Day 1: Exodus & Poo

Whoever thought I’d be making a second journey to the airport this year, for the second adventure of a lifetime? With Sandy? Sandy?

Certainly not me. I’m still finding the whole “me and him” thing completely unbelievable. Every now and then I’ll look at him and think, Good Lord, I’m looking at, holding hands with and kissing Sandy. And then I giggle.

I confessed that to him a few weeks ago, that every now and then I’d take a sideways glance and be completely “duh” that he was around at all. He jokingly retorted back, “Get over it, woman!”

I know he does the same thing, though. That night before we left for California, we were at his house having a bite to eat when he looked at me and said, out of the blue, “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

Not as in, “Why are you here and get out right now,” but more like, “How on earth did you get here, and isn’t it just the coolest?”

Very nice. Some blushing. Another giggle. And a, “Get over it, man!”

We’re just so great that way. But anyhow, I again digress, so let’s get back to the trip before I get into a huge gusher.

Our flight was scheduled for 7am Saturday morning. Not an ungodly hour, but thanks to mega airport checks and mountains of red tape to get through before actually setting foot on any plane, we had to be at the airport before five. Ugh.

I’d crashed at Sandy’s place. He’d picked me up at the units’ house, where the vast majority of my luggage is stored, where he very politely shook hands with my dad, hugged my mom, and pet Bluetooth on the head. Nice boy. And then, he helped me haul one gigantic suitcase, a carryon, and my computer bag out of the house and into his truck.

I’d love to be a light traveler, but it just doesn’t happen when I just happen to be going with someone impress-able. You need your day clothes, your nice clothes, your knockout clothes, and that sexy moleskin jacket that transforms you into Linda Evangelista on a Tuesday.

We were up before the roosters, groomed and ready just in time to reload my bags and his into the airport taxi. It was all of a 20 minute ride to the terminal and we were barely halfway through lining our suitcases up on the curb, when Sandy looked over at me and said, “Hey, a bird just crapped on your bag!”

He always jokes around, so I didn’t think twice about it. “Whatever.”

“No really, a bird just crapped on your bag!”

I looked over at my carryon, and there it was: a nice, fresh pile of bird doo. Right on the zipper. I looked up to see a stupid, overfed pigeon sitting its fat ass on a steel beam, mocking me. “I crapped on your bag… I crapped on your baaaag…”

The sun isn’t up, I’m at terminal three with Sandy, we’re dead tired, I’m in the throes of Airport Neurosis, and a pigeon has just pooped on my pretty red bag. What else can I do but laugh?

He laughed, too. “You know, Italians say that means good luck for a year.”

Our corner of Eastern Europe says the same thing. Doesn’t mean I want to keep it there, though. We got all our stuff inside, and Sandy waited with everything at the end of the gynormous check-in line, while I wheeled the piece in question to the bathroom, and did my best to clean the shit off. It was all wedged into the zipper, and smelled funny. Damn bird.

Check-in was painless and customs, for the first time ever, was a lark. Normally, the American officers sit there all stern-like, their shiny badges blinding you while they ask stupid questions like, “Purpose of visit? Are you staying with friends? What is the nature of your love life? Is your hair naturally curly?” and etc.

Mr. Customs Official started me out with purpose of visit and where are you staying, then got right into the place of employment deal. I rattled off the name of my college, and then he asked what I did for a living. I started to laugh and told him that I note take for the deaf and to my pleasant surprise, he joined right on in. “Someone has to do it,” he said, and commended me for being a well-rounded person who is sweet enough to make such a difference in the community.

Uh huh. I’m sure if he knew my hourly rates, he would have pulled me aside to rape my bags. Moving along, then.

Phase One and Two of the Check-In system complete, we now moved on to the really fun part: the beep thing. This is where you walk through the gigantic door frame, and it beeps if you’re wearing any metal. Nasty looking airport employees are waiting on the other side, with spacey looking billy clubs to probe and poke you for extra shiny objects. I have a theory that they’re not really detectors at all, but stun guns.

Pre 9/11, this wasn’t such a bad thing. You emptied the change from your pockets, walked through the doorless frame, got a quick scan and went on your way.

Nowadays, not so. Lose the change and keys first, not to mention any extra girl jewellery, put them in a plastic dog dish, and send them through the x-ray. You take put your purse into a bin, and send it through the x-ray. You take your computer out of your carryon, put that in a bin, and send it through the x-ray. Your carryon is too big for a bin, but goes along the conveyor and through the x-ray anyway. Off comes your jacket, then your belt, then your shoes, and they get their own bin to - you got it - go through the x-ray.

After all this, you hold on to your pants for dear life and go through the beep thing. The Gestapo await on the other side to probe and poke you, and if you pass the blood and urine tests, they stamp you “Safe to Fly.”

As you can imagine, all these extra bins and calls for strip teases make the beep area a pretty crowded place. If you’re lucky your bags don’t get assaulted for a second round; unfortunately, if you haven’t watched the news and heeded the No Liquids on the Plane policy, your contact solutions and expensive colognes get taken away.

Sandy and I are walking around shoeless in terminal three, and I am doing my best not to howl. Airports have become armpits of tension, and it would be frowned upon to actually laugh in these situations.

I couldn’t help it though, and got a few smirks in while we were putting our shoes back on. There we were, semi-dressed among dozens of people, not a one of us wearing a jacket, cardigan or belt, and all wandering around on the dirty floor in our socks.

An odd 30 or so people getting dressed all at the same time. Questionable activities may come to mind.

Imagine that.