When I Broke Down Sobbing at the Airport

This is the Nightmare of American Air Travel

Just a whole bunch of stuff that don’t work at Newark Liberty International Airport.

First, let me preface this anecdote with a confession: I do not live in the real world.

My Italian village of Amelia, four hundred years older than Rome, may be a fairytale, but it is not the real world, not by any stretch of the imagination. I sit under 18th century frescoed ceilings and write. The world comes to me through a screen, and at that kind of remove, it’s easy to forget just how brutal, horrific, sadistic, and unconscionable things really are, especially in the United States.

Living in the United States, you don’t notice the sadism as much. It’s easy to shrug off, believing, as I once did, that this is “just the way things are.” That’s not untrue, but it doesn’t make it acceptable, and my recent trip to Houston proved that inhumane treatment of others is increasing, not abating, in the wake of the coronavirus pandemic. Vulture capitalism is prospering to an unprecedented degree, and nowhere have I seen that more clearly than at American airports. Not just because of what was done to me, but what is done to thousands of people every day.

My flight itinerary to Houston was in two parts: I flew from Rome to Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey, and from there, I flew to Houston. First leg was on United, second on Spirit Airlines. The ticket was dirt cheap, hence its appeal to this chronically poor freelancer. The first leg went fine—you aren’t asked to remove your footwear in Italy, which is a good thing since doing so exposes you to all kinds of disgusting foot fungi. But the minute I hit the States, man, it was game on.

Due to understaffing, the lines were soul-crushing. I waited forty minutes to have my suitcase tossed by American customs officials (a great pity I didn’t have the foresight to pack tampons or an enormous dildo—note to self on that for next time). Then I waited an hour to go through security. I’m no fan of the backscatter x-ray, primarily because of studies like this one demonstrating the danger, so I opt-out, which means subjecting myself to a vigorous, intrusive, and wildly unpleasant TSA gate massage. I didn’t expect to wait for another forty minutes to receive it, but I get how badly they want to punish those of us who, quite literally, step out of line.

I also didn’t expect my Spirit Airlines flight to be packed tighter than a sardine can. I also didn’t expect to get hit with a $66.00 fee for carry-on luggage. Four times I had to remind my seat-buddies, in the most non-Karen-like manner I could muster, to put their masks on. They kept talking over me to the guy across the aisle. Then they bought fifty dollars’ worth of booze (which is less than you might imagine) and the jabbering got louder. They might have been from Delhi, I don’t know for sure, but if I could have knocked myself unconscious with frozen meat, say, or a heavy suitcase, I would have totally done that.

Of course, it was hard to hear anything over the constant blaring of the loudspeaker. The pilot kept yelling at people not to queue in the aisle for the bathroom. All that drinking made my seat-buddy need to pee, so I stood up to let him out and was promptly snapped at by the flight attendant who was sitting in the back playing Wordle. At one point, that same flight attendant told a civilian to go up front, disperse the bathroom queue, and tell them those orders were coming from him (the flight attendant) so he could continue gossiping with another flight attendant.

I’d heard everyone in service industries was burned out and over it, but this was next level indifference, you gotta admit.

And yet, no part of that compared to what happened to me on my return flight.

It started with Spirit Airlines charging me $88.00 for carry-on luggage, which included my purse/computer bag and a small wheelie. I hope the floor was clean, because my jaw dropped on it. Did they change the amount at will? The flight itself was the usual packed-to-the-gills screamapalooza with the shrieking children, yelling parents, and frequent pilot admonishments to sit down, not clog the aisles, and put on a seatbelt. Flight attendants barely made an appearance. That whole airline is what the bottom of my shoe looks like after I walk through a dog park.

We landed in Newark Liberty International an hour late, so I hustled down to the United counter, which isn’t available to scum like me who buy the Super Saver ticket. Instead, I was invited to try my luck at one of a dozen machines, all of which sported a red light indicating they were out of order. Frustrated travelers were urgently trying to wave United personnel over to help. After about fifty minutes, I got a guy named Alberto, who told me I needed to fill out an EU Passenger Locator form.

For the crime of lactating, you are relegated to a windowless box with no ventilation. Enjoy!

Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem, but my phone was dying and there’d been nowhere to plug it in during my flight. Shaking with nerves, I filled out six pages of questions, for which I received a QR code. Then I stood in line again, tried to log onto the machine, got a red light, and waited for Alberto. This time he said, “Your Covid test expired two hours ago.”

At first, I thought he was joking. There was no way my Covid test had expired. I’d just paid $50.00 for it the day before, as instructed. “It has to be on Italy time,” he told me. “Twenty-four hours before your arrival in Italy.”

“But where does it say that?” I sputtered, showing him all my documents. “All it says is twenty-four hours before my departure, not my arrival.”

Alberto shrugged. “Sorry. You’re not going to make this flight. All you can do is rebook, spend the night here in Newark, and then get a Covid test at the airport tomorrow.”

I’m not too proud to say I hung my head and cried. I’d followed all the rules. I’d swallowed my disgust at having to pay $50.00 for a test that’s free to anyone not traveling. And I was going to have to spend the night in this ugly, horrible, dangerous place. I couldn’t believe it.

