Better pack your patience

“Sorry, my foot was in your way,” I yelled out after the large black suitcase that just ran over my little toe. Trailing behind the tall lady in the Armani suit was an overstuffed behemoth on two wheels. The Samsonite suitcase was pushing her at breakneck speed helplessly in its grasp along the concourse. The beastly bag seemed to have a will of its own.

An unwilling accomplice to the menacing valise, the nice lady with long flowing red hair threw up her right hand and gestured without slowing down or turning her head. She acknowledged the fact that her evil suitcase had just injured yet another passenger at Hartsfield/Jackson/Washington/Lincoln airport.

Unable to control the bag, it pushed the Armani suit towards ticketing at breakneck speed. Weaving in and out of the sea of passengers, and with no regards for their safety, the menacing bag ran over several other unknowing feet, making its way towards its finally destination – the international gate.

As it screeched around the final corner and disappeared from view, the foreign bound bag inflicted one last bit of pain as it toppled a toddler. The bag made a clean escape as it pushed the tall red-head down the entry ramp — leaving the crying youngster and his screaming mother in its wake.

But this wasn’t the end of my experience with unruly suitcases on the busiest flying day at the airport. Our wonderful travel experience to visit The Wife’s folks was just getting started. We still had to make it through security. Having arrived two hours before our assigned departure, surely we had ample time to make it through security. Or so you’d think.

The line for security stretched from the check points, down three hallways and through the food court before it snaked its way around each carousel in baggage claim — ending at the ticket counters where we stood. As I limped past, a dull throbbing pain radiated up from my little toe – a result of its encounter with the rogue suitcase.

I looked up and suddenly stopped walking, squeezing The Wife’s arm as I pointed. A cold shiver ran down my spine. The carousels were filled with unclaimed, unruly, overstuffed bags — just looking for toes to overrun.

After 30 minutes of standing in line, the throbbing from my little toe had just about subsided as we made our way out of baggage claim without incident. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no bags had jumped off the carousels and were following, I bumped into my Christmas present — a 42-inch Samsung plasma television.

We had reached the security labyrinth. It had not one, but 10 plasma televisions, all hanging from the ceiling. Each was stuck on the same channel broadcasting information on how to make our wait in the security line more pleasant. After four cups of coffee, a large cinnamon roll and a Dr. Pepper, I told one of the security guards I knew how to make waiting in the line more pleasant: change the channel to football and install a bathroom.

The comment prompted the first of two elbows in the ribs I received whilst in line. Both issued not from burly security guards, but from The Wife. The second jabbing elbow came when the new 3-1-1 regulations about carry-on fluids flashed on the plasma screens. It now seems you can only carry containers of liquid that are three ounces or less, all crammed into one clear, quart, Zip-Lock bag and only one bag per person.

I had just finished reading the message when a lady walked past us carrying an infant. The air that wafted after the baby just about made me pass out. That’s when I turned and said, “That woman’s going to have a hard time getting past security with that baby.” The Wife arched her eyebrow, questioning with a slant, as I continued, “I’m sure her baby must have more than three ounces stowed away in his diaper.”

After the second elbow to the ribs, we took off our shoes, belts, watches and emptied our pockets. Placing our stuff in bins, I watched as they slowly rolled through the x-ray machine, along with some small carry-on suitcases.

We walked the rest of the way through the security screening barefooted. Collecting our stuff on the other side of the checkpoint, we made our way over to a bench to put our shoes back on but not before one of those carry-on suitcases found my little toe again.

Finally, we found our gate and boarded our flight just in time to – you guessed it – sit in yet another line as we waited to take off. An hour and a half later we landed in D.C., home of our nation’s capital and The Wife’s folks. This time, there was no waiting in line at baggage claim; somehow our baggage had made an earlier flight and was waiting patiently for us.

Her folks picked us up at the airport and for the next three days were extremely hospitable. I raked leaves with her dad, cleaned out his gutters, nailed one back onto the house, chatted about quantum physics and string theory (her dad is a retired nuclear physicist), and Mr. Parker.

Mr. Parker has lived at the end of the cul-de-sac for 36 years. For the last 34 of those 36 years, he’s complained about leaves in the street. It seems The Wife’s dad rakes his leaves and piles them up on the curb. As I raked them down the hill and out into the street, he explained, “It keeps the college kids from parking in front of the house.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but I think as an added bonus, it gives Mr. Parker something to complain about. After all, The Wife’s dad is president of the homeowners association. And we all know, if you’re president, you can do just about anything you want. Besides, who in their right mind thinks they are going to argue and win with a retired nuclear physicist?

With the work finished on the outside, the perfect hostess, The Wife’s mom, entertained us on the inside. She chatted with her daughter, getting her caught up on what friends and relatives were doing. She prepared snacks, wonderful lunches and proudly displayed family photo albums. And yes, The Wife was just as adorable when she was a little girl as she is all grown-up.

Our trip ended as it began, with us standing in line at the airport, but this time I was prepared for any evil suitcases. I looked down at my newly-acquired footwear and smiled. Before we had left the house, her dad had taken me to the basement where he has just about everything. A minimalist, he is not. He gave me a pair of steel-toed WWI boots.