by Frank Whyte, Training Services On Demand

September 17, 2001

Less than a week has passed since terrorists painted our collective conscience in shades of disbelief, anger and circumspection. And yet, I'm doing what many Americans now vow to avoid at all costs: I'm getting on an airliner. In fact, before the week is out, I'll sample several airlines and several airports. I'll become all too familiar with "normal" operations after the 9-11 tragedy.

7:45 a.m.
Dulles International Airport

I have been warned by media reports to arrive at the airport uncommonly early. I do. I'm nearly five hours premature for a midday flight to Atlanta. I'm amazed by what I find at the airport.

Dulles is a ghost town. On a Monday morning, I expect a frenzied environment, as business travelers queue-up for the week's out-of-town obligations. Instead, I find television news satellite trucks parked bumper-to-bumper to beam video of a desolate airport terminal to curious viewers. I meet reporters wandering the concourse in search of an interviewee.

"Sure," I answer, "I think it's still safe to travel." I say this into three microphones, convinced that my opinion will be vindicated throughout the course of the week's travels. Of course, I have my concerns. But I make my living on the airways. It's still safe to travel because I must travel.

7:55 a.m.
Dulles International Airport

The ticket counter is closed.

Despite the publicized admonitions to arrive four hours beforehand, a weary eyed agent tells me that he can't check my bag until two hours before the flight. I'm stuck for more than two hours.

I'm about to slink away to a chair to absorb a few chapters of my "airplane read" when another passenger arrives. A different agent breaks the news to him. We slink away together.

My cohort in boredom is a retired philosophy professor, now working on a manuscript introducing the common man to the essentials of modern philosophy. I'm plenty common, and enjoy an erudite but plain-language discussion of good and evil.

Having recently heard Billy Graham's admitted confusion over God's willingness to permit pernicious acts, I'm enthralled by the words of noteworthy theorists. If I had to be stranded in an empty airport terminal at a time of uncommon confusion, there is serendipity in my choice of cohorts.

Evil, I'm reminded, is an invention of man.

8:20 a.m.
Dulles International Airport

"We'll go ahead and check you in now."

Amazingly, the ticket agent who turned us away actually seeks-us-out in the recesses of the Dulles terminal. She had complained to her superiors that it wasn't fair to make us sit on our luggage and bite our nails. She had received permission to treat us as customers. She escorts us back to the counter and checks us in.

I am amazed at the initiative she took in locating us. So is The Philosopher.

8:30 a.m.
Dulles International Airport

A woman in line with us expresses shock and disbelief that her luggage hasn't been searched yet. We gently remind her that she is only twenty feet inside the airport terminal; that there will be plenty of opportunities for her bag to be searched. She calms down a bit.

When we reach the check-in counter, our bags aren't searched, at least not in our presence (I'll find a very different procedure later in the week).

The woman who wanted her bag to be searched has a very grave expression on her face. (Later, upon arrival in Houston, I'll finally see her cheerful side).

8:40 a.m.
Dulles International Airport

With the sparse crowd in the terminal reflected at the security checkpoint, we don't wait in any lines. My carry-on breezes through the x-ray machine, and I pass through the metal detector quietly. I'm on my way to Atlanta.

10:00 a.m.
Dulles International Airport

By the time I reach the gate, I've lost touch with The Philosopher. I meet the Pizza Delivery Girl.

We make acquaintances when I look-out the terminal window to see if there's an actual airplane attached to the jetway (there isn't, yet). We discuss the on-and-off boyfriend (moron), the high-school sweetheart left behind (true love), and air travel.

Her observations on airline safety are no less profound than The Philosopher's: "I'm going where I'm going. They'll only interfere if I let them."

I learn that Pizza Delivery Girl's early morning flight was canceled, as was the one after it. The paucity of air travelers caused the airline to aggregate several flights into one. I happen to be scheduled on the combined airplane.

As I chat with Pizza Delivery Girl, I'm struck by the fact that I've met and made friends with two strangers this morning. As a practiced introvert, I don't meet people readily (yes, I'm introverted and teach seminars; this would make sense if you attended one of my workshops). Today, I've found two very different, yet interesting and somehow kindred spirits. I've regained collegiate insights on philosophy and young love.

I have to wonder if my fellow passengers aren't bonding more quickly, out of concern, out of patriotism, or out of the simple fact that those placed in similar situations inevitably create uncommon allegiances. Regardless of the reason, I have two new friends, and this seems important to me, even though my confidence in air travel has been broadcast nationwide.

