A Weary Traveler

Incredibly as it may sound, there are a few differences between living in Montana, Memphis, and New York. Among these differences are the quality of service, or the lack there of, and the quirks attributed to the airport experience in each place.

Since 9/11, certain safety measures have been put into place, which, as we all know, are kind-of a pain in the ass. The levels to which these ‘safety’ measures are employed speak volumes about a city. Take the security to get into the terminal, for example.

In Montana, they make sure you take off your shoes, belts, coats, discard any liquids (apologetically), etc.. They then help you grab your shoes, hand you your coat, run after people who have mistakenly left their cell phone, and encourage you to have a nice flight.

In Memphis, they ignore you, don’t care if you take your shoes off, talk to one another as your things move through the security check-point, and steal your cell phone.

In New York, they are quite friendly, but more than strict. They hold 80 year old grandfathers under tight scrutiny for their pacemakers, glare menacingly at anyone who attempts to come close to getting in line with a bottle of water, announce repeatedly to take off your shoes, belts, and the like, and dissect every item that passes through security. Once through, however, they smile, tell you to have a good flight, and joke with you as you struggle to grab all your things amid the crowd of travelers.

Another great example of the differences attributed to each city, is the gathering of your luggage after a flight.

In Montana, the guy who checks you in also; directs the plane to its parking spot, pushes the ladder into place, and loads and unloads the luggage. All this occurs on time, and you may wait 15 to 20 minutes to gather your bags after a rather disturbing flight (another post entirely).

In Memphis, you exit the plane to an empty terminal after roughly 8pm, or a busy one between the hours of 11am and 8pm. Either way, you will walk a couple miles to an old escalator, which drives you down to the basement for storage. If you’re lucky, they’ll remember they perhaps stored a few travelers in the basement who may have brought something in the hold of maybe one of those flying machines out there, and maybe you might like it back, eventually, when they get around to it, and if you’re lucky.

In New York, you walk briskly through a never-ending stream of people to a luggage carrousel that is clearly too small for the population. You wait 5 people deep for your bag, trying to see your bag, hoping that is your bag, desperately struggling for that bag, then collapsing just short of that bag to wait another go around…if that was your bag.