What's in the Box?

When I walked through the airport terminal with a 6"x6" cardboard box I could feel eyes on me. And the box. At the security checkpoint I emptied the pockets of my cargo pants into one grey trey and in another I placed the box and gently pushed it along onto the TSA conveyor belt and through the black flaps, pretending it was getting an airport car wash. As the box passed through the x-ray machine I wondered what it would look like to the screener.

"Sir, is this your box?" the burly, seemingly annoyed woman with the Homeland Security badge asked.

"It is".

"Can you step this way?"

I did.

"Please open the box".

I did. She looked in, probed around with her latex-gloved hand, looked up at me, shook her head, pushed the box in the trey towards me and said "you can go".

As I stood in line to board the plane a woman behind me in line, but standing next to me as if I might not notice her and let her sneak by looked over at the box tucked under my arm and asked "An urn? Sometimes people carry the ashes that way."

"No, but close" - I said, slightly sarcastically.

On the plane I placed my laptop in the overhead compartment above seat 3D, I reached down, grabbed the box and placed it gently in the little space that was left.

"Whatca got there?" the flight attendant asked in a half-joking, half-gruff, suspicious tough guy tone. I could feel the people around me wondering the same thing. What is it? Should we rush him? Grab his box from him? He has a goatee. People with beards can't be trusted. I closed the compartment hatch and sat in my seat.

I've never asked anyone what was in their purse. Or what's in their laptop bag. Why should I tell anyone what was in the box?

Touchdown: Dishonesty is the Best Policy

It's still no secret that I dislike flying. But it was my only choice to get back from Boston so I flew home today after 9 days in Mass/Vermont. It was a fantastic trip with visits to great friends and family and when I'm feeling more rested I'll revisit some of the highlights which will include a Survivalman reunion, a snarfing Alpaca and chasing Turkeys. For now though - another airport diatribe.

My return home began as it started - with another "random" pat down, but this time I was entitled to enter the gas sniffing, air blowing Marilyn Monroe chamber in order to pass through security. They once again politely asked if I wouldn't mind stepping into the chamber; I, knowing full well that saying no only aides and comforts the terrorists. So I figured I'd try a new experience, but not before making a face full of disdain for this less than random process. I don't have a picture of me making that face, so I had my niece simulate one for me. I call it the Marilyn Monroe chamber because the machine blasts you with air from all directions and if I were wearing a dress I could do a fantastic MM imitation. Regardless, the Pfft Pfft Pfft blasts are great at removing powdered donut from my beard, but not so good if I'm trying to hide my full back Mr. T tattoo which I don't really have.

On the plane, I'm always appreciative/distressed by the level of honesty the airline pilots express when explaining things like: 1) why the cabin smells like camel (lightning hit the plane and it broke the ventilation!) 2) Why we're experiencing heavy turbulence (they decided at the last minute to fly over Tropical Storm Gabrielle!) 3) Why we're hurrying to our destination (the co-pilot is feeling under the weather!)

How much of this do I need to know? As a waiter I never explained the truth and people were grateful. Or at least they should have been. or would be if they knew. Just imagine! "I'm sorry your food is taking so long. The line cook's band aid from his flesh eating bacteria wound fell into the soup." Or "we're filtering your water a third time because of the high levels of fecal coliform."

Just don't tell me. Once I'm in the air, just make sure we touchdown safely.

I've never seen anyone taking pictures in flight. Maybe it's against the rules, but I took a few anyway. Click the photo for a larger view. I think it's cool.

Code Orange: Tales of Captain Kritcher

I loathe flying. I dislike the takeoff. I dislike the turbulence. Not fond of the baggage retrieval. Despise the landing. The only good think about flying is I get to read books which I seem incapable of doing outside of this transportation process.

I don't mind the security at airports. It's absolutely necessary for the most part. But one I resent is the "random checks" they do when heading for your gate. As I traipsed through Southwest International Airport I was reminded repeatedly that we were in a "Code Orange". They never said what that means or why we were in it. Just "be on alert". And so I was, but if they had elevated the security alert to "Code Bananas" while I was there I might have freaked. As I passed through the security check point I was very politely asked to step aside so they could conduct a "random search" of me. They explained the process and despite being asked to do this the last three times I have flown, I acquiesced to what I deem a slightly humiliating pat down. They said it was my cargo shorts that triggered the random search, which makes it not so random. I guarantee it's my facial hair. All terrorists have facial hair right? That's what I get for looking "jungly". I was thanked and sent on my way.

On the plane I was lucky enough to sit next to a teenage boy who sneezed on me as he slept. Gross, but the main trouble with flying for me now is that I met Captain Kritcher recently, father of friend Kate and during that visit I was fortunate/unfortunate enough to hear the tales of a veteran commercial airline pilot. I put my trust in pilots. You have no choice but to have faith, but after talking with the 30+ year captain I have a greater appreciation for what they must endure flying to different destinations. Crosswinds, tailwinds, short runways, altitude, auroras, alcohol levels (not his), terrorism, pretzel depletion and on and on. So as we approached Logan Airport and the landing gear came down and then was retracted and then came down again I couldn't help but think of the Tales of Captain Kritcher and what our captain was steering us through right then. I fear few things, but my blood was flowing at that moment. Apparently the landing gear was momentarily stuck. It was an ugly landing, but any landing you walk away from is a good one.

From Fort Myers to Boston I started and finished The Last Pick: The Boston Marathon Race Director's Road to Success co-authored by Linda Fechter (mom of VINS campers). It was a great book about endurance runner David J. McGillivray who ran from Oregon to Boston in 80 days. I can't believe this isn't a movie yet!

Arriving in Boston, the PA passively reminded travelers that we were in a Code Lobster. All things normal.