From the Slow Lane: The infrequent flier: a tale of frustration

At the risk of sounding like a frequent-flying whiner (as opposed to the occasionally flying whiner that I am) I miss the days of flying the friendly skies when the only question a flier had to answer was “coffee or tea?”

Either I have a face that screams “guilty!” or I fit the profile of annoying fliers with big mouths because I’m the one who gets the additional pat-down and/or is asked to step aside “over here, please” so my pockets, purse and person can get a more thorough screening. That’s one of the reasons I often opt for RV travel in the slow lane at 55 mph, as opposed to really fast at 35,000 feet. Yes, it may take me five days to drive cross-country versus five hours to soar above it but at least I won’t have a guard signaling another with a look that clearly says, “Oh boy, I think we got a live one here.”

I have no issues with the extra precautions, especially since 9/11, and I feel safer because of them; however, my problems getting from the ticket counter onto the plane started way before that. I think it was in the early ‘90s that I had my first “situation” when I flew to visit my son, who lived in Key West. On my way to the airport, I bought two big bags of fresh-ground coffee and stuffed them into my luggage, which did not make it to Key West with me; it got held up in Miami. Turns out that ground coffee was what drug traffickers used to fool drug-sniffing dogs at airports.

I did not know that.

The next day when I finally got my luggage, it was obvious that someone had been into my coffee. How else did all that coffee get into my shoes, shorts and delicate unmentionables? I was going to call the airline to complain but my son suggested I might want to keep sort of a low profile since it was pretty obvious that my name was already on the “coffee carriers” list.

Since then I’ve never made it through security without additional “supplemental” pat-downs or having my carry-on luggage run through the x-ray a second time and, even after passing those tests, I often find myself “randomly” culled from the herd during the boarding process.

I’m used to it now and just go with the flow. I can be with a group of 40 people and who’s going to get pulled out of the line and politely requested to “raise your hands over your head”? Moi. Random? I don’t think so. And all because of coffee.

Our most recent trip was in March, to St. Croix. The only problem we had getting there was because I had printed our tickets on the backsides of recycled paper and the scanner couldn’t read our ticket numbers, so boarding was delayed while they were manually entered into the system.

“This is about the coffee isn’t …”

I never got the whole question out because my husband elbowed me in the ribs, a signal to shut up, so I did. We got on the plane without further incident, if you don’t count the fact that the flight attendants kept looking at me as if they suspected I had once been a coffee carrier. My husband said the only reason they were looking at me funny was because I was looking at them funny. Well, yes. Perhaps. But they started it.

Our flight home turned out to be more complicated than using recycled paper. I did not realize that to leave the U.S. Virgin Islands, travelers are sometimes asked to provide passports or birth certificates. We were just there in October and no one had asked for those documents then.

“But … but … I didn’t need them last time,” I said to the woman who examined my ticket and my driver’s license and shook her head, then she looked at me over the tops of her glasses and said, “I don’t care about last time. You need something that proves you’re an American citizen. I need to see proof.”

For a split second I considered responding with, “You don’t need proof. I just said so,” but common sense screamed “Shut up!” as I pulled out my military ID.

Others were starting to pay attention to the unfolding drama and I knew they were thinking, “Oh, goody. Entertainment,” because that’s what I’d be thinking.

My husband’s military ID got the woman’s stamp of approval but not mine. Finally, after I answered more questions in my meekest, most polite, “Mother, may I,” voice, she scribbled her OK on my ticket and suggested that next time I have my passport or my birth certificate with me. I promised her I would and I definitely will.

But I know it’s about the coffee.