Adventures in air travel and karmic retribution

Airport security lines bring out the worst in people. You would think that the lengthy security ordeal would be a great equalizer, since everyone has to go through it (except in those lame airports where 1st Class passengers have a shorter line, that is—although maybe I would feel differently about that if I ever flew 1st Class). However, that was certainly not my experience in Düsseldorf this morning.

I was standing in the slowest security line in the history of all slow lines. At this time of year, international terminals are filled with people lugging impossibly sized suitcases that seem to be designed for the express purpose of smuggling people across borders (though I am not one to talk, as I had to cough up 50 euros today due to the excessive weight of my own suitcase), wrangling multiple screaming children, and sporting outfits for every possible climate. I didn’t mind waiting, since I was filled with a lot of mixed feelings about my trip coming to an end. People around me, on the other hand, were less patient. Also less knowledgeable about security regulations, apparently, as numerous people kept coming back through the line to dispose of giant jars of Nutella, bottles of Fanta, and Nivea hand cream.

I had been in line for about 35 minutes, slowly creeping toward the conveyor belt, when a huge group of guys pushed their way past the 40 or so people in line behind me, claiming that their flight to a place I’d never heard of (Girba? Chyrva?) was just about to leave. Unfortunately, many of the people they had cut in front of were on that same flight to Kryba, and there was a certain amount of…consternation that these other guys didn’t have to wait. Various airport employees were dispatched to ineffectually handle the situation, as people behind me kept yelling at the line-cutters, some of whom studiously ignored them and others of whom had far less self-control. It was a mess, but I willed myself not to get annoyed. In fact, I gave a friendly smile to the interloper who almost knocked me out with his enormous backpack as he crowded ahead of me in line, and I was rewarded with an apologetic look and a certain amount of shamed shuffling.

Luckily, a higher power must have also been giving out rewards for patience and friendly smiles. On my 8 1/2-hour flight to Detroit, I ended up with 3 seats in an exit row all to myself, and then I managed to talk my way onto an earlier flight to Houston. Take that, obstreperous travelers to Glyba!

Oh, and by the way, I’m home, and those mixed feelings are clearing up some. In German, the word fertig can mean either ready or done.

Ich bin fertig.