Air travel leaves my heart racing. I gasp for an anxiety free breath. I’m impatient with anyone around me. All that before I ever board the plane.
Last week’s trip tallied up as one of the worst.
Earlier this year, we missed a flight because we tried to check in three minutes after the airline’s 30 minute rule. I began insisting on arriving an hour or more ahead of time.
Fortunately, last week I misread the time for my flight out of Philadelphia International. I arrived about two hours before my flight.
I could not check a bag at the curb to receive a boarding pass. The sky cap tried and said I had to go through a ticketing agent. I went inside and joined a lengthy line waiting to see an agent, including about 20-30 soldiers arranging tickets after practice maneuvers.
The line was not moving. The airline needed more than the three agents it provided. Each worked bravely at trying to catch-up, phone glued to their ear, fingers tapping on the keyboard.
An hour later, another agent came down the stairs to help. The line inched forward.
The clock ticked closer to the 30 minute cut-off. Fear choked me. The blood pounded in my ears. I had a non-refundable ticket: Make the plane or lose the ticket and go back to the beginning and buy another, more expensive last-minute ticket.
With 10 minutes to the ultimate check-in, I broke line and walked up to the agent, “Am I going to make my 7 a.m. flight?”
He grabbed my e-ticket, clicked a few buttons and handed me a boarding pass. I had no baggage to check.
I did have to go through the security check.
On my way to Philadelphia someone complained about the Little Rock security delay. They have never seen the passengers shuffling down to the security bottle neck at a large airport.
A caller greeted us with his chant of the newest federal travel regulations, “All cosmetics must be in a quart-sized plastic bag.”
I didn’t have one.
Obviously, others also had not had them – gallon-sized, clear plastic bags littered the area.
A couple years ago, the Atlanta airport handed out small, clear plastic bags for holding change and small personal items. We were not Atlanta.
My travel-sized cosmetics and personal items secured in a mesh bag had passed through the Little Rock security. (They did take away a bottle of water I had forgotten I had in my briefcase.)
“You might be able to buy one over there,” the caller said noticing my dilemma. “But it will cost you a dollar.”
I weighed the cost of replacing cosmetics against the ridiculousness of paying a dollar for an item that costs less than a penny to produce. I paid the dollar and dumped the make-up into the over-priced freezer bag, tossed it into a bin along with my coat, loafers, a gold necklace and my briefcase. Everything passed inspection – including the stray sample bottle of hand lotion I later found in the bottom of the briefcase. I shoved my feet back into my shoes, tossed everything else into the briefcase, grabbed my coat and – with heart racing at the time crunch – hurried to my gate.
Pilots, stewardesses and about half the passengers stood expectantly at the gate but, no one was boarding. The agent had left help at the check-in counter.
More than half hour later, our plane pulled away from the gate, every seat filled with worried, harassed passengers questioning if even a mad dash through the Memphis airport would be enough to insure they made their connecting flights.
The pilot sped across the country and landed in Memphis 15 minutes behind schedule.
While the others scrambled, I sat back in my seat and breathed easy – the same plane would take me on the 30 minute flight to Little Rock.
I arrived ahead of time and departed cool, calm and collected – already planning my next flight.