Airports - Old Writing
It seems appropriate to post this here, I wrote this for a travel website a while back now and I thought those of us going away on holiday shortly may enjoy reading it, or not as the case may be...
FOR THE SAFETY NOT SANITY OF PASSENGERS
Going away on a long awaited holiday can be amongst the highlights of the year. Once the trip has been sorted you count the months, weeks and then days until the day of departure finally dawns amidst a sea of hastily packed suitcases and excited chatter. Often this can be the best part of the holiday, knowing that the day to day drudgery of work can be forgotten for a week or two and that stretching out in front of you is two weeks of much anticipated bliss. You cannot fail to be in a good mood as you fling your suitcase into the taxi and sit amongst the excited babbling of friends and loved ones.
And then you get to the airport.
Douglas Adams once remarked that you seldom hear the comparative “as beautiful as an airport” for in as much as these gateways to the skies are useful, functional and important part of modern travel, they do remain soulless lumps of concrete, glass and plastic. Their functionality however outweighs their lack of beauty. We are prepared to put up with the awful design for the opportunities they present us with. We will forgive them this seemingly genetic disposition towards the hideous as they facilitate our temporary departure from our mundane day to day existence, to a happier place…
But my god, they like to make leaving as difficult as possible don’t they?
Whilst I am fully aware of the need for vigilance as regards security, I fail to see why the whole experience has to be so dismal for the holidaymaker. It seems that the staff employed there are entirely reliant on passengers being universally gregarious and affable, so that we fail to fully grasp the interminable organisation (or lack thereof) that is commonplace at airports around the world and the increasing number of rules and regulations that are being enforced for “our safety”.
Your genial mood is first tested by the huge queue that greets you as you check in. (Unless you have the finances to pay for first class check in, where upon arrival, angels and pixies will float down, massage your aching limbs, transport your suitcases onto the plane and offer you a variety of beverages, served from the crystal glasses that even Donald Trump could not afford). The mere mortals however are often saddled down with often tired and frequently grumpy children, a collection of heavy suitcases. Chiefly because you have all been forced out of bed at some ungodly hour to ensure you arrive at the airport two days prior to catching your 10am flight. Upon entering ‘departures’ you are met with the sight of hundreds of other families all in the same boat and three check in desks open, while next to the three occupied desks sit three hundren unoccupied ones. Stoicism often kicks in here. “This is all part of the experience, just what you have to go through to get there…” you tell yourself in the misguided hope that you won’t be stood there with two fidgety children for two hours.
As you reach halfway down the queue towards the check in desk, the first line of security checks sometimes take place. A cheery young operator will come and check your tickets and passport and generally get things set to “speed up” the process. Yes the irony is tangible is it not? It is at this point that you are asked some very, very serious questions.
“Did you pack this bag yourself?”
“No, I let a man with wild eyes and a tattoo stating “Death to all Westerners!” do it for me. He asked me to deliver an alarm clock strapped to some Play-Doh to his friend in Osama when I get to Washington. It is probably that you can hear ticking.”
Having successfully passed the first rigorous check for security and waiting another 30 minutes, by which time your children have completely entangled themselves in the stupid ribbon fencing that acts as your pathway to check in, you reach the check in desk. To be met by a face so sour, it could turn treacle into crude oil. I am presuming the check in attendants must attend some school for advanced misery to achieve this inordinate level of a lack of job satisfaction. You then hand these cheery souls your passport and tickets and start to load the first bag onto the weighing machine.
“I’m afraid sir, this bag is 0.0172 kilograms overweight… You will have to go to the special section for “people who don’t read our stupid rules on packing” and wait another 30 minutes while we x-ray the suitcase, have a look through your swimming clothes and laugh at your choice of underwear.”
So you remove the bag and then put the next bag on.
“Ah, sir, now this bag is 0.0172 kilograms underweight which is of course absolutely fine… Apart from the fact that it is a Thursday in Ramadan during which I have eaten a peach and three digestive biscuits. Under such circumstances it is company policy that we have to open this case and check for anything vaguely amusing that we can embarrass you with in front of everyone else at the check in desk”
Finally, after what seems an eternity, it is agreed that you are not a terrorist and that the ice cream your two year old is eating is not actually a special chemical concoction that can eat through the steel framework of a plane, causing it to lose integrity and disintegrate mid air, but is in actual fact a vanilla cone with strawberry syrup . Your bags are labelled, sent to be kicked, thrown around and generally physically abused by members of the ground crew, before the misshapen lumps that were once your luggage are thrown onto the plane and you are allowed to proceed through to the departure lounge for the chance to pay vastly inflated prices for goods you can buy much cheaper on the high street.
