We Made It

But Airport Nerds Are Correct And I Finally Concede Defeat—Which Type Are You? [Please Go Easy On Us Late Birds In Comments]

Lewis, Albaicín, Granada, this morning, watching birds

[I traveled overseas, arriving yesterday, and this is the first semi-official “travel piece” that I hope will begin to seed our “travel magazine.”]

I have a lot to tell you all, now that I am no longer silently hysterical (over a period of weeks) to make that all important flight, with Lewis, from Newark to Malaga, May 29, 5:55 pm.

I stopped communicating as if I were deceased practically. Didn’t say goodbye to anybody, and feel bad about it but I had to do it that way.

I had to pretend I was not leaving. The pressure, the vanishing sand-clock egg timer was tormenting me with growing nervousness for weeks, as I calculated mentally so many object, tasks, things to do, somehow making it just in the absolute nick of time.

And how close was it?

If we’re going to have a travel magazine, we must be candid, so I’ll go first.

How close was it?

They had…removed my bags from the United Airlines airplane.

I may as well tell you the whole story.

Airport Nerds Vs. Airport Sinners

“If you never miss a flight, you’re spending too much of your life in airports.” *

—Barry Farber

[I’ve changed sides. With all respect to my late father, and his convention-flouting ways, which we all have in our family, I’m now a card-carrying “airport nerd.” Never again, is all I can say.]

Check In—So Far So Good, But Don’t Get Too Confident

I was so proud of myself that I was fully checked in 1 hour and 20 minutes before the flight yesterday, from Newark to Málaga. I felt like a champion. I was beaming.

But it turned out that was not enough, not nearly, and I have to concede 100 points to team “that’s not enough time” when the boring subject of how much time to leave for airport stuff comes up.

They win.

Checking in “on time” (by my standards) is only your first hurdle.

Your true enemy is the airport security line.

At Newark, yesterday afternoon, it was longer and slower than any writer good or bad could ever describe, despite the biggest travel day of the year besides Thanksgiving (ie Memorial Day) being behind us.

It was so long, and it moved so slow, it almost defied belief. “This can’t be right” I kept thinking. “I could actually miss my flight.

And yet, I started out thinking a whole hour and 20 minutes until departure from check in was a solid amount of time. Almost like a proper, “normal” person would do it. Not quite but…I was sure I was ok.

Then the dread set in, on the slow as molasses security line. I needed help, some kind of extraction from this line. They would surely not want to have to pull my bags, I reasoned. Surely they would work with me.

After about 20 minutes I began to seek to make verbal contact with airport workers stationed about, to plead for some kind of assistance. Mostly: No response. One, a woman, finally said, “Let me see what I can do,” and then vanished as soundlessly as though she had been a ghost, and maybe she was. Or a figment of my imagination: A Newark Airport employee who actually would try to intervene in the positive.

As the line progressed, I eventually made verbal contact with two guards—one at the passport box— both told me I had “plenty of time,” when I told then what time my flight was leaving.

I did have plenty of time, in fact. If things had been normal.

But my huge, near fatal mistake was to underestimate how long it would take to get an airport worker to walk me and Lewis to a room a few feet away where they would take his carrier, go x ray it, and bring it back. Just that was a solid 20 minutes, just the waiting.

In tears, I asked an airport worker who was attending to people all around me but not to me: “The person who’s coming for me, is he… on his way?” His reply made me so happy to be leaving America I would have paddled me and Lewis in a canoe if I had to. (I don’t “hate” America, but this particular quality drives me insane. By “this particular quality” I mean a strange kind of spiteful indolence expressed with such determinism on the job, whatever the job may be.)

Staring straight ahead, his thumbs hooked into his power uniform, he said, “Nnnnnnope. I haven’t even called for him yet.” He was truly asserting his power, but not his professional pride in his job.

Does anybody, anymore?

In that moment, when he said, “Nnnnnope…” what seemed to me to be a faintly sadistic grin passed over his face.

When at long last the correct officer showed up, I had understood that my pleas meant nothing so I stopped begging, and went into disassociated resignation.