The line for customer service (I was fifth) took an hour and a half. I wasn’t sobbing anymore. Instead, a kind of numb despair had settled over me. Everyone in line had the same look of desperation. Their flights had been canceled. One woman was on her way to her own destination wedding. We’d all been screwed by a system that neither cared that it’d screwed us, nor made any serious attempt to remedy the situation. But at long last, I was rebooked on the same flight for the next day that left at 6PM.

I bought a Starbuck’s cappuccino (oat milk, one blonde shot, two raw sugars). Ten dollars. Panda Express (I had vegetable fried rice, my only gluten-free option) was $22.00. Then I found a leather banquette seat to wait it out. I knew it was going to be a long night.

Sure enough, a homeless guy with drug and/or mental issues started following me. I tried relocating twice before deciding to bivouac someplace well lighted. Unless he was armed, I figured I had a 50/50 chance of at least kneeing him in the groin. He stared at me over the hand sanitizer dispenser the whole night, clearly waiting for me to go to sleep so he could do whatever it was he was intended to do to me. I called around to various hotels, but at $250-300 a pop, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was no way I was going to sleep anyway, so what was the point, even if I had been able to afford to?

My crack buddy. He was there all night. Staring.

Crackhead left for a while, but then he came back, and this time when I ignored him, he started singing at the top of his lungs. In case I did manage to nod off, I shoved my purse behind me and wrapped the strap around my wrist. But I never closed my eyes. There were too many lights, people, noises. The only time cops showed up was to roust some poor homeless woman carrying a stuffed teddy bear. Crackhead ran off when he saw them. With surprising eloquence, she denounced the cops, pointing to me and saying, “Why aren’t you throwing her out?” But we all knew why. I was White. I had the obvious accoutrements of any traveler, not a pink bathrobe and a teddy bear.

Now on two days with no sleep, I went up to XpressCheck the next morning to get my Covid test. Hardly a friendly bunch up there. I’m sure it has to do with the fact that they charge $250.00 for a Molecular Swab Test. Apparently, they’d “run out” of the cheaper Rapid Antigen one. “Two-hundred-and-fifty dollars for a test you probably get at bulk rates or even free?” I asked the receptionist. “That’s a shakedown.”

“Do you want it or not?” she snapped. But we both knew the answer. I had to get the test. It wasn’t a “free choice.” It was extortion capitalism, compliments of whatever private corporation paid enough money to land this cherry spot at the airport. I then had to wait forty-five minutes for the results, although no seats had been provided. Then I waited another forty-fives minutes at security, found my gate, and hunkered down for the next awful thing to happen.

About twenty minutes before boarding, the gate attendant got on the loudspeaker and told us no one would be allowed on the plane without a KN95 mask. I had one like the KN95, but not an actual KN95, so I hoofed all the way to the end of the concourse where a PPE vending machine stood. It’s $12.00 for a KN95 mask, by the way. They’re provided free to every human in America, but not at the airport. A family of five that arrived late to our gate was told only at the last minute. I’m not sure they were ever allowed on the flight.

$250 for a Covid test at Newark Liberty International Airport. Irony of sick ironies, Italy is dispensing with this requirement in three days.

Now seated inside the cabin, bags stored, headphones on, I hear the pilot telling us to take our bags and disembark the craft immediately, there’d be a two-hour delay. I was seated in the last row, aisle seat, right next to the bathroom, so I was the last person off. Since I already knew there’d be no gluten-free options on the plane, I decided to grab some more vegetable fried rice and a water ($35.00) and was in the middle of devouring it when I got a funny feeling they were boarding the plane sooner than anticipated. I checked my app, and sure enough, the plane had already boarded. I scrambled back to the gate, barely making it before the doors closed. Then we were off.

My seat charger didn’t work, and my phone was dead. That’s one of my takeaways from my little adventure. When traveling, we are confronted with multiple pieces of technology, all different from one another, half of which don’t work. It’s baffling, trying to puzzle them out. After a while, more of that numb despair comes over you, a kind of learned helplessness. There’s nothing you can do to fix your situation. No one else cares enough to help you fix it, even if they could fix it, which they can’t.

Shut up and eat your sandwich.

The plane got into Rome two hours late, but no one bothered to post that on the United website. John had to wait the entire time with no updated information. In fact, I would say United’s greatest failure is its lack of communication. From the Covid test to the KN95 masks, and now to the Estimated Times of Arrival for its flights, United has reached peak indifference. Customer service is now a charming relic of the past.

I was delirious by the time I reached my final destination, but I did treat myself to a real Italian cappuccino (one euro fifty, which is the equivalent of $1.80). And yes, it was divine.

Was my experience unique? I doubt it. Gross injustices like these are committed every day to regular Americans. We’ve just grown used to the abuse. No one even thinks about it anymore. We just stand in endless lines with our shoes off, subject ourselves to unhealthy doses of radiation, stare dumbly at departure screens when our flights are canceled, spend hours trying to get our luggage back, and suffer in tiny seats while drunk guys shout over our heads.

This is who we are now.

And guess what? There isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.