PTS

I'm currently suffering from Post Transportation Shock syndrome.  Its symptoms often disguise themselves as other less nefarious maladies: Fatigue, muscle stiffness, slight nausea, and the uncomfortable confusion of feeling like you just suffered through an amazing trauma but have no clear memory of being in pain.  This must be what it feels like to be abducted by aliens.  The only difference, of course, is that most of you know exactly what I'm talking about whereas if I told me that I was sucked into a space ship and had my orifices probed, you would think it was time to up my dosage.

Can I ask you: What has happened to plane travel?  Seriously, I can't figure it out.  The first time I was ever on a plane, I was fifteen and traveling to Germany on Lufthansa.  It was an eight-hour, non-stop flight where they served not only peanuts and warmed face clothes, but a full dinner.  I remember because it was the first time I had flan and I liked it.  (Speaking of flan, they have a very good one at Casa Vega in Sherman Oaks.)  I was seated in the middle section, aisle, and I fell asleep because the seats were actually comfortably spacious enough to do so.  In the last two years, I have taken over a dozen flights.  I have two more trips planned before the end of the year, both necessitating plane trips.  I'm telling you, it doesn't matter what day you fly, what carrier you choose, whether you take a direct flight or a non-stop, or which airport you're coming in to or out of, you are going to have problems.  I'm not talking delays due to weather.  I'm talking about government placed restrictions, compounded by human error, in addition to overcrowded runaways, and bad weather.  The demand is so high and the supply so damaged, that it's just falling apart at the seams.  I pity businessmen.  I truly do.

My family was staging a mini-family reunion in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  At first, I refused to go.  One of the major reasons was the flight.  I told my mother that, at minimum, it was going to be a seven hour trip as there are no direct flights from California into Myrtle Beach.  I was going to have to take a shuttle which meant a connector which meant huge margin for error.  I literally couldn't stomach the thought.  Every time I got onto Travelocity to quote prices, I felt sick.  But then I really got to thinking about how I hadn't visited the Goodrich Grandparents since I was fifteen, and -- wow -- was that twenty years ago?  Was I going to let my disgust with the airline industry stop me from experiencing an important family moment?  That seemed like a huge mistake so I forced myself to stop thinking about the traveling and to start thinking about spending a few days with my family at the beach.  So, I made the arrangements.

This time, I flew US Airways.  I'm strongly considering writing a letter of discontent to the President of the company.  You probably think I'm kidding, but I'm not.  The major problem with plane travel is Passing the Buck.  In this case, Passing the Passenger until the nice woman who boarded the plane at LAX is a shrill harpy in Charlotte, North Carolina.  I thought I would get an early start.  The itinerary was a 6:30AM flight from LAX to a Philadelphia connection to Myrtle Beach.  I was supposed arrive at 6PM EST (3PM PST).  Since I like to use Prime Time Shuttle ($64 round trip) versus driving the 405 and parking ($80+ minimum), I had to get up at 2:45AM for a 3:20AM pick up.  We got to LAX around 4AM.  However, US Airways does not open its Check-in until, well, I guess 4:30AM or somewhere around there because they came out around 4:20 and started to turn on computers and load paper into the printers.  They opened the lines and I got through smoothly and was in the security line at 4:40AM.  Except, TSA doesn't start their passenger checks until, well, I guess, 5AM, because they were all kinda hanging out, looking at the line forming and doing nothing.  PAUSE.

Let me just insert here that I was a cop.  I know this feeling.  You're employed by the government; you are represented by a union.  No matter how good you do your job, how far above the bar you go, it doesn't matter.  Tenure matters.  Passing tests matter.  Keeping your nose clean matters.  Come in.  Do your eight.  Get out.  This is why it always cracks me up when people say that cops put on their lights and sirens to blow through red lights so they don't have to wait.  People, if your job is to drive around town for eight hours waiting for someone, anyone to screw up, you don't get impatient.  Someone is bound to screw up.  Usually around red lights and stop signs.  OK?  Good.  Anyway, I understand why the TSA agents were just looking at us lining-up.  If their eight-hour shift starts at 5AM and flights don't take off before 6AM then there is no reason to start before that.  Afterall, they are not there to help you, are they?  That's not part of their job description, is it?  PLAY.