12:20 p.m.
Dulles International Airport

Our airplane pushes-back from the gate on time.

I notice something interesting: As the flight attendant reviews the safety instructions, people listen. Some follow-along on the laminated cards. Nobody chats. Only a few people read their newspapers.

The trip to Atlanta is uneventful. From a window seat, I watch the Chesapeake Bay float by, giving way to the Appalachian foothills and farmlands of the Carolinas. The Philosopher is across the aisle. Pizza Delivery Girl is two rows in front.

Pizza Delivery Girl passes me a cute book on nap-taking techniques. The Philosopher observes that he doesn't need help on taking naps. But he doesn't nap, and neither do I.

We arrive in Atlanta on time.

September 17, 2001
2:00 p.m.
Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport

We arrive to find that the country's busiest airport is no more animated than Dulles was. Had we chosen to do so, The Philosopher and I could've played one-on-one soccer in the concourse. Instead, we have an overpriced lunch. He's continuing to Mississippi to see relatives; I'm continuing to Houston for a seminar. We each have a few spare hours. We discuss Nietzsche.

The Philosopher and I part ways to find our departure gates. I cheat. Something on this day compels me to find fresh air and sunshine; something different than the inside of a sullen airport terminal. I need to escape, if only for a few minutes. I get on the airport train and head to Baggage Claim.

Outside, Hartsfield is sunny, warm, and relatively lifeless. I take a seat on a metal bench and watch a few cars stop and unload passengers. Police officers stroll by and regard me cautiously. After a few minutes, I retreat to the terminal.

Once again, I find security to be rather straightforward. The only shift from the status quo is the requirement for a boarding pass and a photo ID at the security checkpoint. And, of course, the armed police officers. There is no shortage of armed police officers. I'm reminded of the World War Two movies in which the Gestapo asks to "see your papers." No offense, armed police officers: Nobody understands that you need to be there more than I understand that you need to be here. I want you here.

Even more so, however, I want to go back outside. I want a sense of openness, an assurance of freedom.

I catch a train for my gate.

5:40 p.m.
Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport

The airplane headed to Houston is a bit more crowded that the first flight. Just about every seat is occupied. I settle my robust body shape into an aisle seat, grateful that I'm not wedged into the dreaded middle compression cushion.

The dreaded middle is claimed by a Catholic priest.

Father Paul and I become friends quickly. I learn about his Order and his work, which includes a few published books, with more to come. For the second time today, I've met a real, live, published theological philosopher. Had I been searching for signs from above, I might have believed that I was being prompted to gain a greater understanding of mankind and spirituality.

For now, however, there is a lot on my mind, including some issues that don't come to consciousness easily. I buy Fr. Paul a gin and tonic, and have one myself.

Owing to good conversation, we arrive into Houston seemingly minutes later.

September 19, 2001
12:30 p.m.
Houston Hobby Airport

I have a 4:30 flight to Phoenix, and again I arrive substantially early. The airport is moderately busy, but certainly not jam-packed. However, my just-in-case strategy proved fortuitous, as an accommodating ticket agent puts me on an earlier flight. Instead of roaming the hallways of the airport, I'm now a bit rushed to make the gate.

Security is similar to what I'd encountered in Washington and Atlanta. The line is short. I'm delayed by the guy with a belt buckle reminiscent of a WWF prize, as well as the woman who didn't anticipate the requirement to show her ID (despite the giant signs that said, "Have Your ID Ready"). We road warriors refer to line-blockers as "amateurs," and normally give them only a grimacing glance. Later in the trip, amateurs will become the bane of my existence.

At the gate, with a few minutes to catch my breath, I begin a conversation with the vice president of a petroleum company. Our chat continues into the boarding line, where the hazardous materials supervisor joins-in.

At no time in traveling the seminar circuit have I found my fellow travelers so willing and eager to engage in social conversation. Whether this was catharsis or just common courtesy, I'll never know. My new friends and I exchanged business cards, and selected our own seats in a tight radius on the airplane.

There is, we decide, no potential for adverse activities on our flight, at least not if we have anything to say about it. Then we change the subject.

We arrive in Phoenix a few minutes early.

September 20, 2001
4:50 p.m.
Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport

This part of the week's itinerary generates the most concern.

Wrapping-up a Chandler, Arizona training program at 4:30, I'm harried to return a rental car and check-in at the airport for a 6:45 flight. It will only take a minor snag in the system to derail my plans, causing me to miss the last flight to Chicago, where my first workshop with a new customer begins tomorrow morning.

