Tag: Travel

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The American West has so many National Parks that Bob and I decided to buy the National Park Senior Pass that gives you access to all them from coast to coast. Joshua Tree, located a short 2 hours drive away from San Diego, is one we have missed but that had come to us highly recommended, so, given we had a cat sitter, we decided to see what all the fuss was about.

It really is a just a bunch of Joshua Trees in the middle of some rock formations. Wait, I must correct myself there is also a lot of desert sand. A very monochromatic landscape. Endlessly. Or at least endlessly within the confines of the Joshua Tree National Park.

The Park was remarkably similar from entrance to exit. It was difficult to determine what we were supposed to be looking at. In most National Parks, you see a swarm of people looking in a direction, you turn to where they are looking and pretty quickly figure out what the attraction is. In Joshua Tree I would try to determine what people were looking at and I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out what it was. It finally dawned on me that it was these fairly pedestrian rock formations and Joshua’s Trees. Oh, and I can’t forget the desert sand. Endlessly.

Let me tell you I am not an anti-rock formation kind of guy here either. I have been to Arches National Park in Utah and those rock formations were something to gaze at. The ones in Joshua Tree, on the other hand, are something you could easily see driving in eastern San Diego County.

I did have one important takeaway. I was reminded that I wouldn’t have lasted 10 minutes on the wagon train west.

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Aerial flying airplane and sky landscape close-up in China

I have this phobia about air travel. I am pretty certain that one day it will break me and I will end up on one of those videos of air travel meltdowns. Don’t get me wrong, I think these people are behaving like assholes and, by and large, deserve whatever justice was meted out to them. On the other hand, flying is both stressful and uncomfortable. There really is nothing good that can be said about it except that it can be fast if going long distances. I have pretty much given up on it for short distances (1 to 1 1/2hours via a plane) because rarely is enough time saved to warrant the stress endured.

Air travel is an odd combination of urgent deadlines and long stretches of boredom. At first, it is all a rush. Making sure your house is in order (iron turned off, plants watered), checking if you have everything you need (passports, luggage, boarding passes, prescription medicine), then getting transportation to airport in a timely fashion, weighing in traffic and time of day, getting everything out of transportation and into the airport. Rush, rush, rush.

Once you reach airport you still have the flight departure time to worry about so you are still in a rush but you must wait in a series of lines. This leaves you in a state of anxiety because your fellow passengers seem to always have problems that causes every clerk for the airline to huddle around the computer trying to figure out what to do for them. Or these passengers might be looking blankly into the the easy-to-use check-in technology wondering what to do next, trying to get the attention of the clerk who is helping someone else. Leaving you waiting and wondering what could be taking them so long? In the end it doesn’t matter because you have to wait for them no matter what. So your body waits while your mind is rushing on to the next step.

Which is security. You think about all the things that you will need to get through security — ID, boarding pass, have you removed everything that will set off the scanners? You try to be ready, coins out of pockets, technology out of carry-ons, shoes and belts off. Putting my ID and boarding passes in an easy accessible place. Then you wait in a line that resembles cows going to the slaughter. Once you have run the security gauntlet, you then have to then collect everything you put on through the scanner and put them back in the right place for you to retrieve if you need again.

Then it is a race to the gate which is rarely outside of security and almost always a mile hike through a crowded airport full of confused people. It may also require a decision. Is it faster to take the airport tram or is it just easier to walk to the gate. If you take the tram, you wonder is this the right tram? Is the tram going in the right direction? Maybe I should just walk and forget the tram. Whatever you do, you will be wrong and by the time you get to the gate, sweat is dripping off you because you either ran to the gate or you worried so much about the tram getting you there on time.

Then you wait at the gate. Mostly because you arrived at the airport so fucking early because you didn’t want to feel rushed. Now you are bored. So you try to eat and pee because you don’t know when you are going to be able to do either again. Wait some more. When your flight is finally called, you wait in another line to board. Once on board, you have struggle to find overhead space, under the seat space, retrieve any items in your carry-on that might relieve the next hours of endless boredom. Once seated you resign yourself to being crammed, into a space, that lets face it, no human being should have to endure. I don’t really now what configuration of 3 people can sit comfortably in an economy seat in a modern airplane, but I have yet to experience it.