Before this comes the next phase of ritual humiliation at the airport, the “thorough” security check. This is where your hand luggage is scrutinised for such deadly things as “liquids” and you are forced to go through a metal detector and face the dreaded “beep!” In the UK at the moment there is a rule that states all liquids carried in hand luggage have to be in a clear plastic envelope. I am assuming that this renders any potentially deadly concoction of liquids eminently safe. So much so that in the case of a nuclear attack, I am going to be safe in the knowledge that all I need to do is jump in a bin bag and I’ll be absolutely fine. All your hand luggage is scanned and anything they flag up has to be opened and examined. A friend suffers from asthma and has to travel with a nebuliser. He was stopped at Orlando International by an inquisitive security officer who not only asked to see the machine, but also what it was, and how it worked, what kind of material it was made from, who made it, where and what vegetables they had with their lunch that day. I am sure he thought he had happened upon the lost Iraqi weapons of mass destruction.
It is important to note here that some items are deemed far too dangerous to take on board with you. Obviously, toothpaste is one such item. I was staggered recently when I was told that I would have to leave one such tube behind…
“I’m afraid it’s classified as a liquid sir…”
“But what am I going to do with it? Threaten the captain a fearsome brushing? Make the cabin smell minty? Squirt it into the eye of the cabin crew, thus rendering them blind and utterly helpless while I take over the plane and head for Cuba?”
So with my “safe” liquids made even safer by being in a plastic bag, the evils of toothpaste safely confined to the security bin and having given a security officer a demonstration of how a nebuliser works, it is then possible to move into the departure lounge and begin the next stage of waiting and queuing, because obviously you have not done enough of that so far on the trip.
The façade of spending ridiculous amounts of time at airports for “security” reasons is blown away by the fact that the vast majority of people are through security and check in hours before their flight departs. The real reason is that you are a captive audience, so traumatised by the check in procedure and security check that you are feverishly happy to pay a ridiculously large sum of money for a disappointing coffee and a bun so stale you don’t know whether to eat it, or bounce it along the floor for the children to chase.
The evils of unsafe toothpaste and liquids are of course, relaxed here. Now you are free to purchase as much of the items as you like from the shops because this is specially designed terrorist-proof toothpaste. It’s also important to remember that the alcoholic beverages supplied are also all completely inflammable, in direct contradiction of the laws of physics and that the glass used in containing them cannot be shattered and used as a weapon.
After you have enjoyed some retail therapy, which usually involved buying a newspaper you would not normally read, a dreary looking book that was on offer in the newsagents, a packet of mints, a pair of miracle sunglasses that you paid extra for because you think that you look “trendy” in them (the miracle being that in precisely two weeks time, you will get off the plane coming home and realise that you have spent two weeks looking like a cross between Ray Charles and Shane MacGowan), the time has come to get down to some serious waiting for your flights departure gate to be shown on the big screen. The flight is only displayed once all the passengers scheduled to depart on it have spent enough money in the airport shops to stabilise the American economy. Upon this information finally being displayed, there then follows a mad rush and a sigh of disappointment when you realise that your departure gate is not only the furthest possible from where you are, but is possibly in another time zone altogether.
It is now that you can get down to some really serious waiting as the cabin crew, oozing status and importance, tease you by pretending to be ready to board the plane, but instead just announce that passengers will be boarded by row numbers and that boarding will begin in ten minutes. Half an hour later, the same announcement is given. A further 45 minutes later, the cabin crew informs us that first class passengers have not only been allowed on the plane, but have taken off, arrived at their destination and are enjoying their first cocktail but that mere mortals will have a further five minute wait before boarding. Two months later, they finally give the order for rows 1-19 and 80-90 to board. Upon which you check your ticket and discover you are and your wife and your eldest child are in row 45, while your four year old is sat in row 90 next to Gary Glitter. You squeeze into seats that were designed seemingly for a six week old anorexic agoraphobic and are then asked to put on safety belts. Because as we know, if you are travelling in a cylinder of highly flammable liquid at 300 miles per hour, and plough straight into the side of a mountain, everyone will walk away absolutely fine and dandy thanks to the seat belts…
It is then perhaps hard to understand why so many people at this point, are so deliriously happy. While a great many would point out that this is the beginning of the holiday and that it is only a short time until the plane is in the air and the stewardess is bringing round the drinks trolley would be reason enough for many, it is also worthwhile noting that perhaps it is the fact that they have left one airport behind and only have one more to get through, that produces such levels of joy.
I’m not advocating any lessening of security, in these times such a move would be foolhardy. I am advocating a lot more thought and planning and consideration into the whole operation. We are paying passengers, consumers and customers. We deserve our experience of travel to be what is promised on the adverts. We are not simply living cargo.
