Flying Home

Chess, anyone?

Atlanta was the site of the 2016 Imaging USA show.  It's a show for Imaging Professionals, like Professional Photographers.  I was there because our little software company, Vivid-Pix, is trying to get its head above water, both figuratively and literally.  We are soon to swim out from our underwater image correction software, and while we will continue to tread that water, we'll be adding a new application that automatically corrects scans from old faded photos and slides.  More about that in another post, but with all due humility, the new software is fabulous.

The show ended on Tuesday, so Wednesday was the day for me to sit motionless in winged tubes sliding through the air.  It would have been nice if I was on the direct Delta flight back to Rochester, but I could not justify the additional $500 they wanted for that privilege.  So it was United through O'Hare once again.  Whatever.

I received the text message as my partner Rick was driving me and Gary, fellow traveller to a different destination, to the airport.  My flight was delayed, making the connection iffy.  As soon as we got there, we bid our fond farewells and I headed to the United ticket counter.

"Oh," said the agent.  "That's tight.  Let me see what I can do."  He rerouted me through Newark, which was to my liking because it is a much smaller airport than O'Hare, and if there were any further difficulties getting home, I'd be able to go to Brooklyn and show my son David all the great new stuff in my little book.  But David was lucky.

I followed the instructions from the ticket agent and turned left to go through the North security screening.  Mistake.  There was a sign telling me that there was a 30 minute delay through security, which would have been OK, but by changing the flight, my departure time had moved forward 15 minutes.  After waiting in the line for 5 minutes, it became apparent that there was no way I'd be through the queue in 25 more.  So I told my fellow queue-folk I'd be right back, and asked the TSA agent if there was any way they could move me forward.

"No, you have to go through the line."
"So it's OK that I miss my flight because your line is long?"
"You missed your flight because you got here too late."  Well, not really, but I wasn't about to argue with Miss Bitchiality.

I left the North entrance and ran to the Central security portal.  The sign promised that the delay there would be half the time, so I still had a chance to catch the plane.  As I joined the line, I was encouraged by the speed with which people were moving until I realized that it only moved quickly because it was a feeder to another TSA person who was directing people into 3 different slower lines. I stopped looking at the time on my Fitbit.

But there was still a remote chance.  Flights don't always leave exactly on time.  So I stuffed my wallet, my pen, my eyedrops, my belt, and a bunch of other stuff into my bag to streamline my passage through the actual security procedure should I ever get there.  And I only had to unpack once to retrieve the ID I had neglected to remove from my wallet.  All of this probably would not save significant time, but it made me feel better to be trying.

When the x-ray conveyor jammed on a previous inspectee's overfilled bin, I violated procedures by stepping out of line and reorienting the bin so it would pass.  It was pretty obvious that the woman reading the screen was not about to leave her station, and the other agents were too busy making sure that stocking-clad toes were the only ones approaching the millimeter wave scanner.

Shortly before my trip, I had purchased a new pair of ASICS Gel running shoes.  Instead of being in my closet or buried in the bottom of my carry-on, they actually emerged from the x-ray machine so I could slap them onto my feet and use them for their intended purchase.  OK, I'll admit they never really make it into the closet, but I was pleased that they weren't languishing by the back door of my house when I needed them.

Did you know that ASICS is an acronym derived from
Anima Sana In Corpore Sano?
Some folks think it is impossible to have a sound mind if you run.

Out of breath, I handed my boarding pass to Loretta at the desk right next to the closed door of Gate T13.  "I am assuming I'm not taking this flight."
"We waited as long as we could for you," chimed in Anastasia.  "What happened?"
"Let's just say that TSA is understaffed."
"Huh.  And today is a slow day," replied Loretta, further raising my esteem for the Atlanta branch of the TSA.

Loretta and Anastasia battled their outdated and slow computers for the next ten minutes, trying to get me back on my original flight.  I have to admit that even as frustrated as I was, I enjoyed their pleasant banter as the screens revealed my dilemma and the possible retroactive fix.  "Where are the cameras?" I asked.  "You two must be starring in a reality show."
"Just trying to help you out while we're waiting for our Powerball money."
"Well here's the winner," I said, fishing the 1.5 billion dollar ticket I bought for Mary out of my wallet.  "And if you get me home tonight, I'll share a million of it with you."