And this is if everything goes right. Throw in flight delays, missed connections, and cancelled flights and the stress becomes even more intense. So while I can’t approve of these people’s meltdown behavior, I can fully appreciate snapping at some point during the air travel experience. Indeed, I am surprised that airport meltdowns aren’t more frequent. All of which to say that I might be persuaded to wear a t-shirt with your company logo on it for a price because when I do breakdown I am fairly certain there will be an internet video involved because if I am going to be banned from air travel for good, I am going to make my rants and raves worthwhile. So even though I will be ranting and raving, I will guarantee that my t-shirt will get the needed attention it deserves. Keep in mind, there is no such thing as bad publicity.

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Bob and I recently stayed at a hotel in Hollywood. By and large, it was a good experience. The bill, however, was irritating because the rate changed by $100 based on resort fees and parking fees. I understand why the parking fees might be separate as there are some guests who don’t bring a car.

But resort fees are 100% deception. There is no good reason for them. The guest has to pay them regardless if they used the gym or the pool or whatever amenity the hotel decides to put into the resort fee. So whether you used the resort amenities or not, you are on the hook for paying for them. What is the point of causing all this confusion at checkout? Bob remembers standing in a checkout line where the four people that proceeded him were arguing about the resort fees. Why not just include the resort fee in the hotel rate thus avoiding this problem for both guests and staff at the end of the stay?

I really thought the must be a good reason but, as of yet, the only thing I can find is deception. The resort fee hides a portion of the room rate to the customer. The guest thinks that they are paying $200 for their room but when they depart they are actually paying $250 after the resort fee is added. Many customers don’t discover this until they are leaving the hotel. So why do hotels risk pissing off their customers with this silly trick while also taxing their staff with explaining the bill to angry guests? Why not just include it in the rate?

Because it brings in revenue. In 2015, resort fees brought in 2.47 billion dollars. What is worse, as I looked into resort fees, it is even more deceptive than tricky customers into booking at a low rate and charging a higher one at check out. It is also a way to avoid paying taxes. Hotel occupancy taxes are usually higher than the regular sales tax. The quoted rate is charged the occupancy tax while the resort fee is given the lower sales tax. If the hotel is particularly crafty, they then can charge the higher tax on the resort fee while only being charged the sales tax by the government. The hotel then pockets the difference. The guest is screwed and the government is screwed. Who checks their bill for the correct tax being charged? Who would even know that a difference tax should be charged? Who even knows what the local tax rate should be? I wouldn’t until now.

Furthermore, the hotel only has to pay commission to travel professionals who book their hotels on the room rate and not the resort fee. I don’t know what else to say about this. They are ripping off their travel partners. If I were Kayak, Expedia or Priceline, it would make me a little leery of the hotels that use this practice. Where else are they being shifty about? It doesn’t exactly give one confidence in the veracity of the hotel.

The most irritating thing about resort fees is there is no justifiable reason to have them other than deception. Hotels are being deceitful to their guests and to travel professionals. They are making their staff defend a deceptive practice and they might even be engaging in a little tax evasion. Why is such a clearly deceptive practice still legal?

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I have a trick ankle that can give out for no good reason, so, even though I enjoy history, climbing through an ancient pile of rubble* presents a unique problem for me. I want to see the rubble but I also don’t want to break any bones while imbibing my whim. Even as a young man of 17, when climbing the temple steps in Teotihuacan in Mexico I saw the danger. These steps might have been suitable for the ancient Aztecs but are impossible for the modern foot. They simply do not accommodate the entire foot. This required me to either angle my foot in such a way that my foot would fit on the entire step or only using only half of my foot to push up to the next step. Either practice could easily collapse my ankle, sending me tumbling down the stone edifice. The further up the stairs I got, the more terrified I became as I stupidly turned around to see how far I’ve climbed and saw the distance I would fall. Long enough to break a lot of bones and maybe even kill me.

But nothing exceeds the pure terror of the Acropolis which combines uneven rocky pavement with terrifying heights. If I could take my time, focus on each step and climb, I think I would have been fine. The Acropolis, however, has the added danger of knowledge hungry tourists. There is a sort of pathway to the top but it is strewn with large rocks and small ones and it is all up. The further you go, the longer the fall. This is daunting enough but then you add hundreds of tourists racing around me with only one thing on their mind — getting to the top before I did. Somehow the beauty of the Acropolis is enjoyed much more if you get to the top before a struggling old man. Once I get to the top there is no time to rest enjoy the beautiful view and the old rubble. The pathways going from ruble to rubble are rocky and uneven. There are unsecured stones and pillars laying this way and that. I am questioning whether it is worth the possible danger to my body to see the ancient world. Although I did think of my million dollar idea while thinking about it — a stand renting football helmets and pads for worried travelers would give those people an added measure of security.

