There’s No Phalanges on the Plane
I’m not afraid to run through the airport. I feel like the protagonist in a rom-com, sprinting to confess my love to someone just before the gate closes, to the applaud of strangers and ticket agents.
Running down a terminal, luggage in tow, is part of the human experience. It’s like running after the bus or being chased by a stray dog. When you’re in the middle of it, you can’t help but think “Wow, i’m alive. I’ve never been more human than this!”
On the other hand, running through the airport seems to be the only action of the above tasks that evokes almost no pity from bystanders. As much as I tell myself the world is rooting for me in the moment, that can’t be further from the truth. Sure, some root for the underdog, giving a thumb of approval or clearing the way on the moving sidewalk, most shake their head begrudgingly. These people hope you learn a hard lesson that day and pledge, as they did, to only arrive at the airport before sunrise.
I can think of three times I ran through the airport.
The first was in 2017 in Vietnam. After making it to the airport with plenty of time to spare, Katie and I awaited a flight to Tokyo, overjoyed to have discovered a Popeye’s in the Ho Chi Minh airport. While enjoying a delicious helping of chicken far from our gate, we heard something that vaguely resembled my wife’s name come over the airport speaker.
“Did that sound like Mary Newland”, she asked. I dismissed it. Neither of us are accustomed to hearing my wife’s first name, as she has gone by Katie her whole life. I’m grateful for this as its helped us avoid the “Mary and Joseph” label most of the time. We paused briefly, only to continue eating again. Moments later we heard the same announcement, pausing for longer but dismissing the broken English.
Finally, a third time: “Mary Newland come to security”. We looked at each other. This wasn’t the speaker at the gate, or even our terminal, this was an announcement made to the entire airport.
We were escorted past the main security line and into the back where a group of agents were standing around a bag on a table – our bag, with clothes and contents being examined closely. Without a translator, the agents attempted to question us about the luggage. By pointing and miming, we signaled the suitcase was in fact ours after clearly miss-stepping by gesturing we had split the bag (the splitting knife gesture was an obvious mistake).
In that moment, an agent pulled an item out from our suitcase - a long, red cylinder he was carefully gripping from the edges with protective gloves.
It’s remarkable how much a confetti cannon resembles a stick of dynamite once you’re standing in the airport of a foreign country. There is no way to gesture the action of firing a confetti cannon to help your case either. We quickly realized miming a pop, explosion, and “rain falling down” gesture – complete with sound effects was another mistake.
Eventually we settled on agreeing to disagree that the item was a firework, which they would seize of course, but allow us to continue on our flight. This delay required a steady jog to make it back to the gate in time. In the end, it only came at the price of losing a confetti cannon and fresh Popeye’s – which isn’t nothing.
The second time was a family affair. My infant daughter was screaming for a bottle and couldn’t be consoled. We were far too late to stop and feed her, but keenly aware that running through an airport with a screaming child vaguely resembles an abduction.
Making our way through the Miami airport, we managed to feed her a bottle while she laid in a stroller. If running though an airport brings out the hostile looks from bystanders, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them wanted to call CPS.
It’s certainly a two-person job that worked best with me pushing the stroller at a steady jog and Katie running adjacent to the stroller, stride for stride, while holding the bottle. Our sprint suddenly felt like a marathon, but the cheering crowd had handed us a bottle of milk rather than a cup of water. We made it to our finish line with minutes to spare.
And finally, I experienced the most lucrative airport sprint to date just recently on a trip to Puerto Rico. The Atlanta Airport, the words busiest airport, is a place to be respected. After an impromptu exploration of a hotel roof, that involved climbing through an unlocked window, we realized we were late for the airport before we even left the hotel.
After sneaking onto the roof, we were late for our flight before we even left the hotel
Furthermore, we had to pick up a suitcase from Goodwill since we had traveled to Atlanta without one. We dashed to the airport while shoving our loose clothes into our new suitcase - dropping our bag off exactly one hour before our flight.
Feeling good about beating the first hurdle, we settled into the airport security line confident. We recognized a minor celebrity that we were standing next to in line, and after he spurred our advances, we decided to take a selfie with the back of his head. While admiring the picture, I glanced at the time on my phone, at my boarding pass, and back to Katie: “We aren’t going to make it”.
We snaked through the line by the grace of strangers to arrive at the front of security with only five minutes until the gate closed. I was first in line waiting to walk through the metal detector when I saw our bag get pulled by security. This is the last thing we had time for. I turned back to Katie, “If you stay with the bags, I’ll hold the plane”.
I’m not entirely sure what I had in mind when I offered to hold the plane, but flashbacks of Phoebe Buffay screaming “there’s no left phalange” probably bolstered my confidence.
I watched my shoes, phone, and bags go through the tunnel as I walked through the metal detector, and in one stride, I broke into a sprint.
I flew down the escalator and onto the train in less than a minute, just as the train doors were closing. Suddenly my sprint came to a stand-still as the train powered ahead. Suddenly I was fully aware that I was shoeless, and judging by the reactions of apprehensive passengers, I wasn’t the only one. I tried not to make eye contact when I asked them the time every 30 seconds, and they tried to make sure my stop wasn’t the same as theirs.
If there was anything romantic about running through an airport, as depicted on countless rom-coms, it doesn’t apply when your bag-less, phone-less, and barefoot. The light jog with a bag in-tow evokes pity. A full sprint, without shoes, screams security threat. I figured I had 2-3 minutes tops before my gate closed, and as the train doors opened, I was the first off - 100 feet in front of anyone behind me.
An occasional worried face caught my eye as a passenger scanned behind me to see if I was being chased, even considering tackling me themself. This wasn’t the light jog I’ve seen countless times in the airport, I was an NFL running back. But my gate was five football fields away and the band was on the field.
Zigging and zagging through countless people and worried faces, I realized I didn’t have a boarding pass. That was back with Katie who was probably having her hands full explaining why her husband some guy she was standing next to, sprinted through security leaving his bags behind.
I did my best to remember the gate, and I arrived at D2 amazed to see people there. In one breath I pleaded with the agent, “I have no shoes. Did I make it?”
“Your flight has been delayed,” she responded.
I nearly collapsed with relief, catching my breath against the kiosk while surveying my surroundings. I noticed travelers nearby looking at me suspiciously, but this time I began to meet their eye with a mutual skepticism. Not only did none of the passengers look Puerto Rican, some of them had winter coats draped across their arms. My heart sunk as I found the monitor above the gate and read “St. Paul, MN”.
I looked across the aisle to see my actual gate - door shut.
I slumped to the floor and looked at my bare feet. There were no phalanges on the plane.
Despite plenty of seats in my empty terminal, I opted to remain on the floor. I sulked for ten minutes before my wife came running up to the gate. My daughter, finally old enough to run through the airport on her own, was right behind her.
I’m not sure if it was my prone, face-down posture or the concerned ticket agent, but Katie knew immediately that I had not “held the plane” as promised. She handed me my shoes and few words were spoken as we retraced our steps back to security.
“Try again tomorrow?” I asked, unsure of the right answer.
“Yeah, let’s try again tomorrow.”
“Where’s our suitcase?” Katie asked reluctantly.
“Purto Rico”.
“Back to Goodwill?” Katie replied.
“Back to Goodwill.”
[Left] Someone didn’t check their luggage before they donated to Goodwill
[Right] Katie cheered me up by wearing this through security on our second attempt to San Juan
