My last post warned the reader that I would write about my paying a price for gutting it out for the Davidson reunion. Rest assured that at last I am on the road to recovery and have enough energy to write about the follow-up story—getting down there and getting back.

The flight from Washington National Airport was par for the course. We waited in line for about a half hour to get to the security clearance. Embry cleared immediately. I failed, and if I wanted the matter cleared up, I was told to proceed upstairs to the security desk. Hey, no problem. Was this the third or fourth time in a row that I have not sailed through security clearance? In trying to get to Costa Rica it was my passport that was about to expire. In trying to get to Puerto Rica it was the eye test that I failed followed by a pat down to find the weapon hidden in my underwear. In both instances, we finally made it to the gate minutes before it closed. So I am used to this.

We hopped on the elevator to the special security desk, waited in line; and when we got to the security expert who asked me what day I was born, I told her that it was April 1,1942. She said that was the problem. My driver’s license showed the correct date, but the reservation showed May 1. This serious problem had to be cleared up. Embry chimed in, “It was my fault. I put in the wrong date. I will testify that April 1 is the correct date.” The security lady excused herself to confer with her supervisor. Several minutes later she returned and replied, “Ok we will let you go this time” and printed out a new boarding pass. “Do not let this happen again.”

Off we went back to the line for security, which was now almost twice as long and took about 45 minutes and then walked to the gate, which had to be at least a mile away, located at the opposite end of the terminal. Given my weak left knee and bad sense of balance, I now often use a hiking stick and move very slowly. We made it to the gate just before boarding closed.

The flight arrived in Charlotte on time, and we walked a considerable distance to the rental car area. The line for Dollar was short and we were able to make it to Davidson only a few minutes late for the class dinner at 6:30. I checked my pedometer on my iPhone. We had walked over 2.5 miles. I commented that since this experience now seemed to be standard, we should try to  get to the airport for the return flight at least three hours before departure time.

 We made  it to the airport for the return flight to Washington with over two hours to spare though we were not prepared for what would come next.

Something has terribly gone awry at the Charlotte Douglas International  Airport. Embry and I have traveled all over the world including to many third world countries. The Charlotte airport on the day we were there was about as crowded as any of the airports we have been in. Long lines were everywhere including the lines to the machines to get boarding passes, and the people mulling around  were so close together that it seemed like Grand Central Station at rush hour. Since Embry had not gotten a boarding pass online, she stood at a machine only to discover that all the machines were down, and anyone needing a boarding pass was directed to go to the customer service area, which we did. When we nudged our way though the crowds, we found ourselves at the end of a long line that did not appear to be moving. I did a quick body count and stopped counting when I reached over 100. There were only five or six customer service desks. I concluded there was no way that we could make it to the gate on time. Embry then had a brilliant idea—try the internet. She got online and happily reported that she had gotten the boarding passes, which were being emailed to our smart phones. She had already received hers and encouraged me to check my email.

“I don’t have my iPhone,” I reported.

“Of course you do, you are reading emails or checking the weather all the time.”

“Well, it is not in my pocket where I usually keep it, so I lost it.”

“Excuse me?”

“And it was practically brand new. It is probably in the rental car.”

With a horrified look on her face, Embry escorted me to the side of the huge ticketing area where there were two vacant seats and directed me to sit down. She placed her carry-on bag next to mine and with the authority that is often used by young parents with unruly small children, sternly ordered, “You sit here. Do not move. Guard the bags. I am headed to the car rental!” And off she charged. We still had almost an hour to make it to the gate.

I stared off into space observing the masses of people panicking because the boarding pass machines were down. It was at least a ten minute walk to the rental car return area and another ten minutes back plus Embry usually does not pay much attention to the kind of car we rent. I also recalled as we were returning our car, I had counted at least a dozen cars which had pulled in behind us and more were pouring in every minute. As we got out of our car the attendants were already driving the returned cars ahead of us off the lot. What were the chances that Embry could find our car, find my phone and get back to the terminal in time to make our flight? While we had almost an hour, I figured it would take that long just to retrieve the phone—if she could even find it. This time we were doomed.

Resigned, I continued to stare off into space. Then suddenly Embry appeared running  toward me waiving the iPhone.

“Got it! Let’s go!”

We had about 40 minutes.

As we were making our way to the security line, she said she remembered the color of the car was red and told the attendant about our problem. He directed her to another lot where she began opening the door of every red car and after the tenth or twelfth try spotted the phone on the front seat.  We got in a long line for security which thankfully was moving quickly, and we reached the attendant with about 30 minutes to spare. There was still a chance we could make it. Embry quickly passed and went into the bag screening area.

 I was rejected.

Embry looked back at me over her shoulder with a horrified look of disbelief. “Not again,” I could almost hear her saying.

The lady guard said, “I am sorry to report that you will not be allowed to pass through security. The machine has rejected your driver’s license. Unless you have valid identification like a passport, you are not flying.”

“What is wrong with my driver’s license?”

“I have no idea, but the machine has the last word.”

When I demanded that she call her supervisor, a tall skinny guy came over and examined my license. I then asked if he could look at my photo and confirm that I am who I say I am. He agreed that I was who I said I was but then said that it appeared that my driver’s license was being held together by scotch tape, which it was, but which made it impossible for the machine to read.

“But if you can confirm that I am who I say I am, why not just let me in?”

 He excused himself to find his supervisor. I could see Embry observing, impatiently looking at her watch.

 Now all of this was taking time. The line of well over 50 people behind me was becoming uneasy. One person shouted, “Let him pass or throw him out for god’s sakes!” Another screamed that he was missing his flight. In another couple of minutes the supervisor returned and said it was ok to let me through—this time. I stumbled toward the security area. We could still make it.

As I was waiting for my bags to come through the machine, a guard came over and informed me that he had to check me out. The machine showed that I was hiding a weapon in my groin area.

“Not again,” I said.

When he sternly replied, “Oh, so this has  happened before?” I came close to losing it.

“Look,” I said, “I am 82 years old. I walk with a cane as you can see. And when was the last time someone hijacked a plane anyway? And you are pulling me aside to check if I have a weapon hidden in my underwear? This is outrageous! Believe me, you will not find a weapon down there. Just ask my wife. She is the lady standing over there laughing.”

Not even so much as a smile. Just doing his job, he said, somewhat apologetically, as he patted me down to the amusement of a small crowd. We had about ten minutes to make it to the gate, but as luck would have it when we finally staggered into the boarding area about 10 minutes after the gates were supposed to be shut, the boarding had not even started. There was a 30-minute delay.

Just another day in flying the friendly skies.

I said to myself, “I-am-not-going-through-this-again-period.”

When we finally stumbled into our apartment in Washington later that day, I collapsed and have been in a recovery mode for almost a month. I am finally starting to feel almost normal. When I reported all this to a doctor friend—that at what I thought was the tail end of a bad cold, I had walked almost three miles for three straight days and endured humiliation and stress beyond description, all of  which caused a troubling relapse,  his reply was “duh.”

Then I realized that in a month we are flying to Paris for the Olympics.

Stay tuned.