Dear
George,
I
flew down to New Orleans over spring break to visit J, K, and our
grandkids. It wasn’t the best time
to fly. I’d just seen Harrison
Ford’s new movie “Non-Stop” about passengers on a transatlantic flight getting
murdered every 20 minutes. And, of
course, the news was completely
dominated by the disappearance of Malaysian Flight 370 over the Indian
Ocean. It all makes you a little
edgy. Katja was staying home to
take care of our two Old English sheepdogs, and she dropped me off at the
airport.
As
I entered the security area, I noticed a sign that said that passengers over 75
don’t have to take off their shoes or jackets. I was pleasantly surprised. You get all kinds of good stuff when you turn 65. But up to now I’d never seen a single
benefit that comes from being over 75. While I was happy about it, I wondered if they thought
I was too feeble to take my shoes off.
Or am I now in the only age group where they can’t imagine one being a
potential terrorist threat? In any
case, I decided to take advantage of my new privileges. As I approached the first security
checkpoint, a uniformed guy politely but firmly instructed me to take off my
shoes. “I’m over 75,” I said. He squinted his eyes and muttered, “You
don’t look over 75.” I started to
get out my wallet to show him proof, but he waved me on. Then he called out loudly to his colleagues
down the row, “This guy’s over 75!
Coming through. This guy
here. Over 75!” All the other passengers in the area
turned to see what the commotion was about.
I
picked up two plastic bins, put my L.L. Bean knapsack in one, my wallet and pocket
contents in another. A tall woman
just ahead of me took my knapsack out of my first bin, saying, “That’s my
bin.” It wasn’t hers, but I didn’t
feel like quarrelling so I got another bin. I got through the body scan X-ray machine successfully after
some instructions. Then another
security guard came up and said, “You have your jacket on, so I’m going to have
to give you a full patdown.” I
didn’t see the point since I’d already passed my body scan X-ray test, but I
raised my arms obediently. He patted
my shoulders, underarms, rib cages, upper and lower back. Then he said, “Your jacket is zipped
up, so I’m going to have to pat down your stomach.” By that time I concluded that the TSA agents got irritated
when people were allowed to keep their jackets on and responded by deliberately
hassling them.
My
nonstop flight to New Orleans went by quickly. I’d arranged to meet my son J at curbside under the Delta
baggage claim sign. The Delta sign
was mounted on a large concrete pillar, and I was surprised to see a carry-on
bag leaning against the pillar though nobody was in the vicinity. J was running late. Fifteen minutes went by, and still
nobody had come anywhere near the abandoned carry-on bag. I started thinking about the warning
announcements they make about unattended suitcases in airports. The bag was looking more and more
ominous. There didn’t seem to be
enough traffic in the immediate area to attract a mass bomber. On the other hand, if the pillar came
down, it could bring down the whole upper level roadway. I thought about moving to a new
location, but I didn’t want to leave the spot where J planned to pick me
up. Instead I moved to the
opposite side of the pillar, hoping that it was strong enough to bear the brunt
of an explosion. It never
did explode, and, for all I know, the bag might be still there.
My
visit to New Orleans was thoroughly enjoyable: all the major tourist sights,
lots of good music and good food, and many family excursions. Six days later J dropped me off at the
airport. New Orleans had the
same sign in the security area:
“People over 75 don’t need to remove their shoes and jacket.” Now I knew what that meant. It means: “If you are over 75 and
physically infirm, you can leave your shoes and jacket on. If you are over 75 and not physically
infirm, take your shoes and jacket off now.” I promptly took off my shoes and jacket. That worked excellently – no questions,
no patdowns, only the same routine
harassment that forty- or fifty-year-olds are subjected to.
My
plane was set to take off on schedule.
I was tired and soon nodded off in my seat. Some time later I was jolted awake when I felt the plane
make a sudden sharp righthand turn.
I immediately thought of the Malaysian airliner changing course over the
Indian Ocean. Startled, I opened
my eyes and looked around for hijackers. Seeing none, I glanced out the window. Surprise -- we were still on the
ground! The pilot had just made a
righthand turn onto the runway to prepare for his takeoff. Aside from a hair in my Diet
Coke, the rest of my trip was uneventful,. Katja and the sheepdogs met me outside baggage claim
at the airport. There were no
suspicious carry-on bags at curbside in Cincinnati. Katja, the dogs, and I had an exciting reunion. Lots of barking. I was glad to be home again.
Love,
Dave
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