Jet-Set Medievalist (Out of the Way, Please)
So I gave the paper to the non-existent audience on Saturday -- see previous post for description of that particular hilarious afternoon -- and then on Sunday I came home. And it was an eventful day, too eventful, so I'm WAY pleased that I don't have to fly again until Thanksgiving. When, if I didn't have to fly, I'd be even more thankful, but Albuquerque's too far away from Pittsburgh to make it there and back driving AND actually eat the Thanksgiving dinner that's supposed to be happening over at the home of my brother "The Real Jim" Jim. Which I am SO not going to miss. I'm looking forward to seeing him pull off a turkey dinner in that little apartment.
Anyway, where was I. Oh, right, flying. So I get to the airport at Charleston, and I fiend my e-ticket, and I check my bag, after it gets examined, thoroughly, in and out, and I go through the security line, and all is well, and then my laptop makes the little wand beep.
Well. If your laptop makes the little wand beep, you're going to be there a while. Yes, quite a while, as they need to write the incident down in the incident report book -- which they have to go find -- and they have to take your entire bag apart and run a NEW wand over everything (in case the last wand was faulty) (which it was), and they have to run your shoes through the x-ray machine again, and they have to pat you down.
And during all this, if you're in Charleston, they all (there were three of them involved in this) apologize profusely. "We're so sorry!" "These are just the rules!" "Now, we're going to have to look in your carry on, but only because it's the rule!" "We're really sorry!"
The woman who was called over to pat me down was just darling. "I'm going to have to pat you down now," she said, "but I'm going to use the backs of my hands in sensitive areas."
Then, when she patted me down, whenever she got to a "sensitive area," she would say, "back of my hands, back of my hands, back of my hands," so as to ease my mind, in case I should mistakenly think she was copping a feel.
Lovely.
I told them they were just fine. I told them I wasn't having any problem, and I understood they had to do their jobs. They would NOT stop.
I told them, finally, that they were THE most polite bunch of airport security people I'd had the pleasure to run into. "You should see them in Pittsburgh," I said. "Just dreadful."
Now, in case you don't know this, I'll tell you that in their secret deep hearts, there is just about nothing Southerners-- any and all Southerners, as far as I can tell -- like better than to be told that they're more polite than people Up North, though I doubt any of them would ever admit it, on account of it's not polite. So this was VERY naughty of me.
But they refused the bait. "Oh," one of them said, "that's probably just because that airport's so big."
Delightful people.
So then I got on that plane. And it took me to Ronald Reagan Airport, where, it turns out -- did the rest of America know this? cause I sure as hell didn't -- I had to get to another gate, and therefore I had to go back through security. Long line of disgruntled people, going through security again. Long line. Disgruntled.
I'd like never to see Ronald Reagan Airport again, cause I saw too much of it on Sunday. For too long.
But I made the next plane, too, and that was good, because the point of getting to Pittsburgh when I did was to make La Traviata on time.
And that was the end of the journey; the chance to watch La Traviata, which kicks La Boheme's butt. In the duel between the two great soprano hookers-with-hearts-of-gold-and-cases-of-galloping-consumption-who-die-whilst-singing-famous-arias, Violetta wins big over Mimi.* It was a fine production with an excellent soprano -- Annick Massis. We've seen her before, last year in Lucia Di Lammermore, at which I cried and cried cause she was so good. We'll never see her again, I said to Sam. She'll go to the Met, and we'll never see her again.
Well, I was only half right. She did go to the Met, but then she came back to Pittsburgh.
So I cried and cried some more, because I have no cool. No cool at all.
___________________________
*But then, Mimi falls for a guy who says things like, "Oh, your little hand is like ice. Let me tell you about myself." Violetta's got more taste.
Anyway, where was I. Oh, right, flying. So I get to the airport at Charleston, and I fiend my e-ticket, and I check my bag, after it gets examined, thoroughly, in and out, and I go through the security line, and all is well, and then my laptop makes the little wand beep.
Well. If your laptop makes the little wand beep, you're going to be there a while. Yes, quite a while, as they need to write the incident down in the incident report book -- which they have to go find -- and they have to take your entire bag apart and run a NEW wand over everything (in case the last wand was faulty) (which it was), and they have to run your shoes through the x-ray machine again, and they have to pat you down.
And during all this, if you're in Charleston, they all (there were three of them involved in this) apologize profusely. "We're so sorry!" "These are just the rules!" "Now, we're going to have to look in your carry on, but only because it's the rule!" "We're really sorry!"
The woman who was called over to pat me down was just darling. "I'm going to have to pat you down now," she said, "but I'm going to use the backs of my hands in sensitive areas."
Then, when she patted me down, whenever she got to a "sensitive area," she would say, "back of my hands, back of my hands, back of my hands," so as to ease my mind, in case I should mistakenly think she was copping a feel.
Lovely.
I told them they were just fine. I told them I wasn't having any problem, and I understood they had to do their jobs. They would NOT stop.
I told them, finally, that they were THE most polite bunch of airport security people I'd had the pleasure to run into. "You should see them in Pittsburgh," I said. "Just dreadful."
Now, in case you don't know this, I'll tell you that in their secret deep hearts, there is just about nothing Southerners-- any and all Southerners, as far as I can tell -- like better than to be told that they're more polite than people Up North, though I doubt any of them would ever admit it, on account of it's not polite. So this was VERY naughty of me.
But they refused the bait. "Oh," one of them said, "that's probably just because that airport's so big."
Delightful people.
So then I got on that plane. And it took me to Ronald Reagan Airport, where, it turns out -- did the rest of America know this? cause I sure as hell didn't -- I had to get to another gate, and therefore I had to go back through security. Long line of disgruntled people, going through security again. Long line. Disgruntled.
I'd like never to see Ronald Reagan Airport again, cause I saw too much of it on Sunday. For too long.
But I made the next plane, too, and that was good, because the point of getting to Pittsburgh when I did was to make La Traviata on time.
And that was the end of the journey; the chance to watch La Traviata, which kicks La Boheme's butt. In the duel between the two great soprano hookers-with-hearts-of-gold-and-cases-of-galloping-consumption-who-die-whilst-singing-famous-arias, Violetta wins big over Mimi.* It was a fine production with an excellent soprano -- Annick Massis. We've seen her before, last year in Lucia Di Lammermore, at which I cried and cried cause she was so good. We'll never see her again, I said to Sam. She'll go to the Met, and we'll never see her again.
Well, I was only half right. She did go to the Met, but then she came back to Pittsburgh.
So I cried and cried some more, because I have no cool. No cool at all.
___________________________
*But then, Mimi falls for a guy who says things like, "Oh, your little hand is like ice. Let me tell you about myself." Violetta's got more taste.
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