where the sidewalk ends, and other tales from the airport

Beginning of trip on Friday:
My favorite tale from my weekend airport experiences involves the moving sidewalks found in most airports these days. I love these modern wonders; they are like giant treadmills, but bouncier, and I feel so productive when I am walking on one. I especially love them when I am in a rush, and trying to catch a plane after being detained by the tightened security measures, but that’s another story.

So I flew into SF, and was making my way to my gate when I came upon the much loved modern wonder of a sidewalk, and even though the timing didn’t necessitate a mad rush, I did want to walk on the moving sidewalk; go ahead, call me crazy! Not to mention that as an adult it’s the closest I get to a trampoline, and who could pass up something even remotely reminiscent to a trampoline? At this point in the story it is worthy to suggest that there is an unwritten code of the moving sidewalk by which people generally abide: those who want to walk do so on the left, while those who want to stand do so on the right; doesn’t everyone know this!?! And, here is where the conflict arises. I came upon a middle-aged couple taking up the entire sidewalk with their standing. This wasn’t necessarily unusual, but in their standing the woman looked back and saw me coming; instead of moving aside and following the code of the sidewalk she turned back around, stood her ground, and made me ask her in my ever-so-kind tone, “Excuse me, please.” She begrudgingly moved aside, and let me pass, but not without comment. Turning to her husband she said in a voice loud enough for my benefit, “I don’t understand why people use this sidewalk if they are going to insist on walking!” I walked on laughing, but wanted to turn and retort, “I don’t understand why people insist on standing still on the moving sidewalk!” but alas, the comment stayed locked in my head for my amusement alone.


Earlier in the day while I was going through the lovely tightened airport security, I was asked to step aside while one of my bags was searched. I was in no way alarmed since this has happened before. The TSA officer took my messenger bag off to another table, and I took the opportunity to put back all of the contents of my life that by requirement were spilled on the security conveyor belt. I was mostly put back together and clad with footwear again when he said, “Ma’am, can you please step over here?” stated more as a statement versus a question. Again, not too alarmed, but more a twinge of concern. He then guided me to another higher-ranking TSA officer, and handed over a knife he had found in my bag. Okay, the twinge of concern was now a bit more elevated. It is true I had a knife, but it’s a kitchen paring knife, and I had no clue it was in my bag. I explained to the TSA officer that I had used the same bag a few weekends before to go to Catalina and I had the paring knife along to cut apples for a snack; I totally forgot it was in my bag. She seemed to believe my story, but as she held the knife up to the ruler she let me know that anything over three and a half inches they are required to call the authorities. Thankfully my knife hovered right at the three point five mark, and after determining my happiness to turn over the knife they let me go. I know that this might seem like a huge stretch, but for just a moment I felt I had a real glimpse of what it might be like to live in a government-run country, the kind where an individual’s rights are disregarded, and fear is the norm in ruling the masses. I never was fearful, just the twinge of concern, and my situation ended without incident, but somehow it made me appreciate the freedom we do experience every day.


End of trip on Monday:
My day began yesterday morning at 2:30am with a mad dash to pack up the final vestiges of a weekend away, and to catch an early flight out of Portland. Let’s just say, it makes for an interesting Monday morning to start it so early. Mondays suck for me anyway, so let’s just tack on four more hours of bliss and throw in two flights and airport parking to add to the joy of the day. The funny thing is, aside from me trying to amputate my toe with a gas pump it was a pretty descent day. On my second flight I met a woman who flew from Seattle to Burbank for the day just to audition for an R&B sax spot in Beyoncé’s band. I thought that was pretty cool and gave her a ride to the audition (it was just down the street, but easier to drive than walk in heels). Who knows, maybe I’ll know someone who knows Beyoncé! Most likely not, but I think it is still cool.


Last story, but I'm tired so no connections or flourish. I stopped to get gas and the gas pump popped out of my tank and fell on my big toe, which caused me to double over in pain and cry. My toe was bleeding, and there were no paper towels to be found. When I finally found the gas station attendant, I went off on him. He heard about his faulty equipment and lack of paper towels, and then I demanded some sort of antiseptic to clean my toe. In the beginning he wasn’t very helpful, but he found the first aid kit and watched me while I nursed my wound. I then felt guilty for yelling at him, and apologized letting him know that the reason I yelled was because I was in pain. He didn’t say anything in response, but the initially unhelpful man who wanted to break out the disposable gloves before getting near my bloody toe, softened into a kind man who wouldn’t let me finish bandaging my toe, and instead insisted that he wrap it in gauze and three more band-aids. My toe still hurts, but a little kindness goes a long way, and I’ll still buy fuel from his station.

So this is where the sidewalk ends.