FOR THE SAFETY NOT SANITY OF PASSENGERS
Going away on a long awaited holiday can be amongst the highlights of the year. Once the trip has been sorted you count the months, weeks and then days until the day of departure finally dawns amidst a sea of hastily packed suitcases and excited chatter. Often this can be the best part of the holiday, knowing that the day to day drudgery of work can be forgotten for a week or two and that stretching out in front of you is two weeks of much anticipated bliss. You cannot fail to be in a good mood as you fling your suitcase into the taxi and sit amongst the excited babbling of friends and loved ones.
And then you get to the airport.
Douglas Adams once remarked that you seldom hear the comparative “as beautiful as an airport” for in as much as these gateways to the skies are useful, functional and important part of modern travel, they do remain soulless lumps of concrete, glass and plastic. Their functionality however outweighs their lack of beauty. We are prepared to put up with the awful design for the opportunities they present us with. We will forgive them this seemingly genetic disposition towards the hideous as they facilitate our temporary departure from our mundane day to day existence, to a happier place…
But my god, they like to make leaving as difficult as possible don’t they?
Whilst I am fully aware of the need for vigilance as regards security, I fail to see why the whole experience has to be so dismal for the holidaymaker. It seems that the staff employed there are entirely reliant on passengers being universally gregarious and affable, so that we fail to fully grasp the interminable organisation (or lack thereof) that is commonplace at airports around the world and the increasing number of rules and regulations that are being enforced for “our safety”.
Your genial mood is first tested by the huge queue that greets you as you check in. (Unless you have the finances to pay for first class check in, where upon arrival, angels and pixies will float down, massage your aching limbs, transport your suitcases onto the plane and offer you a variety of beverages, served from the crystal glasses that even Donald Trump could not afford). The mere mortals however are often saddled down with often tired and frequently grumpy children, a collection of heavy suitcases. Chiefly because you have all been forced out of bed at some ungodly hour to ensure you arrive at the airport two days prior to catching your 10am flight. Upon entering ‘departures’ you are met with the sight of hundreds of other families all in the same boat and three check in desks open, while next to the three occupied desks sit three hundren unoccupied ones. Stoicism often kicks in here. “This is all part of the experience, just what you have to go through to get there…” you tell yourself in the misguided hope that you won’t be stood there with two fidgety children for two hours.
As you reach halfway down the queue towards the check in desk, the first line of security checks sometimes take place. A cheery young operator will come and check your tickets and passport and generally get things set to “speed up” the process. Yes the irony is tangible is it not? It is at this point that you are asked some very, very serious questions.
“Did you pack this bag yourself?”
“No, I let a man with wild eyes and a tattoo stating “Death to all Westerners!” do it for me. He asked me to deliver an alarm clock strapped to some Play-Doh to his friend in Osama when I get to Washington. It is probably that you can hear ticking.”
Having successfully passed the first rigorous check for security and waiting another 30 minutes, by which time your children have completely entangled themselves in the stupid ribbon fencing that acts as your pathway to check in, you reach the check in desk. To be met by a face so sour, it could turn treacle into crude oil. I am presuming the check in attendants must attend some school for advanced misery to achieve this inordinate level of a lack of job satisfaction. You then hand these cheery souls your passport and tickets and start to load the first bag onto the weighing machine.
“I’m afraid sir, this bag is 0.0172 kilograms overweight… You will have to go to the special section for “people who don’t read our stupid rules on packing” and wait another 30 minutes while we x-ray the suitcase, have a look through your swimming clothes and laugh at your choice of underwear.”
So you remove the bag and then put the next bag on.
“Ah, sir, now this bag is 0.0172 kilograms underweight which is of course absolutely fine… Apart from the fact that it is a Thursday in Ramadan during which I have eaten a peach and three digestive biscuits. Under such circumstances it is company policy that we have to open this case and check for anything vaguely amusing that we can embarrass you with in front of everyone else at the check in desk”
Finally, after what seems an eternity, it is agreed that you are not a terrorist and that the ice cream your two year old is eating is not actually a special chemical concoction that can eat through the steel framework of a plane, causing it to lose integrity and disintegrate mid air, but is in actual fact a vanilla cone with strawberry syrup . Your bags are labelled, sent to be kicked, thrown around and generally physically abused by members of the ground crew, before the misshapen lumps that were once your luggage are thrown onto the plane and you are allowed to proceed through to the departure lounge for the chance to pay vastly inflated prices for goods you can buy much cheaper on the high street.