*Thanks to Ted Shifrin for correcting my spelling of rubble. I had ruble.

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I have a trick ankle. It even gives out on me when I am standing still. For most of my life, it was a minor nuisance and hasn’t stopped me from traveling the world. Indeed, I have taken spills at many of the great tourist destinations with the attendant scrapes and bruises that accompany such tumbles. These were minor inconveniences and well worth suffering through to see the wonders of the world. I have reached an age when I can say I have see a lot of the world and I am now more worried about my bones than seeing the great sites. I have had to make some difficult decisions.

Uneven pavement is one of the gravest dangers for people with a trick ankle. The cobblestone street is, by far, the most uneven pavement known to man. Why people think cobblestone streets are charming is beyond me. I see a mine field. Any misplaced step on an awkwardly placed stone can send me tumbling to the rocky pavement below. There is a hugely different experience between you body falling on stones and falling on asphalt. Before I can cross a cobblestone street, I study it to find the flattest possible path across. Invariably I didn’t study the street hard enough because I find myself stranded in the middle of the road facing horribly mismatched stones and wonder what next.

Why cities continue to use these death traps is a mystery to me. Where is the charm? It is a bunch of stones, of various sizes and shapes, thrown down onto a street (see below). Why is this charming? I have been told it is history. Cobblestone streets are a part of history. Well, so are outdoor toilets and I don’t hear people clamoring to keep them to preserve the historical integrity of the neighborhood. After streetlights and electricity were integrated into the modern city, concerns regarding historical integrity were abandoned years ago. So why not consider cobblestone streets the outhouses of roads and apply a thick coat of asphalt to make these roads more walkable and safe.

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We are trying to buy train tickets with the Spanish Rail online system. I get all the way to the point of purchase and when I try to buy, for some unknown reason, the system fails and delivers an ambiguous error message – something to the effect system unable to complete transaction, please try again later. Thinking that there is something wrong with the internet or the Spanish Rail’s computer system or there is a bird sitting on the cable line, I try again later. The sell fails again with the same message. I try again later. And again, the purchase fails. Thinking that there is something wrong with my computer or my browser or I am simply too blind to see what I am doing wrong, I ask Bob to try. Fresh eyes, you know. He, unfortunately, has exactly the same response.

First we are not technophobes. We embrace new technology. We bank, shop, communicate on line. We very rarely chuck it all in and call for help. When we do call, we really have tried everything. We search for a very well hidden customer support line. I always think it I am just one link away from finding the information I need, so I never give up looking no matter how long it takes. Finally, after about 30 minutes of searching we locate a phone number. It, however, is a Spanish phone number and not a toll free American number. We decide to wait until we get to Spain to purchase tickets. No big deal.

We arrive in Barcelona. Both of us, at different times, attempt to buy tickets. Both of us fail miserably when we try to purchase. It is the same ambiguous message so we don’t know what our mistake is or how to correct. We check with the clerk at our hotel. He is young and we, or at least to his eyes, are old. He gives you that condescending look that says, “OK Grandpa, this is going to take me about 10 seconds to figure out and you are going to look so dumb when I tell you what you did wrong.” I grit my teeth and wait for his help. He keys in all the information. Tappity, tip, tap – faster than the speed of light, one handed and holding a piece of paper with our details, the other hand typing. I am indeed impressed. He has my full confidence that he will figure it all out.

When he tries to purchases, the sale fails. His face looks perplexed. How could this be? He tries again. He fails again. And again, and again he fails. We tell him that is exactly what happened to us. He now believes we have a genuine problem instead of a user problem. He calls Customer Support for Spanish Rail. He gives our details to the agent. The purchase fails for her. The desk clerk explains that is exactly what happened to him and to us. She puts the clerk on hold in order that she can check into the error messages and determine what the ambiguous messages mean. After a few minutes, she explains that the problem is that we need a pin code for our credit card and because we aren’t entering it, our credit card company is rejecting it.

Which is weird because I called the credit card company before I left and let them know we would be travelling in Europe and what countries we would be going to. Additionally, I have used the credit card all over the globe and I never had to enter a pin number before, indeed in the last week we have used the credit card in Greece, Montenegro and Italy. Furthermore, why now, at the end of our trip, is the credit company requiring it? This is said, of course, to the hotel clerk in well thought out clear statements that takes about five minutes for me to relay. In agitated Spanish, he relays this information to the customer service agent in about 10 seconds. I hadn’t realized that Spanish translations of English were so concise.