Here’s where a bit of dark comedy comes in.

The USDA Pet Travel Document Industrial Complex and Scam

I’d been on “Lion Diet,” for two weeks prior, in order to maximize my chances to (have brain clarity to) get everything right with the USDA, and two vets—to get Lewis sorted out for travel to Spain. And yes, I did have to submit him to one rabies shot. I tried to work around it, calling vets who claimed to be able to measure titers etc, but finally, with precisely the requisite 21 days to spare before landing, I got it done. ($300) Then off to a different vet to pay close to $1,000 for just the health check and the USDA document processing. I walked to a Fed Ex with a sheet of instructions how to purchase the correct label and so on and so on. There was no question I would receive the documents by Fed Ex before our travel date. I even got the phone call telling me all was on track 3 days prior.

Only problem was, it didn’t happen. The documents didn’t arrive on the scheduled day. When I had 1.5 hrs before I had to leave for the airport, I called Vet #2. They traced it, apologized, and confirmed it had been “picked up.” I asked if she could send whatever documents she had access to and decided to just print it out and act confident.

This was what I was expecting my Travel Trauma to be: That I would be halted for not having the USDA originals, only PDF prints, and we would be denied travel on one side or the other.

But I made a decision not to “worry,” because I will never willfully become a slave to bureaucracy, which I consider the root Demon of the downfall of the United States. It seeped into every pore while patriotic Americans were all primed to be on the lookout for “communism.” (Same thing, at root.)

Our friend Robertini went to the copy shop for me as I whirled around the apartment in that final hour. “Tell them to use some kind of heavy paper, like government paper, like paper…I don’t know, paper that looks really official somehow.”

“Ok,” he said, blessedly not asking me any questions about what I meant.

When he returned with the documents, I felt confident. Surely, on the Spanish side, they would not be able to discern the difference between these documents, from the US—original vs. printed copy?

Travel and Neuro-Diversity—Only One Magazine Gets It

OCD, ADHD, and C-PTSD are kissing cousins in the neuro-scape, and both flare hideously when it’s time to travel. It means not being able to stop completely unnecessary thoughts and actions when you are trying to jump over a time fence. Our “travel magazine” is going to cater directly to readers who have one, two, or all three of these syndromes. Every other travel magazine has left us all in the abyss—no help at all. We are different. We empathize.

Moving myself and my cat to Spain, pruning “stuff,” making 1000 decisions, dealing with the supernatural, hostile funnel of time, space, stuff, and the dreaded moment of NO MORE TIME—it’s truly my worst fear, short of the pole shift.

Imagine me at 20 minutes after drop dead departure time, still removing kitchen utensils from my suitcase, in order to close it, muttering at Robertini.

I’d asked Robert to be a “Nazi” and make us leave by 3 but no “Nazi” has been invented that can make me just stop and get out the door.

My sister, Bibi, had been by my side for days, assuring me I was courageous to do this, and trying to help me separate compulsive actions from rational actions. On the day of departure, she had to work so kindly asked our good friend Robertini to take her car and drive us to the airport. He’s one of the funniest people we have ever known, and used to be able to walk up and down stairs on his hands.

Irish family of 9.

I did not tell him the truth about what time the flight left, I sort of deflected, as I figured it would be better if only one of us were panicking.

Newark Airport: What Exactly Are Your Hiring Guidelines?

So, cut back to the scene with the sadistic airport security guy at Newark, staring into space and saying he had not yet called for the correct officer to walk us 10 feet, after we’d stood there for 20 mins.

Here’s why “airport nerds” are correct, 100% of the time, and my type are wrong; and I’m not trying to flatter the other side, but to actually, and humbly, concede defeat on a major lifelong schism.

You want to make the world up as you wish it to be, eh?

I understand, but please don’t.

At the same time, let’s limit how much we all verbalize travel “worries” which can, if permitted, come to eclipse all the joys of travel.