They liked that idea.  I did too, even though I'd have to explain the gift to Mary.  But then it dawned on me that the explanation was obvious.  Getting home so that I could share the evening with Mary was easily worth a million dollars.

But the computers refused to cooperate, so Loretta walked me down to the new gate while Anastasia called ahead.  Loretta gave the agent at gate T15 the secret handshake, and before long, my boarding passes were in hand, allowing me to join yet another line.  But I had a better feeling about this one even though I knew the connection would be tight.

"Don't forget about us now," Loretta called after me.
"No way!"

My partner Rick and I had discussed business, bands and breweries long into the night, so my perception of the flight to Chicago was that it did not take long at all.  A few minutes were gained while we were in the air, so we landed with enough time so that I was not terribly concerned about the connection.  We taxied around the massive tarmac for a few minutes and then pulled into gate C1.  The plane came to rest, and the stand-up-and-grab-your-stuff-so-we-can-get-out-of-this-tin-can ritual began.  But no one moved.

"This is your Captain speaking.  It appears that there is no Jetway Driver here to move the jetway to the door.  We've called in for one to be assigned, and he should be here in a few minutes."  So my already late flight of 600 miles was further delayed by a gap of 60 inches.  

5 minutes later, we heard, "This is your Captain again.  We're not exactly sure where the Jetway Driver is, but he should be here shortly."  I wondered if he had to pass through the gauntlet provided by the Windy City branch of the TSA.  "In the mean time, your green-tagged carry-ons will be unloaded and placed on the jetway so you won't need to wait for them when you de-plane."  This was certainly good news for those whose pushing-the-envelope sized carry-ons had been confiscated, but of no consequence or consolation to those of us who had purposely packed small and light so such delays would not be an issue.  

"Thank you for your patience."

Jetway Johnny finally arrived.  I had not realized this was a job available only to those highly trained union members who have achieved the rank of Licensed Jetway Driver.  Extend it, adjust the height, and then smack the cushioned terminations into the plane...gently, of course.  A few short years before the wide availability of self-driving cars?  What am I missing here?  It's not like he's piloting a Zamboni!

Not a Zamboni.
I don't want to drive one of these
unless absolutely necessary.

I refrained from bowling over the man slowly making his way up the jetway while dragging his oxygen machine behind him.  It was a nicely updated model far smaller than the one my father-in-law Roy used to use, but it still would have been awkward trying to get myself and my bags around it and it's owner.  Besides, the fact he needed a machine to help him breathe indicated he had bigger issues than missing a plane.  He didn't need some ass pushing past him and knocking him around in the process.

Speaking of which, I began my OJ Simpson-like running-through-airports impression as soon as the under-oxygenated man emerged into daylight.  "Where is that damn Departures board?"  The low contrast white on Carolina-blue display came into view and quickly revealed that the ride to Rochester began at gate C31, at the opposite end of the terminal.  Even so, the letter "C" was a welcome sight, since at massive O'Hare, there are gates in other terminals that are more than a mile away, with hordes of travelers and machines impeding your progress.  Did you know that the Starkiller Base scenes in The Force Awakens were filmed at O'Hare?

O'Hare Airport

But the end to end terminal traverse was not trivial, and the Departures board had also let me know that the flight was already boarding.  I ran with backpack slung over one shoulder and wheely briefcase trailing behind.  The construction barrier isolating the non-functional moving sidewalks from the travelers provided additional fun, since all the people who would have been riding them were crammed into a causeway about a quarter of the normal passage width.  I bobbed and weaved as I sped through the throng, slowing only once to allow my blocking to properly form.  OJ's got nothin' on me.

I was pleased to see the jetway door in the open position as I approached gate C31.  Panting, I handed my boarding pass to the attendant for the confirmational beep and headed down the ramp to the plane.  I was happy with the knowledge I'd be having dinner with Mary.  I found my seat, sat and finally relaxed as I waited for the door to slam shut behind me.  

Then we waited 35 minutes for the the de-icing man and his 'Elephant' to arrive.

A job I'd not prefer.

Tough to get a good shot of the Elephant's de-icing snout.