cuba?” another voice asked. “I don’t even speak Spanish,” I replied. “Do you have a weapon?” was the next question. “Ew, no!” I said, shaking my head in disgust. Eventually the wall of flesh gave way to the light of day and I was freed.
I could hear my father, somewhere, reeling with disbelief and embarrassment that I had triggered a predictable defensive response. He was attended by another agent, who was questioning him. I could hear words like “piano,” “summer camp,” “fifteen years old.” When I was released, he wasn’t relieved; he was angry at what I had done. I did not understand how anyone could be so alarmed by such an innocent comment. Then my father, and the now-laughing agents, pointed out the signs that clearly warned that jokes about weapons would be considered a crime. In retrospect, I was lucky to make my flight on time.
There is no real protection from people who meticulously plan an event that levers the known loop-holes, appearing where no one has thought to look. On the other hand, if a benign mom with hairspray, or a teenaged music student, is inconvenienced by the systematic screening of travelers to the point of going mad, perhaps we have created a dependable way to keep trouble away. I just hope I can enjoy a few peaceful days out of town every now and then.
Tomorrow's blog: The Woman Who Was Born of Fire
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