Thankfully, the line to the ticket counter is moderate. After only ten minutes, I find myself face-to-face with a gentleman whose name tag includes the title, "Supervisor." If you've ever been rushed to hit a flight, the word "Supervisor" goes further than Valium toward soothing frazzled nerves.

The supervisor quickly verifies my ticketless ticket, than pauses. "Uh oh," he says.

Great. "Uh oh."

I'm selected for a random bag search.

"Fine," I hope.

"You search my bags," I think.

"And I'll head off to the gate," I plead.

That's not how it works now.

I'm escorted to a series of tables at the end of the ticket counter, where young women dressed in contract security uniforms are rummaging through luggage.

It is quite a spectacle: As passengers look-on anxiously, the insecure-looking security people spread-out and poke-through underwear, souvenirs, and dirty laundry.

"Next," the young woman says. She sprinkles talc on her hands and snaps-on a fresh set of latex gloves. My suitcase hits the table with a thud.

"I have to take everything out of your bags," she says. "I hope you don't mind."

I don't mind. I suspect it would be a problem to mind.

It might be embarrassing to have a week's worth of personal effects unfurled on the tabletop before God and fellow passengers, were it not for the woman in front of me. Wearing knee-high lace-up boots, a too-tight tank top and fluorescent hot pants, she seems to promise far more fascinating personal effects than I. Passers-by scrutinize her luggage innards by an estimated ratio of fifty-to-one over mine.

I arrive at the gate in plenty of time to catch my flight, which is then delayed by an hour due to mechanical difficulties.

We arrive in Chicago just before 1:00 in the morning, about 45 minutes late.

September 21, 2001
1:30 p.m.
Chicago Midway Airport

Lulled into a state of complacency by the week's scanty airport crowds and fast-moving security processes, I stop on my way to Midway to enjoy a leisurely lunch at a mom-and-pop diner.

I've made a mistake.

I need every second of my two-and-a-half-hour time buffer to reach a 4:00 flight on time.

The line to the airline ticket counter spills outside the regular ribbon queues, circles around the far side of the terminal, and stretches half the length of the building. Hundreds of people are in front of me. Only a few positions at the ticket counter are staffed. The ticket agents themselves are hand-searching almost every bag.

It isn't possible to avoid witnessing what's happening at the ticket counter. A young man traveling to college brings a stereo system in a cardboard box. The box is searched, then meticulously resealed, at a cost of fifteen minutes. I wonder how many customers could've been served if that kid had shipped his stereo by UPS. A young couple plays slap-and-tickle while searching for their IDs at the counter. They cost everybody in line at least a few minutes. Another gentleman chooses this as a good time to try to renegotiate his ticket price. More time.

It takes slightly more than an hour to reach a ticket agent. Of course, my luggage is searched. The two-and-a-half-hour time surplus is reduced to slightly more than an hour. I run to the next overstuffed line.

The security checkpoint looks a lot like the ticket line. There, with my wristwatch running at double-time, I silently lose patience with amateurs. We lose a significant amount of time to the guy with the giant set of keys in his pocket and the person who forgets where she'd put her airline ticket. I do the math while waiting in line: If 1,000 people log-jammed the lines at Midway by 30 seconds each that day, it cost other travelers a cumulative eight hours. Amateurs.

By the time I clear security, my time surplus has eroded to a deficit. I make the flight, but barely.

6:45 p.m.
Baltimore Washington International Airport

The flight arrives a bit early, owing to an easterly landing that didn't require a half-orbit around the airport.

BWI looks... well... normal. There is as much activity as you might expect on a Friday evening, both incoming and outgoing. This casual gauge of airport activity isn't to suggest that air travel is back to normal, but it does jibe with the week's informal observations: After a dismal, stark beginning, the skies seem to be filling again.

Epilogue

As we repopulate the airways, it seems reasonable to assume that the lengthy security delays predicted in mid-September will become manifest in the days ahead. The breeze I rode through Dulles, Atlanta, and Houston may have been anomalous; the Midway obstacle course I endured at week's end may be the norm in days ahead.

Through it all, I found that an uncommon spirit exists in my fellow travelers today. There is a new camaraderie-perhaps even a need to create short-term bonds. I have never learned as much, met so many people, or formed so many friendships as I did in the first week of "reinstated" air travel.

To The Philosopher, The Pizza Delivery Girl, The Priest, The Petroleum VP, and the HAZMAT Professional: Thank you. I'm home now. I'm fine. I trust that you are, too. And I'll see you next trip.

To the Chicago cop I overheard complaining her about sore feet: Hang in there. Mine are sore, too. And I'll see you next trip.

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