I get through the Passport/Driver's license part and get into line to go through the metal detector.  I get behind a young girl who has obviously never flown before.  I try to help her, but its almost no use.  She's got to go through three different times, and because I was trying to help her, I accidentally put my boarding pass into the bin and sent it through to the other side. And because its so earlier in the morning, they can be sticklers.  I must have stood there for fifteen minutes while they were trying to sort the young girl out before they started to help me with my boarding pass.  (I hate the TSA.  More to come on this topic.)  On the other side, everything is hunky-dory.  They board us on time; it looks like everything is going to go smoothly...and then.  One of our electrical boxes on the plane wasn't working.  Now the pilot said that that meant that the TVs wouldn't work.  Which, fine, right?  It's a 6:30AM flight.  Most of us are going to sleep anyway.  So, can't we just go?  I can live without watching What Happens in Vegas (our in-flight movie that no one paid to see in the theaters so why not make us pay for it within the price of our plane ticket) and the Coke commercial that basically tells us that if we want to drink on the flight, we must pay $2 for a can (no, really.  No more free beverages.  $2 cans of Coke.  So they get to pay to advertise to us -- a captured audience -- and then charge us to drink their product because there are no other choices on-board.  Am I the only person who is beginning to think that there is something gross going on in boardrooms across America?).  However, if the pilot was lying, and say that electrical box also supplied the landing gear with juice, well, then, by all means, take your time!  An hour and twenty minutes later, they deplaned us.  Now, here's where it gets interesting.  When we got off the plane, they were going to get us on other flights.  They told us to "go away for an hour; maybe get some breakfast, and when you return, we will have your new flight assignments including any and all connections."  Of course, no one wanted to do that so they crowded the desk.  I, however, walked away and browsed all the shops.  When I got back about thirty minutes later, I hear that they aren't going to rebook.  The same woman said, "We aren't going to take the luggage off the plane, so you'll just have to re-board."  In other words, "if you want your luggage to arrive at the same time you do, you'll get on this plane and like it."  So they were holding our possessions hostage.  But, what about us with connections?  "Just get on the plane so we can get going.  We only have a small window or we'll have to wait another hour.  They've been informed in Philly about the issue so they'll have your connectors when you disembark on the other side."  So, we were supposed to trust them.  I opted for trust as all the other mistrustful souls were still stacked up at the counter and there was no way for me to make it through that line and still get off in Philly.  Once we were finally back on board and pulling away from the gate, we were put in line for take off.  We were number twenty.  I think we were in the sky around 10:00.

Landed in Philadelphia, and sure enough, there were my boarding passes for my next two flights.  Wait a minute.  Two flights?  That's right.  I was going from Philly to Charlotte, NC, and from Charlotte to Myrtle Beach.  Unfortunately, I didn't know what time I would be landing in SC any more, so I had to text my sister and tell her that I'd call her once I landed in NC then called my mother to tell her that I was not going to be making it to the family dinner that was planned.  Day One: SHOT TO HELL.  My two flights went semi-smoothly, though there was a little delay in Charlotte.  I landed at 11:25PM.  

