Peak holiday season approaches and with it the anticipation of getting away. What soon tarnishes the gilt on the gingerbread is the ordeal of getting there.
As a teenager I fell in love with an airline advertising poster – a rear view of an elegantly wasp-waisted woman stepping airily in very high heels across the tarmac towards a sleek, streamlined airliner, carrying nothing but a dainty little vanity case – the epitome of glamour. My first flight at fifteen bore little resemblance to it, nor has any flight since. We ought to be grateful for cheap air travel for the masses, but at what cost to time, temper and patience? Hedged about with so many sanctions, we’re reduced to the status of cattle. Every journey is ruined by a compulsory period trapped in the seventh circle of Hell that is ‘security’.
Here we are burdened like pack mules, zigzagging at snail’s pace through a maze of lanes towards a battery of blank-eyed operatives whose word is law. Despite frequent public announcements and the example of civilly compliant half-clad people all around them, the folks in front of me are standing still fully-clothed and unprepared. It’s a miracle they’re not rugby-tackled to the ground and forcibly stripped by the people behind who are coming to a slow boil. We have ample time to observe the grubby trays our belongings must be placed in, the dirty floor we must traverse barefoot and the close attention paid to our little plastic bag of liquids, pastes and creams (not exceeding 100mls) which has unaccountably popped open and will not reseal.
Such a miserly cosmetic allowance could only have been decided upon by men. However strategically packed, that pathetic little bag doesn’t contain more than a third of my cosmetic necessities. I can’t afford to go anywhere for more than five days or I run out of my face. When this farcical system was first implemented, I bought 100ml approved travel-size empties and obligingly decanted lotions, potions and serums into them, only to find myself taken aside every trip to stand in shame while my anonymous containers were opened and tested for authenticity. The tiny pot of powdered charcoal ‘for bright white teeth’ nearly got me arrested. And of course my replacement hip joints invariably set off the body scanner.
Mercifully released to the Other Side, I sit among luggage, grizzling children and people who keep one anxious eye on the departures board, even though their flight is an hour hence. Forget duty free. Pointless for the perfumeless to buy a big bargain bottle that won’t be allowed on the flight back home. ‘Bing-bong!’ There’s a concerted rush to the departure gate, inconveniently located miles away on the other side of the airport.
Now, here’s a thing. Since all seating is already designated, what is the point of booking ‘speedy boarding’ or queueing to embark with people sneaking up to get ahead? Boarding called generates another surge, only to stand some more on the concrete stairs with a wind blowing in from the runway that would clean corn. In the 2hrs 45mins since I arrived at the airport, the weather has changed. It’s raining. My umbrella is in my case in the hold and I’m in the log-jam on the aircraft steps because people inside are blocking the aisles while leisurely stowing cabin baggage aloft, folding coats, leaping up again to get their glasses/purses/mobiles out of their pockets/handbags and I’m getting thoroughly sodden. Admitted at last to the coral-lipsticked smile of the flight attendant, I discover a man who can’t differentiate between C and D in my seat and have to give him the death stare. Such are the culturally enriching fruits of travel.
I read with interest that to reduce security queues, 3D scanners capable of scanning liquids in situ in people’s luggage are to be installed – but not until 2022. A novel, if expensive way of reducing plastic bag use. Alas, change is not necessarily progress. The 100ml restriction will remain. Aww… have a heart. Some of us need all the cosmetic help we can get……
