Turbulence On A Trip With My Ex-Wife (Part One)
Anyone who knows me, knows that I do not like to travel. Give me a week at the Jersey Shore, and I’m in. Anything that involves long car rides or, God forbid, putting me on an airplane, no thank you.
The guys I play trivia with every Monday at the bar often talk of their many trips abroad, and always end their stories with, “Al, you really should travel”.
“Travel?” I feign astonishment, “Oh, I travel.”
I raised a finger to punctuate each town, “I’ve been to Raritan, I’ve been to Somerville, and I’ve even been to Bridgewater!” (Note, each town is easily within ten miles of my house)
However, an invite to my godson’s wedding changed all that. Turns out, he was getting married in Oklahoma (is there really even such a magical place?).
Turns out, there is and I was going to have to get a plane to get there (actually, more than one).
I will leave out the logistics, just know I would be traveling with my ex-wife, Arlene.
The first harbinger of things to come, when Arlene (who drove to airport) missed the Economy Parking Lot at Newark Airport. To rectify that error, she started to back up on the roadway, only to have a Transit Authority SUV pull up alongside us.
“What are you doing?” the officer asked, not so much what she was doing (that was obvious) but why.
Arlene explained, and he told her to pull ahead to the stop sign, and make a left.
With the car parked, we waited for a shuttle, because the airport was miles away.
When the driver said, “Hold on,” who knew that would be an understatement.
That shuttle’s twists and turns tossed us around like rag dolls in a child’s room. I was afraid to let go of the pole.
But, finally, in the airport, that’s when the real fun began.
No need to describe airport security to anyone, but not being a traveler, this was a bit of a shock.
“Empty everything into the bins,” the security guard said, “shoes, belt, tablets, phones, everything in the bins.”
So I did. Except, as I walked toward the scanner, realized my cell phone was still in my pocket.
“Go back and put it in a bin,” the agent at the scanner said and never skipped a beat.
Cell phone in bin (it looked so lonely), then back through scanner.
Once through, I saw another agent go through my duffle bag, pull out a full size can of shaving cream and toothpaste that I just purchased, while I tried to put on my belt and shoes.
“Taking these,” the agent said as he tossed them aside, “too big.” (I have since been ridiculed by friends for taking full size containers – my defense? I never travel).
While this was going on, an agent from the front picked up the bin with my lonely cell phone, and walked away.
“That’s my phone,” I shouted, belt half looped, pants half-down, but the agent continued to walk.
Turns out, he put it through the scanner again.
Why?
Have no idea (again, I never travel).
Eventually myself, my shoes, belt, luggage, and cell phone made it to the gate.
And now we waited.
Why?
Because, Arlene insisted we arrive at the airport three hours early.
While we sat, a man came over to ask if we wanted to take a survey about the new terminal. We politely declined. Later, when I walked to stretch my legs, I saw another survey taker (a woman) talk to a passenger (a man).
Well, not so much talk, she just listened to this man’s rant.
“Newark is the worst fucking airport there is,” the man shouted to the woman who, to her credit, just smiled back at him. He continued, “You know it, everyone knows it, this is the worst fucking airport in the world.”
(Now, tell us how you really feel?)
Finally, our flight was ready, and the doors opened. Unfortunately, we were the last group called to board. As we waited, they announced that there was limited space, and some of our carry-on luggage would be tagged and loaded on the plane.
I had a garment and duffle bag, which they deemed okay to put in the overhead and under my seat. Arlene had a hard-shell luggage on wheels, which they tagged with flight information, but she kept it as we walked down the gangway.
However, that didn’t last long.
Just before we entered the plane, a group of baggage handlers weaved through the crowd, and took every piece of tagged luggage.
Every piece, of course, except Arlene’s.
“No way,” she said, and pulled the luggage away from the handler, “You are not taking this!”
As she shouted, other people in the gangway moved away and gave us some pretty intense looks.
“My ex-wife, everyone,” I tried to defuse the situation because I expected, in next few seconds, that Air Marshals would rappel upon us.
“Always a joy to travel with.”
Eventually, she relinquished the luggage without further incident. We had a connecting flight in Dallas for Oklahoma City. For the entire two flights, Arlene said she knew the bag wouldn’t be there when we landed.
Finally, we settled in our seats. Ironically, there was plenty of room in the over head for Arlene’s bag. It would have saved a great deal of anxiety if we knew that ahead of time.
Even though we didn’t take off for another hour, turned out this first leg of our journey would be the easy part of our journey.
[End of Part One]