I felt so rotten, Godforsaken, and helpless, in that spot, biting my knuckle, watching them wave through every other person all around me, including a woman with a dog, and all kinds of people with special requests.

Just not me and Lewis.

And this is why airport nerds are correct 100% of the time. Because there is so much straaaaange, irrational psychology floating around airports. One hour and 20 minutes is not one hour to clear security and get to your gate. It’s one hour and twenty minutes of surreal chaos, some kind of odyssey full of entities sent to test you.

The Race To The Gate

(Lewis Still Thinks I’m Perfect)

The correct person finally came and waved us through, and took us to a room, where they asked me to remove Lewis, went and x-rayed his travel carrier, and returned. They asked no questions and we were not accused of having any communicable diseases, either of us. They only needed to make sure there were no explosives in Lewis’ mesh carrier.

The run, saddled with very heavy carry-on, and Lewis, and a long stretch to the gate, was abysmal. I was groaning under the weight, trying to “run” but being too burdened. My throat was dry and I didn't understand what could possibly be happening to us.

Airport Miracle—And Let’s Hear It For United

A man appeared with a walkie talkie and asked if I might be Celia.

I wished I weren’t but I croaked: “Yes.”

Finally, a sign of a civilization.

“I’ll call the gate,” he said—this angel of mercy. I’d probably asked six people if anybody could call the gate and they all had said no.

Then he said: “Don’t run! You’re ok. You’re fine.”

Well, I loved him for saying that but it was not accurate.

Once at the gate, they told me they had… removed my bags.

It was the end of my life. I’d ruined absolutely everything by not leaving even 30 minutes sooner.

Then suddenly, a miracle: Somebody said they had decided to put my bags back on.

And they waved us through.

[I have no paid sponsors but I would like to pause here and declare lifelong devotion to United Airlines.]

We boarded. I was soaked in sweat, a beam of shame, and trying not to cry. United Airlines staff were extremely friendly, actually, and very reassuring.

(My antipathy is strictly limited to the Newark Airport security staff.) (And of course, myself.)

As I trundled down the aisle with Lewis and my carry-on, a man got up to help me. He was traveling with his wife, daughter, and three cats, and they had spent the previous night in the airport, partly due to a storm but also because he checked his passport, by accident, in his suitcase. And he was half German!

I love people who do things I have not yet done, because it gives me a rare chance to feel more organized than thou. We all became friends on the flight, and became known as “the cat people.”

I watched The Godfather on the flight, and also spoke to a man from Lithuania seated in my row—this conversation is for another piece of writing in the future.

My Son Asked A Good Question

Jet-lagged and ecstatic, sitting yesterday, at a restaurant across from the Alhambra, with my son, as sparrows grabbed bits of paella rice in their beaks right off the plate, my son asked: “Did you ever consider asking anybody on the line if you could jump ahead?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” I answered, “I grew up in a secular post-Lutheran society* where it is better to lose everything you have than be late to an airport and then ask other people to compensate for you. The shame is too deep. It’s almost better to die.”

Imagining….silent voices, scowling faces: “Oh so you’re late. And show up, and then you think the world revolves around you! No. You take your place like everybody else.”

That’s what was drummed into me in my formative years.

Maybe it’s a better idea for me to learn to leave for the airport on time.

Which means hours earlier than you think “on time” means.

At least one conflict has been resolved: Airport Nerds win.

Help From Strangers

On the conveyor belt, at Málaga Costa Del Sol airport, my suitcase had actually ripped, and stuff was coming out of it.

100% of the time I land in Spain, I encounter a kind person who helps me with something, though I never ask. This time, it was the man next to me, who saw my broken suitcase, and told me he had tape. He then pulled out a roll of transparent packing tape and handed it to me, whereupon I taped my suitcase together. We chatted about strange conduct at airports, and he seemed to think Spain was bad too, but I told him at Newark they don’t even answer you, at all, when you speak to them. “Like a prison,” I said. He was saying people had gotten really slow and incompetent, all over the world. There was a pause and then I said: “I think it could be from the Covid vaccines.” I was too jet-lagged not to say that, but usually I don't.

