Posted on November 20th, 2007 in Axel Night by Axel Night
Content is running slow lately. JD has limited typing capacity until his shoulder heals up, Brick has no functional computer, and I’ve been traveling the world without a laptop. Being the only one physically capable of an actual post, I’m going to spin wild tales of that which I’ve seen the most. And now, the rant stylings of an angry Axel on SFO – San Francisco International Airport.
I have seen the endungeoned walls of SFO many times in my travels. Beyond them, San Francisco is a town of diversity, freedom, parties, and a liberal hive-mind the like of the Borg in drag. Inside, we know only oppression and pain. It’s as if Hitler had built a POW camp in the middle of Las Vegas, and everyone just sort of let it stay there. I dread traveling through it with a passion. Unfortunately, if I wish to take a plane from where I live, I have no choice.
On this particular night, still attempting to validate itself as a morning, my plane landed somewhere at the far end of Terminal 3. I had roughly an hour to make it to the other end of Terminal 1. If you were to look at the map, this wouldn’t seem like such a task.
This map is dangerously misleading, however, and leaves out a few key obstacles. It should look more like this.
Upon my departure from where my plane landed, I quickly began searching for the dark corner where they keep the bus entrance. Often, a bus runs between Terminal 3 and Terminal 1, and if you’re on the approved list, you may ride it, and avoid the hassles. No one in the airport seems to actually know about this bus, and had I not accidentally stumbled upon it one evening, I would not either. My search proved unsuccessful, and I was forced into the walk. I could’ve asked further, but in my many travels through here, the only people I’ve met who seemed to speak a form of English of which my poor hearing and comprehension skills could understand was someone working at an Air Canada desk. They seemed unmanned today, so I went it alone.
After crossing the length of Terminal 1, I and an attractive young blonde reached a door. This was a simple set of doors, actually, one open, with an older woman standing next to it, guarding a single ribbon stretched across the opening. I knew what this was. I had stories of these people. My temporary companion must have not known what she was getting into. She couldn’t have, since she tried to communicate with her.
Attractive Young Blonde: Excuse me, could you point me towards Terminal 1.
Sea Hag: (in an angered tone) Walk ten minutes that way. (points in a vague left direction and opens ribbon to let her through)
Attractive Young Blonde: Will I have to go through security again?
Sea Hag: (angrier) Yes. (breaks eye contact)
Attractive Young Blonde: (said with the concern of one who is in a hurry and may miss her flight) Is there any other way?
In a space of time not measurable by human instruments, the hag debates telling the young woman about the hidden bus. She also considers explaining the location of the tran, which would not avoid security, but would at least save her the walk. Finally, she ponders the idea of ripping out the girl’s young and healthy heart, and consuming it there in the doorway. My presence must have detoured the later.
Sea Hag: (snaps brutally, but makes no eye contact) Walk ten minutes that way!
As I said, I’ve met these creatures many times. Perhaps I should explain how security works in SFO. Each terminal, or little hall on the outskirts of a terminal, has its own security check point. Unlike normal airports, where you pass through security once going to your first flight, then stay in the "security zone" until you reach your final destination, SFO breaks these zones up into tiny, inefficient pieces. While each terminal has only one entrance, through security, there are many exits to accidentally stumble out of. Some are fairly noticeable, like the one mentioned above. Others can be passed through on accident by walking down stairs or the like. At each is posted a single guard, sometimes standing, sometimes sitting at a table in the shadows. Their job is to ensure that once you pass by them, you do not come back in.
One such experience of mine came when I walked down a flight of stairs. An old woman sat fiddling at the bottom with papers, and unwise to this scheme, I thought she was there to be in some way helpful or useful to people. When I realized I’d maybe taken a wrong turn, while standing at the bottom of the stairs, I turned to walk back up. She sprung to life and stood between me and my destination. In broken English, she pointed at the nearby security checkpoint and explained I couldn’t go back. I asked why, since she’d obviously seen me come down, that I couldn’t go back up. She repeated herself like a broken record. In truth, I was actually seeking a different terminal, and going back up wasn’t where I needed to be. I didn’t know this, but suspected it might be the case, and decided to take advantage of her presence and ask her if I should bother with going back in, or if I needed to go elsewhere to get to my terminal. She repeated the only sentence I think she actually knew, and sent me back through security into the wrong terminal. At least two more people would do this to me that day before I reached my flight. It’s a good thing it was a long lay over.
So, I took the long walk through the empty corridors, choosing not to bother with the tran and whatever possible problems it had in store for me. I eventually reached the security check point of Terminal 3. The first phase was a ribbon maze. At the entrance to the maze, a woman checked my boarding pass. I was in the correct place. Thank you. I walked 20 feet, which measured out to about 4 feet, when you take into account I was walking in zig-zags, before another woman stopped me to check it again. Three more women stood between me and the end of the maze, but I would only get checked once more, as two of them were holding a conversation in some language I couldn’t pick out. They were the only people smiling, so I assume it wasn’t about work. My passport was checked again, and this time initialed. Next came a second zig-zag maze of ribbons, with a couple more people standing watch. None stood at the end, but one told me what I made out to be "go to 100".
I got to the end, where there were six lines of metal detectors, four currently working. They were numbered 1 through 6. The number 100 did not play into it, but my direction giver was far enough behind me that she wouldn’t care where I went. I picked the shortest line. No one stood near the line to give me any sort of directions. If I hadn’t done this a dozen times before, I wouldn’t know the drill of removing my coat, wallet, shoes, and the like. I did so, and fed the bins into the conveyor belt on my own. I’m not sure if anyone was actually looking at the x-ray machine. People were wandering about, and I never saw the belt pause. The man operating the metal detector looked bored and annoyed. After about 30 seconds of not doing anything, he looked at me with an angry scowl that told me I should’ve known when to walk through on my own, and that he was waiting on me. I did so, and without a nod or hand motion of any kind, was allowed on to collect my things waiting ahead of me. People were being polite and stacking their bins after collecting their things. No one working there was doing anything with them, so I couldn’t be arsed to remove mine from the belt, and left it there. I looked behind me and analyzed just how easy it would’ve been to pass a camel laced with explosives through the unorganized cluster of apathy.
From here, it was an easy shot on to my flight, and I wasn’t late, because the slightest fog delays every flight in the entire city. I waited patiently to exit the hell hole. Never in my life have I known any place to be so over staffed with so few people of actual use. Not to mention that everyone seems apathetic and angry. This place causes me great pain and agony. It’s been over 6 years since 9/11, folks. Get with the program.
- Axel once saw a person who’s task at the time was to hold up a sign to give people directions. When he asked the person to clarify, she pointed angrily at the sign. He’s never met such a jaded sign post.