She can’t explain why but she does know that a pin number is what we need. We explain that we don’t have a pin number for this credit card because we only charge purchases to it and never use a pin. She doesn’t know what to do, so she thinks it is best that we make the purchase at the computer kiosk at the train station. No not that. We try to get her to book tickets for us. She explains that unless we have a pin number, she can’t help us. Then why would booking at the computer kiosk at the train station be any better, Bob asks.  Because there are Spanish Rail employees walking around the train station and, if they see us in trouble at the computer kiosk they will be able to assist us. This makes no sense whatsoever if what we need is a pin number. But, we are beaten down and decide to go to the train station.

In order to get to the train station, we need to use the Barcelona Metro. This means buying tickets at a computer kiosk because this Metro stop has no ticket sellers. We start out well, using the English instructions on how to buy tickets. But soon enough our first roadblock is put up. Our options for tickets are an all day ticket, a multiple-day ticket, a packet of 10 trips, to a ticket to Barcelona Airport. We are unable to locate a round trip ticket to a specific point on the Barcelona Metro. We see no help. After several frustrated attempts to find what we are looking for, we decide to buy the full day pass. We get to the point of purchase and the sale fails. The failure message is in Spanish and the screen instructions now turn back to Spanish and all of our previous information is deleted. We have start again.

Bob spies a young man standing next us who is having trouble as well. He knows the trick to get help. He presses a small red button on the wall which brings out a Metro official. We wait patiently as she helps him with his problem. We grab her before she can slip back into the bowels of the Barcelona Metro. We explain our problem and tells us our problem is that we need a pin number in order to approve the sale. I realize that our debit cards have pin numbers and I tell Bob that this is the solution to both of our problems. I used my debit card, type in my pin number and voila we have two round trip Metro tickets to the train station.

Armed with this new knowledge, we confidently ride to the Barcelona train station. There are more computer kiosks at the train station than slot machines at a Las Vegas casino. Row after row, lining the center of the station, every empty space had a computer kiosk near by. We stride up to one, type in our details, use our debit card with pin numbers and confirm our round trip tickets to San Sebastian. The screen prompts me for the PIN number. YES, I have one. Tappity, tip, tap. We are on our way. I enter the pin and depress enter. The same ambiguous error message appears. “But we have a pin number,” I scream. We go looking for help. Which, after all, was the main reason we came all the way to the Barcelona train station in the first place. All the help we would receive from the Spanish Rail clerks that were all hanging out there just waiting to help frustrated passengers. But they weren’t any. We stand at computer kiosk. I wave my hand like a drowning man going down for the third time. Blub. Blub. No help.

Bob gets in the ticket line and I get in the information line. Bob’s line moves faster and he joins me with the news. He was told that they were only selling tickets for today’s trains at the ticket desk, that, if we had a trip for a future date, we needed to use the computer kiosk. Bob tells the guy that we had been trying but we had problems. He said go back to computer kiosks, try again, and that there were Spanish Rail customer service agents walking around the computer kiosks who can help us. Bob explained that nobody seemed to help us and we definitely needed help. The ticket agent assured Bob that someone would eventually help us and to go back to the computer kiosk.

I am deflated, as I am certain that I will get exactly the same response from the Information Desk clerk. As I am now at the front of the information line, I figure it is worth a try. I explain my dilemma. The woman kindly tells me to go to the computer kiosk and somebody would help me. I explained that we had already tried and nobody came to help. As if she doesn’t believe me, she stands up at her position, cranes her neck and does a 180 degree scan of the station floor, trying to find us help. She finds no one. YES. Finally. Surely she will have to help because we are obviously passengers in trouble and there is no one to help us. NO. She directs us to return to the computer kiosks and says that there is someone out there and they will eventually come find me. But where? She says that, and, on this point, I completely believe her, the Customer Service agent is probably helping someone else.

We return to the computer kiosk and try to book our tickets. I get so fast that I can race through the first seven or so steps in seconds because I have memorized them due to the screen returning to the first step every time a sale fails. Bob looks around for help. I curse, I scream, I sweat profusely, doing everything I know to look like a customer in distress, hoping that my performance would capture the attention of the customer service agent. My performance fails miserably. No one comes to our aid. “Don’t I look like I am having trouble with the computer?” I ask Bob. “Maybe you should cry or something?” I try but I can’t. I am too damn mad to cry. I do loudly declaim, “Can someone please take my money? I just want to give someone my money so I can get some damn train tickets.” Nobody is listening.

