LH Franz My return flight was earlier than Betsy’s. We hugged good bye, and she went back to sleep. Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I navigated the streets to the Roissybus stop, streets which just a few days ago had seemed so new and foreign.
This time, I checked my bag voluntarily and was relatively unencumbered walking around the airport. I had a stopover in Montreal, then on to New Jersey. My premium economy seat was as expected, complete with the bottled water and a little pouch of toiletries.
My laptop was loaded with Stanley Kubrick movies. I thought of watching The Shining, then looked around to note who might be able to see my screen from behind me. There, across the aisle one row back, sat a sweet looking little girl of about eight or nine. I thought of the scene in the movie with two little girls of that age, axed and bloodied, their dead bodies strewn over a hallway. I thought of the scene where Nicholson’s character goes into Room 237 and that weirdness with the naked woman in the bathtub. I thought of Shelly Duval screaming in terror as her crazy husband axes his way through the bathroom door. So ixnay on The Shining. Clockwork Orange? Stupid thought! Ah! Dr. Strangelove! Definitely a visually safe film. And after that, 2001: A Space Odyssey. Those movies, plus the diversions provided by food and snacks and bathroom breaks and nodding off got me to Montreal fairly comfortably.
I had a little over an hour between arrival from Paris and departure to New Jersey. Although the flight from Paris was a little late, I still could have had enough time to make the flight.
It was not to be.
I have Global Entry status entering the USA, and I had thought there were Global Entry kiosks at Montreal. When I asked however, everyone steered me to kiosks that simply let you into Canada. I still needed to go through a full-blown security check to get on the plane to the United States. The whole drill: Shoes and electronics in separate bins, coats and jackets in separate bins. There were exactly two carry-on scanners, two metal detectors, and, most importantly for me, no full body scanner. When I presented the little card showing that I have an artificial hip, I was directed to a young woman with a hand-held metal detector. I held up my arms as instructed. She waved the contraption over my body. It obediently screamed obnoxiously when she waved it over my hip. But then it sounded when she waved it over my chest. “That would be the underwires in my bra,” I explained.
No response, except to say, “Please turn around.”
I turned around. Her metal detector now found the metal hooks in the back of my bra. “Those would be the hooks,” I said.
“Please turn around.”
She scanned my bust again, bringing the device closer to my body, which again reacted to the underwires.
“Please turn around.”
She scanned my back again, yet again locating the metal hooks in the back.
“Please turn around.”
And again, bringing the device closer still, brushing against my breasts, resulting in the same obnoxious sound.
“Please turn around.”
Yep, the hooks were still there.
At this point, I saw people staring and wondering. Women, I hoped, would have recognized the situation for what it was: Underwire brassieres setting off metal detectors. But the men? And children? Should I ask what she was doing? Holding on to the hope that I might just make my flight, I didn’t want to risk any more delay. (After returning home, I did some research and found that this underwire bra experience is common. I vowed to never wear underwires through airport security again.)
After the third scan, I was allowed to proceed. But that did not release me to go to the gate. There was yet another line where I had to present my passport and boarding pass, leading me to a waiting area where the names of passengers displayed in green or red on electronic boards on the wall. Once your name was in green, you were allowed through to the departure gates. Good security, I thought, but will I make my flight? I had minutes to spare. There was still hope.
As it turned out, my gate was wa-a-a-a-y at the other end of the concourse, and my fast walking to that gate chewed up all of my spare minutes and then some. At the gate, out of breath, I showed my boarding pass and asked, “Am in the right place?”
“Yes. But your flight has left.”
“What should I do?” I was practically crying. “My flight from Paris was late and security was mercilessly slow.”
They sent me to the customer service desk wa-a-a-ay back at the beginning of the concourse, where I got a boarding pass on the next flight leaving for New Jersey. My luggage would be redirected. With the new flight number and arrival time, I installed my original US network SIM card into my phone. It found the network right away. I texted the new arrival information to husband.
This flight was without incident, although I did have an annoying seat mate, a young man overly impressed with himself who felt the need to tell me all about his life.
I ignored him, but that was OK. Kind of rude, I guess, but he didn’t seem to notice. Well, it was only an hour.
My smiling husband was there waiting for me at baggage claim.
