Merry Christmas, now give me some Ativan

17 December 2009

Merry Christmas, now give me some Ativan

Through an accident on the Hutchinson Parkway and the cars crawling over the George Washington Bride, I made it to Newark Airport exactly two hours before my flight would depart for Frankfurt. I was quite impressed with my impeccable timing considering I am pretty much always running at least 15 minutes late at any given time—call it Whitehouse time. I was so thankful that the other doctors let me leave the clinic extra early that afternoon otherwise I would have been seriously rushing to make the flight. When I arrived, my dad was waiting at Terminal C to meet me as planned and take the car back home. We hugged hello and then I said, “I have to change my pants real quick in the back seat before I get on the plane.” My dad said, “You can’t do that here! We can not linger too long at the drop off area, the cops will kick us out! Come on, Kate, hurry up!” The police stayed away for the time being…even long enough for us to chat a bit and my dad to hand me an extra duffel bag which he again reminded me I was to fill up with German crafts from the Christmas markets.

When I finally entered Newark Airport, I found it more bustling than ever. My ticket had been booked using my dad’s frequent flier miles so I was also traveling with his “Elite” status. I figured I would fly through the Elite check in area. I was sorely mistaken. There was a short and stout, frazzled, middle-aged woman checking e-tickets at Elite and First Class check-in area—we’ll call her Sylvia. She was being bombarded with rushed and stressed travelers trying to get checked into their flights as fast as humanly possible. She was struggling to turn away half of the passengers, explaining that this area was only for elite and business class, but no one seemed to care. Just as I approached her, I looked down and realized that no where on my e-ticket itinerary did it mention Elite or Platinum status, I did not have high hopes but showed her anyway. “Ma’am this ticket is not Elite! This area is only for Continental Elite members….but you can go through.” As I got into the line, I could hear Sylvia behind me, talking out loud to herself and anyone who would listen, “This area is too full!! Why do they keep sending people here?! No one understands this is elite only!”

Standing in the queue for the next 30 minutes was a study in American culture. It was utter chaos really. The Continental woman, Sylvia, would periodically yell out, “If you are not checked into your flight exactly one hour before departure time, you will not be allowed on. So when you have one hour left, you can move to the front of the line.” As you can imagine, this put a panic into people. Everyone was looking at their watches, discussing their plan of attack for moving themselves, their three babies, and six rolling suitcases to the front of the line.

An Indian family approached Sylvia with their tickets. Apparently Sylvia did not deem them appropriate for Elite/Business check-in. Well this couple was not taking no for an answer. They insisted that they were Elite. Sylvia insisted that if so, their ticket would say it. The Indian woman did not care and proceeded to join the queue. Sylvia responded by putting her arm out in an effort to stop this woman. The woman cried out, “How dare you put your hands on me?! Do not touch me!!” The husband chimed in, in defense, “You should not be touching people! You need to keep your cool.” As ridiculous as it was, I think Sylvia realized that she had to back down from this fight otherwise she’d be paying off her Christmas credit card debt with an unemployment check. She apologized profusely and of course, as was their plan all along, the Indian family joined the line, the wife muttering obscenities about Sylvia under her breath as she walked on.

As I continued to stand in the slow moving line, watching as people checked their watches and then proceeded to break out of the queue and to the front of the line, I saw a woman and her two children join in at the end. The 10 year old daughter said, “Mom! It says this is the Elite line, I don’t think we are supposed to be here!” In a panicked voice with a British accent, the mother responded, “I don’t care! Elite! What does that even mean!?” On a theoretical level I agreed with that, what does it mean? Does it matter how we move people through as long as they get on their flights in a timely and efficient manner?” This British woman was like a lioness on the hunt, they must have been really late for their flight because she was ruthless navigating her way through that line. She hadn’t even been there 5 minutes before she was sneaking her way up to the front with her kids and cart full of baggage. Meanwhile, the passengers around me who had been waiting patiently like myself were becoming enraged. People were cursing about this British woman and others like her who were cutting ahead. They were yelling out to the Continental employees, “Hey! Look! Stop them!!” We were a few screams away from needing riot control.

I was laughing at the whole ridiculous situation with the two men behind me, one of the guys I recognized from work back in the day when I was in pharmaceuticals. His traveling buddy said, “God, I wish I had taken my Ativan before I got on the plane!” Isn’t it sad that we need to resort to self-medicating to deal with public interactions? Aren’t the holidays supposed to be a time when we perform random acts of kindness and appreciate our neighbors and fellow human beings? I had never seen so many stressed out people in one place at one time. I have traveled quite a bit in my day and and this was still the most anxiety filled airport I had ever seen. Was it the holiday rush? The New York City metro culture? An understaffed airport? Here’s my solution: Continous intravenous drip of Xanax or Propofol (à la Michael Jackson) for all holiday travelers. Just kidding. My serious advice: Don’t be late for your flight! Remember to breath! If you can’t handle that, then dose yourself with Xanax and spare the rest of us. I felt the worst for Sylvia, as obnoxious as she was at times, you almost can’t blame her. Dealing with hundreds of highly stressed and angry people at work all day is draining and toxic. I hope Sylvia was able to go home and enjoy a large bottle of wine, a massage from her boyfriend, or just a good yoga class.

In any case, I made it threw unscathed to my gate with plenty of time to spare. Soon I would be in the more civilized and refined continent of Europe. Where queues are respected, patience is a virtue, and life moves at a slower pace. Then if all else failed, there is always a pub around the corner!