Before this comes the next phase of ritual humiliation at the airport, the “thorough” security check. This is where your hand luggage is scrutinised for such deadly things as “liquids” and you are forced to go through a metal detector and face the dreaded “beep!” In the UK at the moment there is a rule that states all liquids carried in hand luggage have to be in a clear plastic envelope. I am assuming that this renders any potentially deadly concoction of liquids eminently safe. So much so that in the case of a nuclear attack, I am going to be safe in the knowledge that all I need to do is jump in a bin bag and I’ll be absolutely fine. All your hand luggage is scanned and anything they flag up has to be opened and examined. A friend suffers from asthma and has to travel with a nebuliser. He was stopped at Orlando International by an inquisitive security officer who not only asked to see the machine, but also what it was, and how it worked, what kind of material it was made from, who made it, where and what vegetables they had with their lunch that day. I am sure he thought he had happened upon the lost Iraqi weapons of mass destruction.
It is important to note here that some items are deemed far too dangerous to take on board with you. Obviously, toothpaste is one such item. I was staggered recently when I was told that I would have to leave one such tube behind…
“I’m afraid it’s classified as a liquid sir…”
“But what am I going to do with it? Threaten the captain a fearsome brushing? Make the cabin smell minty? Squirt it into the eye of the cabin crew, thus rendering them blind and utterly helpless while I take over the plane and head for Cuba?”
So with my “safe” liquids made even safer by being in a plastic bag, the evils of toothpaste safely confined to the security bin and having given a security officer a demonstration of how a nebuliser works, it is then possible to move into the departure lounge and begin the next stage of waiting and queuing, because obviously you have not done enough of that so far on the trip.
The façade of spending ridiculous amounts of time at airports for “security” reasons is blown away by the fact that the vast majority of people are through security and check in hours before their flight departs. The real reason is that you are a captive audience, so traumatised by the check in procedure and security check that you are feverishly happy to pay a ridiculously large sum of money for a disappointing coffee and a bun so stale you don’t know whether to eat it, or bounce it along the floor for the children to chase.
The evils of unsafe toothpaste and liquids are of course, relaxed here. Now you are free to purchase as much of the items as you like from the shops because this is specially designed terrorist-proof toothpaste. It’s also important to remember that the alcoholic beverages supplied are also all completely inflammable, in direct contradiction of the laws of physics and that the glass used in containing them cannot be shattered and used as a weapon.
After you have enjoyed some retail therapy, which usually involved buying a newspaper you would not normally read, a dreary looking book that was on offer in the newsagents, a packet of mints, a pair of miracle sunglasses that you paid extra for because you think that you look “trendy” in them (the miracle being that in precisely two weeks time, you will get off the plane coming home and realise that you have spent two weeks looking like a cross between Ray Charles and Shane MacGowan), the time has come to get down to some serious waiting for your flights departure gate to be shown on the big screen. The flight is only displayed once all the passengers scheduled to depart on it have spent enough money in the airport shops to stabilise the American economy. Upon this information finally being displayed, there then follows a mad rush and a sigh of disappointment when you realise that your departure gate is not only the furthest possible from where you are, but is possibly in another time zone altogether.
It is now that you can get down to some really serious waiting as the cabin crew, oozing status and importance, tease you by pretending to be ready to board the plane, but instead just announce that passengers will be boarded by row numbers and that boarding will begin in ten minutes. Half an hour later, the same announcement is given. A further 45 minutes later, the cabin crew informs us that first class passengers have not only been allowed on the plane, but have taken off, arrived at their destination and are enjoying their first cocktail but that mere mortals will have a further five minute wait before boarding. Two months later, they finally give the order for rows 1-19 and 80-90 to board. Upon which you check your ticket and discover you are and your wife and your eldest child are in row 45, while your four year old is sat in row 90 next to Gary Glitter. You squeeze into seats that were designed seemingly for a six week old anorexic agoraphobic and are then asked to put on safety belts. Because as we know, if you are travelling in a cylinder of highly flammable liquid at 300 miles per hour, and plough straight into the side of a mountain, everyone will walk away absolutely fine and dandy thanks to the seat belts…
It is then perhaps hard to understand why so many people at this point, are so deliriously happy. While a great many would point out that this is the beginning of the holiday and that it is only a short time until the plane is in the air and the stewardess is bringing round the drinks trolley would be reason enough for many, it is also worthwhile noting that perhaps it is the fact that they have left one airport behind and only have one more to get through, that produces such levels of joy.
I’m not advocating any lessening of security, in these times such a move would be foolhardy. I am advocating a lot more thought and planning and consideration into the whole operation. We are paying passengers, consumers and customers. We deserve our experience of travel to be what is promised on the adverts. We are not simply living cargo.
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