Airport Gestapo

 

It says, “Heathrow. Making every journey better.” See what you think.

You may find it hard to believe the following story isn’t fiction. And even harder to believe that all these terrifying things happened over the course of just one flight. But it’s true. Not mostly true. All true.

“Look. She hasn’t taken off her shoes.”

“I thought you had to.”

“So did I. He hasn’t either.”

A jeans and trainer clad couple tramped through the security scanner at Heathrow Airport without so much as a Hey you! “Well, I’m not taking my shoes off. I don’t see why I should get my socks grubby,” I said prissily.

Jimmy proceeded to the conveyor belt where one takes a tray, deposits jacket, keys, watch, belt and in Jimmy’s case – “Should I put my shoes in here?” “Yes” – his shoes.

I asked no questions as I heaped up jacket, handbag and laptop, then crashed my overweight carry-on on to the rollers leading up to the conveyor.

We’d already run the gamut of check-in, treating our carry-ons as featherweights, certain they were over the weight allowance, trying not to go red in the face, tremble or grunt when lifting them in the proximity of the check-in staff. That pretense was no longer necessary at security.

Or was it?

Poised and ready, I held back my carry-on and trays on the conveyor, and timed my dash through the scanner so I could scoop up my loot from the other side of the x-ray machine before anyone else could get their hands on it.

My trays and bag whooshed off and I sneaked through the scanner feeling triumphant not only for keeping on my shoes but for avoiding the pat-down search I could see on my left.

Things were going quite well until my heavy case and two trays shot out the other side of the x-ray machine and hurtled down the rollers to the buffers. I’d already breathed a sigh of relief when I was startled to hear “Is this your case?” I looked to see it wasn’t my case so relaxed again.  Prematurely as it happens.

The five zippers and four handles on my roll-along carry-on have always been a mystery to me and I turn it round and round, unzipping and zipping up, sometimes the same wrong zip three times trying to open it, not expand it. The large-as-possible carry-on, purchased to circumvent airline luggage allowances, was stuffed so full it would detonate with one wrong move.

I’d eased the laptop out for the security check with the delicacy of a bomb disposal technician and it was languishing in a tray. The rest of the contents – empty plastic containers, a Daytona 500 baseball cap, plastic zip bags, dirty clothes, a few clothes pins, Jimmy’s slippers, two pot holders, six hangers, pajamas, a book, a magazine and a ball of string – were packed with the precision of a 3-D puzzle.

To open the zip fully would be like pulling the pin on a grenade. If it all flew out, it would never go back in and I would have to don some of the dirty clothes for the flight.

I just needed to unzip my carry-on a few inches, slip the laptop back in amongst the dirty pants and socks, zip up, grab jacket and handbag and go. Jimmy was already shod and jacketed and backing away from the chaos.

So, is it this zip? Zip, zip. No. This one? Zip, zip. No.

Bags and trays and people were piling up behind me. This one? Zip, zip. No. Needing to do my zip, zip thing not under the glare of harried travelers, I heaved my bag from the downhill rollers and thumped it onto an adjacent table.

Just as I nudged the bag away from the edge of the table, a lofty sour-faced mein führer pushed it back at me and banged her prey’s suitcase onto the middle of the table.

“Excuse me madam. This is my security search table.”

And then the trouble started.

. . . . . . to be continued.

The “Wrong” Side

Homesick for my adopted country, England, I spent two weeks basking in glorious sunshine having left himself behind in his adopted country to contend with yet more torrential downpours. A daily occurrence on the Puget Sound he told me on the phone. Oh golly.

I was not allowed to pick up a rental car from Heathrow Airport on arrival after a night flight as my minder/usual travelling companion feared I would either circle London endlessly on the M25 or fall asleep at the wheel. Unable to defend myself I hopped on the tube.

After a day’s R & R from jet lag, I collected a teeny rental car and was completely flummoxed by a) a manual gearbox, b) a clutch, c) having to drive on the left again, d) sitting my bum so close to the road and e) an empty gas tank. I hadn’t touched a petrol/gas/diesel pump in over two years and the hand I usually had spare from not having to change gears had become accustomed to holding a cup of coffee.

Firing up disused neural pathways along with the engine, I successfully exited the rental car parking lot using an eleven point turn while pumping the clutch as though inflating an air bed. Had I been a fool to refuse the collision damage waiver to save a few pennies?

With intense concentration, I avoided all the other road users without a blast from their horns or angry hand gestures, sidled into a nearby petrol station on the correct side of the pump (ha!), filled the tank and drove up to the kiosk to pay. I felt I had achieved a major feat. Smiling triumphantly, debit card in hand, I was asked “Which pump?”

“What?”

“Pump number?”

“Oh. I don’t know.” Deflated and much to the chagrin of the drivers in the queue of cars behind me, I squeezed out of the car having neatly pulled up an arm’s length from the kiosk so I could reach the window. I winced at the looks of pure hostility of the DRIVERS IN A HURRY. Three was my number and I slunk back to the car.

It’s shocking how I’d allowed myself to coast into blond tag-along mode. Having slowly and happily let my independence slip away over the years, I had to give myself a mental slap and take responsibility for myself for at least two weeks. Once that was accomplished, I enjoyed being responsible only for myself. Meals when I was hungry instead of at mealtime, trashy TV at full volume, junk food with no looks of disapproval, shopping more than was good for my wallet and a curious feeling of liberation when stepping out of the door without telling anyone where I was going or when I’d be back.

Driving on the wrong side soon became the right side even though it was the left side. And driving on the right when I returned to the States would then feel wrong even though it was right.

Not me but this is how I felt. I fell down into the rental car and climbed up out it, more used to climbing up into our SUV and falling out of it!