Travels with myself (part two)

 I pass security

The big day came. The Detroit airport was not too busy, and the line-up at security not very long. The guards seemed cheery, although a cynic behind me suggested the presence of their supervisor might account for their unexpected joie de vivre.  I looped my cane over my arm, fished my passport and boarding pass out of my purse, replaced my purse strap over my shoulder from where it had fallen and resumed dragging my carry-on bag. I was the only one to use the little framework thing provided to check carry-on bag dimensions. No problem so far.  I realized I might be holding up the line, so I let several people go by. They seemed unaccountably pleased.

After exchanging good morning pleasantries with a female guard, I leaned in just a bit and confided that I had titanium in my big toe and also a breast prosthesis. She said they had just the thing for “people like you” and pointed in the general direction of a large plastic enclosure, towards what I took to be a full-body scanner. “The thing that says video something or other?”  I queried (I dislike indefinite pointing ― it got me in trouble once before in a similar situation thirty years ago, but that is another story ). “Yes,”  she said.

But first, there were all those bins. Everything had seemed so cut and dried on the web-sites, but here I wasn’t sure where to begin. I told a couple of business travellers to go ahead, as I was not familiar with the routine; they suggested I just follow what they were doing. That was nice. They had their quart-sized plastic bags at the ready.  I took mine out of my purse and lacking that special little dish shown in the video, I just placed it in a bin. They put their cell phones in their bin, and so did I in mine.   They removed their shoes. I removed mine. They took off their belts. I didn’t have to do this, but at this point a security officer came over and asked if he could help. That was nice too.

He suggested I could put my winter coat in a bin. I did that. He suggested adding my scarf. Done. Then he asked if I had anything in my pants pockets and I was pleased to say I had no pockets.  He seemed relieved and said he could take my cane now and would I need his arm. I thought that was pretty gallant but refused and then thought maybe he’ll think I don’t really have arthritis in my hip. Well, too late now.  I hoisted my carry-on bag into another bin, thinking I looked much too able-bodied. 

Then it was off to the scanner. After the bins, it seemed ridiculously easy.  Feet on the yellow foot symbols on the floor and arms in the air. But no, hands had to be like the ones in the picture. Mine were, I thought. Oh thumbs down.  All right then.

I passed security. I was a little put out that no one had shown the slightest interest in my carefully labelled medications, but you can’t have everything always go your way.

I retrieved my cane, my bag of 3-1-1 containers, my phone, my carry-on bag, my shoes, my scarf and my purse and hobbled over to a bench to put myself back together.  I noticed a sign pointing to the “airport non-denominational  quiet room” and almost decided to go there, but thought I should find my flight first. It left in three hours – obviously no time to waste.