Speaker 1: I grew up among Christian people in the Midwest, Polite,
soft spoken, avoiding outbursts of anger. We only raged inwardly.
We weren't complainers. We knew we weren't a great civilization
like Greece. But their god Zeus was often violent, a
god of thunder and lightning, liable to wreak destruction at
any moment. We were gentle, as our God told us
to be. We believed in an orderly world. This all
came crashing down last Monday night at JFK when I
boarded a Delta flight to Seattle around five pm. I
consider JFK to be as close to a prison camp
as I care to get. The Delta terminal is vast
and crowded, ugly, endless lines at ticketing TSA agents whose
badge entitles them to freely express hostility and contempt, miles
of concourses lined with souvenir shops, the smell of bad food.
Naming the airport for our late, lamented president did him
no service. We boarded the plane and sat at the
gate for awhile, and then pulled out and sat on
the tarmac. A massive storm was moving east. The pilot
came on the horn every fifteen minutes to apologize for
the delay and say that air traffic control had no
idea when, if ever, we might leave. Five became six
p m. And then almost seven, when suddenly he said
we were clear to go, and the plane sprinted toward
the runway. But something changed. We were too late, and
we returned to the gate canceled. We spilled out on
to concourse. B got into a mighty river of canceled
people heading for a Delta's service desk, and got into line.
The line seemed to stretch a half mile and move
about a quarter mile an hour. Maybe less complex negotiations
were taking place far ahead of us. Word was passed
down the line that Tuesday flights were selling out, that
I might not reach Seattle until Wednesday. News passed that
it might take hours to retrieve checked luggage. I saw
some families with little kids looking for a friendly area
to bed down for the night. Some older kids seemed
to see it as an adventure. The parents did not.
I felt for them. You've taken the kiddos on a
trip to the Big Apple to visit Grandpa and Gagam,
and you saw Coney Island and the zoo you picnic
in the park, and now you've exhausted their hospitality, and
your credit cards were worn thin, and you must now
face a night sleeping on the floor. The allure of
travel ended a day ago, and now you are in Alcatraz.
Your children will grow up wanting never to leave their rooms.
I had it for baggage claim, and there was a
scene of emotional turmoil. Long lines had turned into a
mob facing three uniform Delta ladies who had no idea
where or when or if your luggage might appear. It
might be two or three hours. One of them said,
if you're rebooked, your luggage will be automatically routed to
the new flight. She said, but most of the mobsters
had not been rebooked. They were New Yorkers who wanted
to grab their bags and go home. Give us your
claim checks and we'll have people look for them two
or three hours. The New Yorkers could not accept this.
She tried to explain that dozens of planeloads of people
were in the same boat. It was a huge storm.
You can't fly into thunder and lightning. The New Yorkers
didn't buy this. It was a Greek drama. Before my eyes,
women drawn to a career in travel and the prestige
of a nice uniform, facing a horde of murderous barbarians
demanding the release of hostage luggage. I am eighty two
years old. I'm a college graduate and episcopalian, a former
radio broadcaster, the author of novels, essays, sonnets, limericks, and
my days of standing in long lines for hours ended
long ago. If when I die, I face a long
line at the gates of Heaven, I will consider alternatives.
I left the terminal, got a cab rode back to Manhattan,
took an elevator to the twelfth floor, opened the door,
and crawled into bed next to my wife, who recognized
me right away as the love of her life. A
man can ask for no more. Luggage became the last
thing on my mind. Let God and my travel agent Camille,
find a way. I closed my eyes. There is no place,
no place like home. Think hard before you leave it.