TSA and The Masters of The Universe
When something seems too good to be true, it usually is.
It is late in the evening, and the cold Belgian Winter turns into nostalgia for a Christmas with my family. This nostalgia leads me online to find a round flight to Mexico that seems too good to be true. The dates are perfect and the price is quite reasonable for the season. Sure, it includes a layover and no less than in the US, then land of the long and bothersome customs and security check lines, but only for about three hours. In the excitement of the moment, I fill in all the passenger information without choosing a seat for an additional cost of 50 EURO of course. Who do they think I am? Bill Gates?
Anyway, I continue with my debit card information and click on the payment button to finalize the purchase when the browser loads a new page with a message announcing that the price of the flight has been updated according to the billing address of my card in Mexico. Oh, very considerate of you, United. F*ck you, United. The price is up 50%! But Mama raised no quitter. I load the page again and start from zero with the original price. This time, I added the option to fix the price for an additional 8 EURO which United cares little about because it increases the price again by 50%. Thirds are quits, my friends. I try one last time but in this new attempt, I use an online debit card billed to the old address of my student dorm in Sweden. The suspense kills as I press the payment button. The browser updates the price to Swedish Kronas; however, this time the price remains the same once I convert it to EURO. It seems that Mexicans can afford to pay more than the Swedes, according to United Airlines at least.
I book the flights and don’t think about it until the morning of my departure when I receive a message informing me that my flight to Newark has been delayed two hours. A federal regulation requires pilots and crew to rest longer. In other words, United Airlines, a company worth more than 13 Billion USD, is understaffed.
Once in the plane, a colossal transatlantic ship of 60 rows with 10 seats each, I lay down on my seat next to the aisle in row 54. The first thing I do as soon as I spot a flight attendant is to greet her as kindly as I can and, with the most charming smile I have, ask her if I can change my seat to one closer to the plane entrance. After all, with the sudden schedule change, I have less than one hour to reach my next flight. I end up in row 39, still a bit far but at least it’s something.
‘I hope your next flight is delayed,’ says Jillian with a smile. ‘There is bad weather in Newark, you may get some luck.’
By the time we land in Newark, the blue sky is clear and my flight is as punctual as a Swiss. Furthermore, my plane takes about 15 minutes to park. As soon as the seatbelt light is off I sprint from my seat to the exit of the plane, and then to US customs holding my backpack on top of my head. I leave behind several passengers and by the time I reach the line there is only one person in front of me. Aware of my extremely rushed state, the customs officer only asks me if I am in transit, to which I can barely answer ‘yeh.’ She wishes me luck and lets me through.
I pass the luggage belt section in the blink of an eye — a perk of traveling light — and I find myself in front of a line with less than thirty people. In my wishful thinking, I tell myself I can make it in less than the twenty minutes I have left before my boarding gate closes. As if… A TSA* agent checks my boarding pass as soon as I join the line and informs me that I am in the wrong queue and that this is the ‘TSA Pre’ line. What the hell is TSA Pre?!
*TSA stands for the Transportation Security Administration. They are the guys in charge of protecting the American people from those who dare to sneak 101 mL shampoo bottles into the plane. They are the protectors of the sky, the guardians of the galaxy, the masters of the Universe. Now, with no intent to ridicule TSA more than necessary, I am sure their work serves the security of airports to some degree... I hope.
Continuing with my story, I am forced to basically exit the airport and enter again to join the proletarian TSA line, where a sea of people await their turn to be publicly scrutinized. A digital screen announces the waiting time is 56 minutes long. In vain, I try to convince a TSA agent to let me through to not miss my flight. ‘The line is the line,’ the old guy tells me without even bothering to look me in the eyes.
I have given up — sorry Mama, turns out I am a quitter after all — when a priest next to me in the line encourages me to ask people ahead to let me pass. With nothing to lose, I approach a couple at the beginning of the line. They accede to let me through with a gesture of resignation and with a tiny bit of hope I find myself so close to the X-ray machines that their radiation feels to me like the breeze of the Caribbean. Ten minutes left for my gate to close and seven people stand between me and my Promised Land.
By the time I cross the revision section, I realize I have made a big mistake. In the rush of the moment, I forgot to take out my water bottle from my bag and, together with my belt, my shoes, and the rest of my belongings, got stuck in a line of baggage to be checked meticulously by an agent nowhere to be found. When the agent finally decides to delight us with his presence, he approaches the first bag in the line as slowly as he can. Of course, not before wasting some precious seconds chatting with a woman passing by with a cat. I ask the TSA agent if he can check my bag first so that I don’t miss my plane. He says no. He argues — fairly — that he has to respect the order of the line unless anyone in front of me gives me their turn. Nobody does.
‘Listen,’ he says when he starts inspecting my bag. ‘Let me give you some friendly advice. You need to learn how to listen. You never listen.’ Such words have never been said with such condescendence and my blood has never boiled so much as in that moment.
I am the last passenger to arrive before the gate closes. As soon as I am inside the plane, I put my shoes on, take my Asthma medication, and ask a flight attendant for a glass of water. Seated next to the window of row 27, I transpire with violence and curse at the TSA agent who almost cost me my flight. Why the hell do we have to go through customs and TSA check for a transit flight? Why are TSA agents so slow and indifferent? What type of experiences do they go through to mute their spark of excitement? How many dozens if not even hundreds of anxious, sweaty, smelly passengers do a TSA agent have to deal with? How many entitled, self-centered beings scream at them for only doing their jobs every day? For how many days? How many months? How many years?
The plane crosses the sky heading south in the pursuit of a perpetual dusk, where the warm colors of the horizon keep the long winter night at bay. The land below seems so small and insignificant, with no signs of civilization but few ephemeral lights. I am surprised by the amount of planes that pass near this route. The firmament is so broad, so empty, free of complications. Why was I so pissed off again? Why am I choosing to get angry and frustrated? In the end, it is up to me to decide how I feel about this cumulative arrangement of frustrating events called ‘life’.
