Returning from the abyss of my thoughts, I realize that I’m casually watching birds hop around on the carpet right next to me in the end of gate “B” in the Denver International Airport. Replaying in my head the events of the morning, I am suddenly engulfed in the contemplation of whether or not my bag had been checked at the first airport. After determining that it in fact was (as I do currently hold the slip verifying it) I am able to suppress the anxiety to a level that will allow me to get back to writing.
I don’t know that causes me to run consistently late for every flight I take. Perhaps my first several being delayed instilled an “oh, I’ll make it” attitude, but it has resulted in my not being able to recall the last time I didn’t arrive just in time to walk straight onto the plane (in my most recent mishap I was so tardy that there was not even a check-in attendant to take my ticket). This time, however, I was an hour and a half early and mildly concerned even that would be insufficient, assuming there would be extra or at least separate security for international flights.
The security line was pretty long when I walked in the door, but not enough to cause alarm. San Antonio’s airport isn’t too large, so I figured only a few lines were open. I made my way to the front of the baggage check line and began the check in process. When a screen came up requesting a passport scan, I foolishly, despite a glass, much more scanner-esque in appearance device above the screen, tried to scan it in the ticket dispenser. Upon typing in my information instead, a screen asking that I present my return travel plans came next. “No problem”, I thought and produced my bus ticket purchased solely for the purpose of obtaining a tourist visa and entry into Costa Rica. But an attendant was not available and in less than a minute, the screen returned to the start menu. Realizing precious security line time was being wasted, I quickly began again, this time conquering the passport scanner mind games. When I successfully presented the papers to the employee behind the scale, she informed me that I would have to check in with the connecting flight line as they would be the ones taking me out of the country. Determined not to let this fluster me, I hurried down to the next terminal and discovered a longer line. Suppressing the thought of missing my first leg of a series of three flights, which unbelievably would take me from San Antonio, to Denver, to Houston to San Jose, Costa Rica (still a bit frustrated that the airline would not allow me to simply drive to Houston and skip the first two flights of this now thirteen hour day), I stood patiently and eventually arrived at the check-in desk.
I quickly achieved the “assistance needed” screen as I am now the check in master, and again had to start from scratch before I could acquire an audience. When I eventually did, I was, of course, instructed to check in with the previously failed airline. Now I begin to worry. I quickly explain my situation and am escorted back across and to the front of the line. After one more round of beat the clock rendering me that weird, twitchy, nervous guy mumbling to himself at the counter, I was manually checked in and instructed to proceed to the security line, not customs, which was now an obscure curly “L” shape and less than an hour was left to get through and to my gate.
My bags made it through and the metal detector didn’t even beep when I walked though, success! “Please step over here, sir,” the man says as I try to retrieve my bags, shoes, belt etc. “You’ve been randomly selected for screening.” Now set aside the ticking clock for a moment. I’ve been x-rayed, patted down and subject to other forms of screening, but this was an odd one. I was instructed to stand in a roped off box hold my hands in a very particularly suppinated fashion and a sort of swab was wiped on them, taken to a machine and pressed down on a sensor. I can only assume that this is some nonsensical method in which they hope the selected screen-ee will crack and scream out, “I have drugs!” or “I’m smuggling candied pecans to Central America.” Further proving my theory, when I inquired as to what this test would check for, I was told, “Lots of stuff.” Now I could have responded with any number of smart-ass remarks exclaiming how “faincy” that sounded, but it had been quick and painless, not to mention there was a flight to catch (and now the lucrative opportunities of candied pecan smuggling trade were foremost in my mind).
I am proud to report that after all this build up and stress, the plane left about thirty minutes late and wasn’t even boarding yet when I arrived. “Welcome to international travel”, I thought. If things can be this mixed up at my local airport, where business is conducted in my native tongue, I can’t wait to experience the fabulous screw-ups and headaches that await me!
