L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

Pt. 1: Why the Shuttle Comes So Frickin’ Early

August 23, 2008 on 6:38 pm | In General Musing, Travel |

I breeze through airports. I print my boarding pass at home. I never check a bag. I have my baggie of fluids right at the top for easy access and I wear slip-on shoes. I’m a lean, mean boarding machine.

So it always irks me that when I call the airport shuttle and tell them I have an 8:30 am flight, they say, “We’ll be there at 5:30.” Five thirty? What takes three hours?

I found out today.

The Frickin’ Early Airport Shuttle (FEAS) arrived right on time and Randy, the driver, said we just had one more pick up and then off to the airport. Feeling unusually chipper for 5:30 am I asked the woman behind me where she was heading.

“The airport,” she replied. What are the chances?

On the way to the next stop, the FEAS got an “add on” – a last minute call for a pickup. No problem. It’s not like I was in a rush. The dispatcher asked Randy what time he thought he could be in North Mercer Island. “6:05,” he said. At this point, watching the clock became an exciting game. We picked up our third in Bellevue and arrived at the add on address right on the dot. I was impressed. Anyone who reads this blog knows that space and time become fluid and formless to me inside a vehicle. The thought that anyone could know with that degree of accuracy… Wow.

Even with the add on, the FEAS arrived at the airport with a solid two hours to spare.

It wasn’t until I was stepping out of the van, I realized that the wine bottle I’d packed as a gift contained… get this: liquid. And was unlikely to fit in my baggie.

Damn. I briefly considered giving it to Randy as an award for the arrival time game but decided to check the suitcase instead. That’s when FEAS reasoning started to become clear. The line at Northwest Air was twelve miles long and under the iron-fisted control of a fierce Chinese woman small enough to fit in my carry on. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Once the bag was checked, security was next. The line was long but swift and my confidence was buoyed (falsely) as I stepped blithely through the metal detector. It bleeped. Damn. I had thoughtlessly chosen a top with a sewn-on decorative buckle. I had a choice: Shirt in a bin or wanding. I chose wanding. They offered me a private screening but I declined. Let them maul my tits in public. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Let everyone see the terrorist who had the nerve to try to sneak a buckle onto an airplane. Even so, the wanding was distressingly thorough and more dangerous devices were uncovered. An underwire bra! The grope that followed was no doubt intended detonate it on the ground. A barrette! Sharp edges? Eventually, I was deemed safe for air transport.

Thanks to the FEAS, I still had time to walk nine miles of corridor, fidget behind standers on four escalators, hop the train to the S terminal, and stop at Starbucks for a hilariously expensive breakfast to eat on the plane. I even had time to spill juice from a fruit cup on my skirt before they called general boarding.

Is this how the masses negotiate airports?

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