To my surprise, he said: “I think you could be right.”

Then he told me this incredibly sad thing: His very healthy mother had three shots, and died within days of the third; His wife had three shots, died within two weeks of the third, and he himself was given two, and pleaded for his life, during a hospital stay, not to have to take a third, so they backed off.

Remember the days, years ago, when people chatted about weather and traffic at airport luggage belts? I had chosen to believe people were not dying so much in Spain, based on wishful thinking, which we have all elevated to an art form since 2020.

Despite his losses, he was kind enough to offer me tape at that moment.

I would have liked to imagine him going home to have dinner with his wife and his mother, but they’re gone.

And we are left with the sheer “ordinariness” of these “stories” told at conveyor belts at airports, in taxis, on trains. The sucker punch, shock, horror, has faded, as it all seems so inexplicably “normal,” in 2024.

Bureaucracy Is Sometimes Imaginary

I was behind the line to exit, clear customs, etc, with my cat people friends, and they’d shown me how to put Lewis on my back like a backpack. Suddenly, everything changed. I can’t say how exactly.

The uniforms are much nicer here—all the uniforms, from police, Guardia Civil, airport security…and everybody looks healthy. People know what is going on, and are part of a collective organism.

I had my passport stamped, and started walking, now with a luggage cart, and Lewis on my back. I stood in some kind of line, intending to clear Lewis, and began to pray (again) for the talismanic powers of the copies of the USDA documents, now somewhat wrinkled from spilled water. I followed the flow, walked past a bunch of uniformed men and women, and found myself on the other side of two vast sliding glass doors.

Nothing.

We were now on the other side.

Nobody checked the USDA documents. They could not have cared less.

I pushed on through, stunned, until I saw my son standing waving to me.

Part of me wanted to present my USDA papers and be sort of blessed by some officialdom, for all my efforts. But another part of me lit up internally with hope.

You see, I have a secret theory of “hopium” when we speak of what “they” are going to do to us—the next lockdown, the potential zombie rise of the WHO Pandemic Treaty, and all the rest. My secret theory is that bureaucracy loves to get lots of money, and lots of power, and get itself into all kinds of fizz, in the phases where it is brandishing its absurd “power” and instructing us all of its latest threats. Their endless meetings, money heists, grandstanding, virtue signaling—

That all is not equal to what they can, or are likely to execute.

My “hopium” rests in my personal theory that they threaten, self fund, and ordain way more than they execute.

I mean no insult to the truly persecuted, past, present, or future, by seeming to make a comparison between an airport clearance for a cat and somebody being taken to a labor camp: The flex point remains the same. They can’t fully pull it off.

Ever. I think I dare say “ever.”

Dr. Meryl Nass says, “Go ahead and celebrate,” James Ruguski says: “It’s not over.”

Do we pick a side? I feel I owe them each (and I know they are in conflict) a debt of gratitude, and if I have to pick one, I pick Meryl Nass. Because our beliefs coalesce into “reality.” Because we really need the boost right now. Or maybe, just because I’m exhausted. I have been thinking about these ghastly people (WHO etc) since the late 80s, and I feel a strong urge to not have to anymore.

(Hence: The Travel Magazine. Dream or Reality?)

How does a mother lift a truck off her child, only when the truck is pinning her child—no other time?

“We lean toward freedom, so say the white sails.”

—Tomas Tranströmer

Coda: When I got to Granada, I all but kissed the ground. It was some kind of holiday, which occasioned women and girls dressing in full flamenco dress, and streets were packed, and the windows festooned with Spanish flags. My phone died, so I got no pictures of this festivity, but later in the evening, seeking to stay awake a few more hours, I went out and saw a few, still on the almost empty streets, and got some shots.

My daughter-in-law Paula had said in a message some days ago, wishing me strength during the packing: “Just remember that you are coming home.”

In that moment, I decided it was so.

After festivities, Calle Angel Ganivet, Granada, Spain, May 29, 2024

—Celia Farber

Endnotes:

*Sweden