I spent two days in South Carolina and then it was back to the airport.  This time, the gate clerk -- whatever her official title is -- says, "You are allowed two pieces to carry-on.  If you have anything larger than a small backpack, please come up to the desk and get a gate-check tag."  I went to the desk and showed her my Vera Bradley duffel and she said that it was fine. That I didn't need one for that.  OK.  The flight was delayed coming in, so we were late to board, and as I entered the plane, the flight attendant looked at my duffel bag -- which hadn't grown in the last thirty minutes -- and said, "Umm, I don't know.  Uh.  No....  No.  You'll have to leave it right out there."  And I said,"But the lady up front said it would be OK."  Again the woman grimaced in indecision and then said, "No, I'm sorry.  Don't worry, it'll be right outside when we get to the other side." Like she was pacifying some intellectual incompetent who never gate-checked before.  But I had, so I said, "Even though I don't have a yellow tag?"  And she said, "Yes, it'll be right there waiting for you when you come off."  I'm pissed, but what I'm going to do, right?  You raise a stink, and they'll chuck you off the plane.  I put the bag out in the jetway, re-board, and fly to Charlotte.  I get to Charlotte, and the gate checked baggage isn't in the jetway where it always is when you disembark a plane.  I stood there a few minutes, but nothing.  So, I go out to the guy standing at the podium right outside the jetway and ask him about gate-checked baggage.  Right away he sighs heavily and in his North Carolina accent tells me that, "They'll be back at the other end, but I can't let you go back there now because you stepped out of the jetway."  Like I'm an idiot who should know the TSA rules about jetways.  And!  People: I was literally One. Step. out of the jetway.  I was still behind him. If the jetway door was to close, I would have been hit by it.  "Just step out to the side and I'll go get it after everyone else has come out."  So, you see, now I had to be punished for being so stupid.  Everyone gets off the jetway.  He asks what my bag looks like, and I tell him that its a blue duffel bag.  However, it doesn't have a yellow tag.  Now, I've done it.  He's shaking his head at me like I'm one of those ignorant people who goes around mucking up the system due to basic human incompetence.  If you would just do as you're told...  "I can't give it to you if it doesn't have a yellow tag on it.  TSA rules say that it must have a yellow tag on it." "I asked the woman at the other end -- "  But he doesn't want to hear about that woman.  I'm the stupid bitch who walked off the jetway.  So he cuts me off, "I'll see.  Maybe its there."  He lumbers down there and, sure enough, its not there.  Or maybe it is there.  I don't know.  All I know is that he comes back and asks me what my final destination is.  These are the moments when I hate to have to say Los Angeles, because now not only am I the stupid bitch who walked off the jetway and didn't know enough to put a yellow tag on my bag, but I'm a stupid Hollywood bitch from my one of those elitist liberal cities.  Great.  He asks me my name.  At this point, he's not even telling me what's going on with my bag.  Finally, he hands me a receipt and tells me, "You didn't have a tag on it.  You'll have to pick it up on the other side."  So, I kinda lose it.  "Excuse me, I'm not sure what just happened here.  The woman said the bag would be fine back in -- "  And again, the guy cuts me off like I'm a moron who doesn't understand basic TSA laws. "Ma'am, if you would just be quiet, I'm trying to tell you, that because you're bag didn't have a yellow tag on it, we cannot give it to.  It's a $10,000 TSA fine -- "  So, now I'm patronizing him.  "Yep," I keep saying.  "Great."  He's telling me that he "appreciates" what I was told, but rules and rules, etc. And I keep my eyes nailed to the floor and repeating, "Yep...OK." Until he gets to the end of his spiel which wasn't very instructive in terms of WHERE MY BAG WAS, so I can say to him, "So, are you telling me that you just checked my bag, and when I get to L.A. its going to come out in baggage claim, and you didn't lose it in South Carolina?"  "Yes, ma'am."  "Great.  Thanks."  And I walked away.  I swear to God, I would have demanded my bag if I didn't think he would have called security and had me carted away where they would stripped searched me, gone through my luggage and found my contraband 4oz bottle of saline, and had my name permanently etched on the No Fly list.  And then, of course, the trials didn't end in Charlotte.  There was a huge lightening storm, so we waited out on the tarmac for an hour before we able to take off.  I'd tell you about the three ride share van experience, but let's just keep this to flying, shall we?

What have I learned from this experience?  Other than TSA laws?  Nothing.  Because there is nothing I can do about it.  Everything, all of it, was out of my hands.  I would say that I'm never flying US Airways again, but that would be a lie.  First of all, because I've already booked my Christmas flight and US Airways had the best flight times with the best prices to fly into Connecticut.  Second, all the airlines suck these days.  My sister took JetBlue out of Charlotte, and they were further behind in line on the tarmac than we were.  It's bad.  It's all bad.  And I anxiously await my next trip in October.  But not in a good way.