Mark Flider's Blog

My flight was scheduled to take off from the Cincinnati airport at 9:05pm. I woke up a little after 8:30pm, about 16 miles away from the airport. Panic ensued.

I tossed all my stuff in my bag and we were out the door in less than a minute. We flew down the highway, and I was dropped off at the Delta gate around 8:45.

Problem 1: The Delta Computer

Most airline carriers nowadays have an electronic check-in system, where a person can swipe their credit card to verify his or her identity, then print out electronic, or “e-” tickets. Delta is no different, except their process is a little different than most.

With say, American, you swipe your credit card. The computer, knowing your name and the current date, finds the itinerary you are about to undertake and presents it to you. You can then go through and select number of bags or pick a different seat if you so desire.

With Delta, you swipe your credit card. The computer now knows your name, but has no idea where you want to go, as this would require a 0.13-second search through its database. So it asks you what your destination city is, and requires you to enter in the first three letters of said city. Then it uses this information to find a possible itinerary, which you need to verify. Unbelieveable.

My thoughts throughout this process were as follows: “c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon what the fuck??? ok, c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon FINALLY”

And hence my sprint down to security started. I think I actually left a dust cloud in the shape of myself at the computer terminal.

Problem 2: Security

There were, amazingly, three open lines for security. I’ve been through security about 500 times in my life, so I have a quick 2-second routine for getting all metal from my body to a bin and onto the conveyor belt. (Hint: put cell phones and wallets in your jacket pockets while you’re still in line, so you can just take off your coat and throw it down.)

Needless to say, everyone around me was new to the idea of “airports”, “security”, and “ambulation”. As my heartrate rapidly approached 200 bpm, the family in front of my was having some difficulty realizing that the rather large, metal buckle on their child’s belt was setting off some sort of alarm, causing a flashing and beeping that seemed to both frighten and confuse them.

“c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon”

Eventually I was able to actually step through the metal detector, at which point, one of my shoes was stuck inside the actual machine due to some haranguing of bins caused by the need to rescan an 8-year-old child’s pink barbie backpack. Eventually one of the security guards took notice of my frantic efforts to gain their attention and slid my shoe to me, which I pulled on as I started my sprint to the gate, luckily at Terminal A (Terminal C would have required a 10-20 minute bus ride).

Problem 3: Fat people on conveyor belts

Terminal A is very, very far away from security, separated by a series of moving walkways. On these walkways are very large people with an enormous amount of baggage of both kinds. My trip to the terminal was a series of sprints followed by squeeeeeezing by these people.

The actual terminal is about three stories up, with an escalator providing transport. Having already run a fairly long distance at my top speed, I was forced to dash up the stairs. About halfway there I was actually wondering if the fire I was breathing in my throat and lungs would cause any serious damage.

My terminal was 8. The order of the terminals is as follows: 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 6, 9, 4, 10, 11, 8. I kid you not. By the time I got to the actual terminal I was unable to run and could only walk in a moderately fast manner. I saw the sign that said Pittsburgh next to a closed door. I tried my best to ask the attendant if the plane had boarded, and she said words that until that day were poison, but coming from her lips at that moment became a wonderful melody:

“The flight was delayed.”

Success! Now to find an overpriced bottle of water and try to shove my pounding heart back down my throat. Of course, in this particular situation, the term “overpriced water” was an oxymoron; they could have sold me a bottle for $50 and I would have thanked them for the tremendous deal.

As the plane was landing at PIT an hour later, I could still taste the bitterness of adrenaline in my mouth. It tasted like relief.

Posted 6 years, 9 months ago, under General, Stupidity, User Experience.
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