After several attempts at trying to book round trip tickets, which is what I want, I try booking a one-way ticket which would, at least, get us to San Sebastian. Which, to my surprise, works. I can’t believe it. Two one way tickets pop out of the machine. I am overwhelmed with joy. I want to cry. Then Bob reminds me that we still need return tickets but I push him out of the way. I am so happy that I grab the tickets, spin around like a movie star in a musical and the camera is watching me from above. I dance, I sing. Nobody in the Barcelona Train station notices.

For the record, we spent 2 hours in the USA trying , we spent another two hours trying in Barcelona, the hotel clerk tried to help us for another hour, then we spent 20 minutes buying our Metro ticket, then a 20 minutes trip to the train station and then another hour and half fighting the computer kiosks – it took us a grand total of 7 hours and 10 minutes to book one half of our round trip train ticket to San Sebastian. Our return trip took all of 2 minutes to book. The San Sebastian train station is much smaller than the Barcelona station and the man at the ticket booth was happy to book our return tickets for us.

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Is it my imagination or has American Customs and Immigration become needlessly slow with long lines, redundant tasks, and baffling processes that seems to have no benefit, certainly for the traveller, but also to the agencies gathering the information.

Here is my recent experience.

Bob and I land in Atlanta at 2:30PM. Our flight to San Diego leaves at 6:10. This leaves a comfortable three and half hours layover at Hartsfield. We even joke about having too much time for a layover.

Our gate is approximately a ten minute walk to the Immigration line entrance. Not a bad idea after being on a plane for 9 hours and restrooms at nice intervals. So far so good.

We read the entrance to line. There is a very sensible division American/Canadian/Green card holders/ Visa holders go to the right and all other passport holders go to the left. I understand perfectly. Or do I? I move to the right where a woman in uniform tells me I need to go to the left. I explain that I am an American and point to the sign. She gives me the tired and frustrated look of an overworked bureaucrat who has been asked the same question all day is extremely irritated to have to reply for the thousandth time. “And I am telling you today you need to go to the left.” She didn’t look like someone in the mood for a follow up question; we moved to the line on the left.

It is 2:45PM

I am worried because I can see passport holder on the right with theirAmerican passports. On the plus side, the line is moving reasonably fast, and we spy another Customs official at the front of this line who seems to be giving instructions to people when they reach him. We have plenty of time and can afford a few minutes in the wrong line and he will move us to correct line and all will be well.

The line snakes through like an amusement park line with cut backs at a rapid enough clip to maintain my confidence that this will all be over soon. We finally reach the front of the line where I explain we are Americans. The man tells me to get into the line on the right. I stifle an urge to ask why the other Customs official told us to get into the line on the left as we have spent the last 15 minutes in the wrong line, only be told now to join the correct line for American passport holders. However I confused I am, I know enough not to challenge a bureaucrat under stress. This could put me in a very long line to nowhere. More importantly, I am confident that we are now in the correct line.

It is 3:00PM

The line slows significantly with short spurts of movement interspersed with long spans of gridlock. Still, with two hours to go, confident that we have plenty of time. While snaking through the line, I reach the point where I would have entered the line 15 minutes earlier. I overhear a young immigration employee asks the uniformed woman who directed everyone to the left “why don’t we just direct American passport holders to the right, why are we telling them to go to the left? This doesn’t make any sense.” YES. I wholeheartedly agree. My ears perk up because, if nothing else, I might get an explanation for this misrouting. Unfortunately, she responds to him in a muted supervisory tone why. I unfortunately am unable to hear her reply. I do, however, feel my sanity is confirmed when the young man, who speaks in much more clearer and louder tone to assist with my eavesdropping, remains unconvinced by her explanation, “ I still don’t understand but whatever you say, you are the boss.”

