The Indignant Traveler
On the indignities of air travel and Eugene Levy
I have never been much of a traveler. If it were up to me, I would stay home. Just getting from here to there is so unpleasant that by the time I arrive at my destination my trip has been almost totally ruined, and all I can think about is how I can maneuver my life so that I never have to get on an airplane again as long as I live.
Even with TSA PreCheck, which I have, getting through security is a harrowing experience. While TSA PreCheck status does offer the slight advantage of reducing the wait time to the security check, that is only in effect when you are departing from the US if you are traveling internationally. Shockingly, other nations around the world do not give a hoot about the USA’s TSA PreCheck. Otherwise, while TSA PreCheck is also supposed to speed one through the security check, ostensibly allowing one to skip the otherwise obligatory removal of shoes and jackets and laptops from carry-on luggage, in practice what actually happens is a crapshoot. I have been asked to do all of these things I supposedly should not have to do, and in what seems like totally arbitrary fashion. I don’t know who makes these decisions, but rules vary in different airports, and you never know what to expect until you come face-to-face with the TSA personnel at the checkpoint. Maybe the individual officers get to decide what rules to implement at any given time. Maybe some of them have fun changing up the rules on us whenever we look to them like an easy mark.
Now, I confess that I have a terrible fear of interaction with law enforcement, much like the character of Alvy Singer in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, who tears up his driver’s license when asked by a police office to hand it over after a traffic stop. (Perhaps I inherited that fear from the movie). So as soon as an officer commands me to do something that I am not doing (and the order usually comes as a command, not as a polite request), my fight-or-flight response kicks in. Except that my only instinct is flight, not to fight, so all I want to do is to say to hell with it and turn around and go home. The buildup of anxiety over this inevitable confrontation begins as soon as I book an airplane reservation, even if it is months ahead of time. By the time I am headed to the airport, I am already a basket case, and my only and overwhelming focus is on getting through the security check without incident.
One time, after passing through the check without incident, I was told to accompany a security officer to a locked room with no explanation. I was left inside there with no idea why I was being held, nor how long I would be held, and if I would miss my connecting flight. After about ten minutes, another officer returned to the room and without any explanation of why I was selected I was told I was free to go. I felt like Dostoevsky in front of the firing squad. Maybe it was my Russian last name that raised a red flag -- even though I am not Russian. Just my name is. I swear, officer.
I am not British, so I do not enjoy queuing up, but queue one must in order to board an airplane. This, too, is a nail-biter, with anxiety kicking in over whether my carry-on bag will be allowed on the plane, and if there will be a space for it in the overhead compartment. So much to worry about, and for what? For bragging rights when I return home and can say, oh, sure, I have seen the Eiffel Tower, and it is so much smaller than I had imagined?
The indignities just keep piling up. One that almost all of us face is being crammed into seats not only with inadequate leg room but with the bare minimum of personal space. The seat in front of you is only inches from the tip of your nose. The armrest between seats does not cover up for the fact that there is zero space between you and your next-door seatmate. If you are the slightest bit claustrophobic -- and I am more than just a “slight bit” -- you are basically screwed. I am not in a financial position to book first- or business-class seats, but even those are not available on all flights. Could airlines make flying any more unpleasant than it already is? (Don’t answer that; it is what is called a rhetorical question.)
I have been watching a new comedy series on AppleTV+ called The Reluctant Traveler with Eugene Levy, in which the titular figure – who you will remember from his appearances in films including Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, and American Pie and in the wonderful TV comedy series, Schitt’s Creek – ostensibly complains about having to travel around the world to places including Tokyo, Venice, Costa Rica, and Finland, when, like me, all he wants to do is stay home. At least that’s the premise. My problem with the program – which I do enjoy, especially as an armchair traveler – is Levy is not nearly reluctant enough. He whines a bit at first each time he goes somewhere, but then he too quickly succumbs to the allure of the fantastic places he visits. Plus, everywhere he goes he stays at the best places and is treated like royalty. He falls in love with every place he visits and he thinks to himself, this trip wasn’t so bad. I cry foul. Eugene Levy gives reluctant travelers a bad name.