By Stephanie Abbajay

Air travel has become one of the most feared modes of transportation. Increased security, terrorism threats and airline cutbacks have conspired to make the once glamorous field of flying an exasperating and frightening ordeal. But to me, the most fearsome thing about flying isn’t the possibility of a crash landing or a mid-air explosion, it’s watching the baggage handlers.

Before Sept. 11, you checked your bag with a ticket agent who placed it gently on a conveyor belt, while you watched it slide gracefully and quietly away through a little curtained door to. Now you must personally deliver your bag to a grumpy TSA employee who obviously hates you.

There are three things you never want to see: dog food being made, a Brazilian bikini wax and a baggage handler loading your bag. At JFK recently, I watched two baggage handlers pick up bags from point A and then take a running start as they threw – literally threw—the luggage into the gaping maw of a giant garage door size conveyor belt. These guys were throwing the bags like they were contestants in a keg toss on ESPN II, with the luggage landing with a sickening thud. I stood there next to my bag, watching as they “handled” other people’s luggage. They saw me watching them, with an expression of horror on my face, and they both smiled coyly, as if to say “What are you gonna do?’ I smiled weakly and walked away, saying a silent good bye to my bag. I just couldn’t watch.

But the fun of flying is just beginning, for next up is the security checkpoint. This is where the real anxiety begins because clearly there are people who have no idea that they will have to pass through security and an x-ray machine, and so they arrive with lace-up boots, a big silver belt buckle, a giant metal watch, a Zippo lighter, a pocket knife, enough change to feed all the meters in downtown Chicago, a camera with real film, a laptop, an iPod and other items that must be removed, examined and placed in separate bins. Other passengers stand by and watch, thinking the less of those who came so laden down.

But seasoned or not, no matter how lightly you travel, all air passengers are in the same boat. We all have to endure having our personal belongings pawed over and put on full display. We all have to suffer the same indignity of getting semi-undressed in front of perfect strangers. And God forbid you forget to put your lip balm or hand sanitizer in a Zip-loc bag. You will face the wrath of the TSA and your fellow travelers who look at you like you are an idiot. Worse than the rules, though, are the rule breakers, and those who argue with the TSA agents over putting their items in a clear baggie. These people are obviously insane for, in this age of heightened security, who in their right mind would argue with a federal agent over a bottle of lotion, even if it is Lancome?

If your last name is Smith or Jones, you will probably sail right through security. But if your last name is, say, Abbajay, it’s a different story. Four times in the past year I have been flagged for additional security, which means my boarding pass is circled in heavy red marker and I am pulled out of line in front of everyone by an agent who shouts, “Extra security here! Female passenger!” as I am led away, checks blazing. At Reagan National in Washington, D.C. a few weeks ago, I was pulled out and placed in a locked glass cubicle in the middle of the security area, like a criminal in a Baghdad courtroom. I know it’s all standard operating procedure and I am happy to comply with TSA regulations, but there were hundreds of passengers looking at me as I stood there, embarrassed and alone inside that locked cubicle. “I am not a terrorist!” I wanted to scream. “So I’m Lebanese, so what? I am a 42-year old mother of two from Dow, Illinois! Stop looking at me! I remembered my Zip-loc!”

Security dealt with, it’s time for the final chapter in the travel horror show: the boarding. There is always enough room for everyone on the plane, and yet there is always that nervous rush to line up first. We jockey for position. We eye each other’s carry-ons and look accusingly and disapprovingly at those who have brought weird items, like huge poster tubes or gigantic sombreros from Mexico. There are the people who brazenly bringing more than their fair share on board. This makes my sister crazy and she spends her time in the waiting area quietly rebuking the other passengers for their selfish ways. “She knows that’s not going to fit in the overhead,” my sister will hiss in a stage whisper. “Who does she think she is?”

And then you take your seat. The pouch in front of you is filled with the previous passenger’s garbage. Someone has already done the crossword in the air magazine. The overheads are full. The person next to you smells and won’t open the window shade, so you are sure to miss the aerial view of the Arch. You close your eyes, take several deep breaths and remind yourself that there is always the beverage service to look forward to. That, at least, hasn’t changed.

Stephanie Abbajay is a columnist for the Jersey County Journal.

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