Falafel, the TSA, & the NYC Bellman's Union

"Getting there is half the fun." ~ Anonymous

Whoever said that has never stood in a TSA line. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We enjoyed spending time with #1 Daughter & Daughter-in-law on Friday night. Then on Saturday, our day began with a delightful breakfast at Coffee Zone in Columbia, MO. It's a funky, atmospheric place with an amazing selection of exotic coffees and has become something of a breakfast tradition for the four of us. 

I reveled in a smooth cup of Kona coffee and the Arabic breakfast platter which features falafel, warm pita bread, sour cream, feta cheese, olives, onions, cucumbers and tomatoes (which I slide over to the DH's plate because I regard those red fruits/vegetables as being of the Devil.) But the rest of the plate is scrummy!

The DH had a Mediterranean omelet plate and as you can see, suffered no ill effects from consuming my tomatoes.

After breakfast, #1 Daughter took us to the St. Louis airport about two hours away and dropped us off to catch out flight. We checked our big suitcases curbside and discovered our plane departed from Gate A2--not a long walk. So I politely declined the wheel chair that's always offered when people see Herkimer, my portable oxygen concentrator, and we strolled at a leisurely pace toward our gate.

Somehow, when I'm in an airport, I can pretend I'm not different from any other traveler with a rolling carry-on. Except I'm connected to mine with 7 feet of clear plastic tubing.

All was going well. I put my liquids, laptop and shoes in a bin and hoisted my other roller bag onto the conveyor to be x-rayed. Then I pointed out to the TSA agent that I had a portable oxygen concentrator and would probably need to be wanded because they wouldn't want me to take Herkimer into the body scanner with me. He asked me to step aside while he called someone to come tend to me. Since our stuff was already disappearing into the long dark tunnel, the DH had to go on through to collect it all on the other side. 

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I was offered a chair. Which I politely declined because I figured it would be much easier for them to forget about me if I sat down. Turns out, they were quite capable of forgetting me while I stood up. Evidently none of the dozen or so TSA agents milling around the gates were authorized to deal with me. 

Finally, I offered to disconnect from Herkimer for the short time it would take me to go through the full body scanner. I could leave my supplemental O2 for that long, but then they wanted me to put my canula in a germy bin and run it through the xray instead of leaving it attached to my face.

It's a CLEAR PLASTIC TUBE!!!!! They don't need to x-ray it to see there's nothing in it but air.   

One of the agents offered to carry it for me in her blue-gloved hands, and I agreed, but then she let one end of it drop to the surely filthy floor and I had to get a new one out once I was reunited with the DH and our stuff. But in the meantime, without supplemental O2, I went the scanner that everyone goes through, and then was subjected to an additional pat down, during which I was made to remove the suspicious cough drops in my pocket.

If I'd accepted the wheelchair, I'd have been practically waved through. 

Instead I was breathless, frustrated and embarrassed. All I wanted to do was feel a little bit normal. As if I'm just like anybody else getting ready to board their flight. Any time I can forget I have a lung disease and act like an ordinary person, it's a small personal victory and I rejoice in those moments.

This episode was an epic fail.

Fortunately, our travel went up from there. The plane was late, but that's okay. The main thing is we had a lovely, unremarkable flight and I had a chance to read for a couple of uninterrupted hours. 

On approach to the Big Apple

When we arrived at the baggage pick-up in NYC, we were greeted by a Cunard representative who led us to our waiting car. The driver whisked us from Queens to Manhattan and our hotel. The car had barely come to a stop when the Hilton baggage handlers were there to unload us. Before we knew it, all our luggage was on a trolley being rushed away. We were given a ticket in exchange and told to give it to the clerk once we registered for our room. 

I've never had my baggage taken from  me completely at a hotel before. Usually the handlers stay with us through check in and then follow us to our final destination. Instead, we signed in and went empty-handed to our room after being assured that the bellman would bring the bags shortly.

Shortly is a relative term. 

The DH went down to see why the delay and offered to collect our stuff. He was told only a bellman could handle our bags.

Okey-dokey.

I'm sure it wasn't as long as if felt, but until we board the ship and unpack, I feel adrift, not sure where any of our stuff is. It was a tremendous relief when the bags all came back to us just fine.

Thanks to our friendly neighborhood Bellman.

PS. It's Sunday morning July 28th now. I overheard something at breakfast that I'd like to pass on to you now. It was from a large Italian fellow talking to his tablemate.

"I send big hearts to you."

There was nothing remotely emoji-ish about it. He clearly meant to convey affection.  As we embark on this lovely adventure, I'm adopting that sentiment. I send big hearts to you all. (Try to imagine it with an Italian accent. Trust me. It's better!)