We left about on-time. 11:30 a.m., for a 3:20 p.m. flight, with the airport but half an hour away. Life in the New America.
Of course, we still had to make a stop at the post office to pick up postcard stamps and mail off something I’d sold through Amazon.com. And stop by the ATM to pick up some folding money. Still, as it worked out, we got there in plenty of time.
There is now a cursory vehicle search at DIA before you get to the parking structure (it appeared to be only for vehicles going into the parking structure, not those going to the outer lots). A couple of questions, a quick look in the back of the van. Of course, Margie, Katherine and I don’t exactly fit the profile for suicide bombers, but, still …
The lines at the ticket counter were pretty normal. The lines at the security checkpoints were, alas, not. In the past, the lines usually went about five or six deep — ten to twenty deep during really busy periods. For those familiar with DIA, these lines ran back to the ATM/payphone structure, and beyond, through some corded switchbacks, back and forth. We heard later it ran about 40 minutes to get through.
Later, you ask? Well, thereby hangs a tale.
Margie is the politest, friendliest, nicest person in the world. That is axiomatic. She is also cut-throat at cutting corners, getting away with things, and being an all-around effective dealer with life’s more interesting situations.
So we’re off on this flight on a companion fare. Dr. J. is paying my way, since I’m ostensibly here to go to the Gartner Group shindig. Margie’s folks found out about this special deal through her mom’s bank, or through some agency, or through American Express, or some such thing (and my very lack of knowledge in this is evidence enough that Margie deserves all the credit) that basically gave us free companion fares if we booked through some particular agency. Cool. So Margie’s down here free.
Ah, but what of the third member of our trio. Well, had it been me making the reservations, we’d have been out Katherine’s ticket, too. Not Margie. She notes that flights are often not full, and usually a duo is on an aisle-and-window, with the middle seat vacant. So we go on that assumption, carrying the car seat, as though we’re going to sit Katherine there. If it turns out there’s no room, we check the seat at the Jetway, and Katherine sits in our laps. If there is room, we’re in Fat City.
So we head for the back of the long, switchbacky security line. And the very nice US Marshall (based on her jacket) says, “Oh, with a seat, go ahead and step through the line there.” Ah. The car seat is too big to go through the normal scanner, so it has to be screened separately. Some of the other Marshalls we meet (who are all quick to notice we’re going the wrong way) are not so sure, but they accept the other Marshall’s judgment.
We end up bypassing the entire line. Once the security guard is done with the wheelchair bound lady ahead of us, we hand off the car seat to her, and then step back into the line at the front. Wa-hoo!
Of course, I end up having to go through twice. Because, in the New New World Order, my notebook has to be taken out of its briefcase and run through separately. Ditto my Palm and my cell phone. And my wallet, but I ignore that one and nobody catches me at it. No more handing things past the personal X-ray. If it causes a beep, it should be put in one of the buckets and sent through the conveyor belt. Wow.
There are certainly more security types at the checkpoint than before. As well, there are Marshalls, various other uniformed police types, and two gents in fatigues with M16 rifles slung over their backs. They are having a fun time, so I don’t feel particularly intimidated, but, then, I’m not the guilty man fleeing where no man pursueth, either.
They do not check our boarding passes at the security checkpoint. On the other hand, Aunt Louise and Uncle Frim aren’t going to stand in a 40 minute line to go meet the kids arriving.
So we find our way to the gate at 1:05 p.m., over two hours before flight time. For those who make use of DIA, it sounds like the way to go (if you don’t have a car seat) is to take the bridge from the terminal to Concourse A (95% of the folks at the airport are not aware of this bridge) and go through the checkpoint there. Five minutes, from what we heard. Then elevator down to the train and pick it up to Concourses B or C, if you’re not flying out of A. Much easier.
Now for the real sweats.
So, as I mentioned, Margie had only booked two tickets. Well, when we checked in, we didn’t have assigned seats. So we ended up in Way-Hell-And-Gone F and Different-Row-Still-Further-Back D. Bad news, folks. Not only did we not have a third seat between us, we weren’t even seated together. So the 40 minutes we saved at Security might have turned into an hour and a half of one-of-is-stuck-with-the-kid-on-our-lap Hell.
And we were in the same boat on the second leg, from Dallas to Orlando. Yeesh.
Did I mention above how Margie is the Nicest Person in the World. And how she can also be the Most Cut-throat Person in the World? Combine those two features. Send her up to the gate counter with Katherine in her arms. Is the plane really that full? Is there anywhere we could at least be seated together? Eyelashes bat. Baby smiles. Gate attendant smiles back, finds us a pair of seats with an empty one in-between.
And Margie wonders why I ask her to make phone calls to vendors and the like. She is a goddess, that’s all there is to it.
She also notices that there are plastic knives still being offered at the Mexican restaurant there on Concourse C.
We board on time, and take off without any sort of heart-rending speech by the pilot. The plane is fairly full, but we have the car seat, Squiggy in it, and seats of our own, and, aside from a bottle of laudanum for the Kitten, we are off.