It is 3:15PM

The line moves forward in fits and starts. A very happy immigration official keeps us entertained by loudly directing us with snappy inspirational instructions and song. He sings, “Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.” He gives jovial instructions and tries to engage us in conversation, “This line is for American passport holders with a Delta connection, tell me what is a Delta connection?” No one responds. “I can’t hear you,” he yells enthusiastically. A few passengers weakly reply not in unison and not very loudly so I am not sure what they say but it seems to satisfy him as he bellows, “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. You flew in on a Delta flight and you are flying out on a Delta flight. I don’t think anyone actually said this but then I couldn’t hear anything. Everyone in this part of the line seems amused with him though as he is trying to lighten the drudgery of standing in a long line for a long time with song, with light hearted questions. I wonder why every customs office doesn’t have such a happy worker greeting incoming passengers.

It is 3:30PM.

We are about six feet from the happy immigration man, I now want to gag him. Or anything that would shut him up. His mouth moves incessantly. An endless flood of words. His ever evolving routine is now about how great Atlanta is and how lucky you are to be in the greatest city in the whole wide world with occasional outbursts of “Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.” His song is like a knife through my tired skull. I, however stifle my irritation, because I am almost to the front of the line. The end is near.

It is 3:45PM.

When I reach the front of the line, I am directed to one of the hundreds of computer terminals. As I don’t travel internationally much, I am unsure what to do. The instructions on the terminal say to insert my passport into a slot to start the process. After several mistakes I manage to get the passport properly slotted and I successfully complete the on line customs form. I am on a roll until the terminal instructs me to use the terminal to take a picture of myself. The instructions are clear. The picture must have my full face with my eyes open looking into the screen. The camera is far from intuitive. In the first picture my forehead is missing. I retake but this time my chin missing. I try again but this one my eyes are closed. I keep taking pictures and discarding, hoping for a full face with my eyes open. Bob comes by to see what is taking me so long. I show him my latest photograph. He says that immigration official told him not to worry about the picture. Just take what I have and get into the next line where an immigration will collect my picture and custom form. I print my picture with my forehead missing and my eyes firmly closed and join yet another line.

It is 4:00PM.

The immigration official doesn’t even look at my photograph. He eyeballs me and then my passport. He decided I matched my passport photo. Now I can’t understand why I took the trouble and time to take a picture in the first place if he wasn’t going to bother to look at. I thought this was the whole point. That there was some computer program that matches this photograph with my immigration photo and determine if they match. I was kind of impressed with all of up-to-date technology made to catch the ne’re-do-wells of the world. But no, I was wrong, it all boiled down to the immigration officials eyeballs. Why did I spend the last 10 minutes taking the picture if it was all up to him in the first place? Time is slipping away so I again skip questioning him about it. We run to collect our baggage which has been on the luggage carousel long enough to gather dust. I pick it up and run a few feet to chuck it onto a conveyer belt in front of about ten customs official who all look like they would rather be having a cigarette. They point me to another line.

It is 4:15PM.

Yes, you heard correctly, another line. Why? I can’t understand. I gave immigration my customs documents and he looked at my passport over and custom guys missed their opportunity to search my luggage as I already sent the luggage back to Delta. Can’t I just run frantically to my gate? What else needs to be done? Bob tells me that we are going through security. Which baffles me. I just got off of a plane which was secure, why do I need to go through security yet again. Because once I left the plane and went to Customs and Immigration, I left a secure environment and entered into an unsecure environment.

Which seems a rather unnecessary step to add to passengers who, after all, are trying to catch a connecting flight. Doesn’t it make more sense to have the hundred or so Immigration and Customs employees go through security when they come to work and just make the Immigration and Customs section of the airport secure? Instead of requiring thousands of already vetted passengers at the nations busiest airport go through security yet again when they are under a looming time crunch to meet their connecting flights? I yell into the abyss and, of course, join the security line.

It is 4:30PM.

I am now getting really worried that we will miss our connecting flight. Other passengers obviously have the same worry, so several passengers take turns going to the TSA official and explaining their concerns. She, after several such encounters, yells out to everyone in the security line that getting out of line and asking her about your looming connecting flight won’t make the line move any faster, just stay in line and TSA will get you through as quickly as possible. I hate to call someone a liar but I will. She is a liar. We could plainly see that, on a rare occasion, someone would come up to her and after irritatingly listening to their query she directs them out of the line into another line which, to my untrained eyes, seems to be moving faster. I wonder what the time threshold for joining the faster line is because very few people are invited in. As we are still over an hour before we need to be at the gate, Bob and I opt to stay in line and keep our fingers crossed. The line moves reasonably fast and we make it through security at 4:45PM where we frantically run to our gate. The good news is I had roughly 10 minutes to toss down a martini before our plane boarded.

Two hours and fifteen minutes.