Airport Story

Typical Camilo.

Image generated by DALL-E

I get to the Seattle airport about an hour before my flight to Los Angeles.

I head straight to security and breeze by using the Clear lane. Clear is a service where you pay ~$300 a year to fast-track through security while receiving piercing glances from folks in the peasant lane. I have my old Google work backpack with an “I’m Feeling Lucky” patch and a gray weekender bag.

With plenty of time left, I waltz my way to the gate and decide to get a black coffee and a cheese danish. I eat my pastry bite by bite, savoring it. “Mindful eating,” they call it. I sip my coffee between small blows—like a grandma—to cool it down.

They call my boarding group. I get on the plane and play my typical game of counting the men-to-women ratio in first class. It’s 50/50. Then, as I approach my seat in row 33, I peek at the overhead bins to store my weekender bag.

My bag.

Why are both of my hands free?

My bag.

I don’t have it.

Shit.

I push like a salmon against the current of boarding passengers, apologizing profusely while whiplashing them with my backpack tail. I look at the flight attendant by the door and tell her that I left my bag. She makes this face 😬.

I ran out of the gate and mumbled “I forgot my bag” past the gate agent. I went to my “mindful eating” seat. No bag. I went to the store where I bought my coffee. No bag.

At this point, I realized I probably left it at the TSA checkpoint, which I’ve done once before. That time I got a very stern warning from a TSA supervisor who told me to never leave my bag behind again.

I came back to the gate where I proceeded to the tell the nice Alaska Airlines lady that it is not my fault my thoughts are so lively they enrapture me, that I’m a daydreamer, that one of my favorite movies is The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, that the airport should have more signs that say “Do you have your bag?” and that in the year 2024, it’s a travesty that bags don’t come with sensors that scream “don’t leave me behind!”

I didn’t tell her that.

I just said: “I think I left my bag at the TSA checkpoint, so I need to run back. I’m probably going to miss my flight.”

Nice Alaska Airlines Lady: “Yes. But we have a flight every hour so you are fine.”

She began placing me on the next flight.

Nice Alaska Airlines Lady: Are you ok sitting in an exit row?”

A few months ago, the extra legroom from the exit row would have made this an obvious “yes,” but given Boeing’s recent exit door mishap, I wondered whether I’d get sucked out like a tapioca pearl from bubble tea. After a pause, I said “I’ll take my chances,” delivered like an Austin Powers impression. She was not amused.

I made my way to the TSA checkpoint, expecting to be taken to their version of the Principal’s office. I stacked about ten apologies before I told them I left my bag at this checkpoint. They shrugged like this happens often (where are those airport signs??). 

After waiting for 15 minutes, I was reunited with my bag. I’m sure if bags could speak, it would have said “What the fuck, man?! You didn’t notice me gone for over 40 minutes?? How do you survive the world like this?” 

I walked back to my gate counting my blessings and keeping constant inventory of my possessions. I boarded the plane and noted the first class men-to-women ratio again. This one was 60/40 in favor of men. 

I sat on my exit row seat and prayed a little bit harder than normal. But I also felt grateful for getting out of a bind with only an hour delay, a business opportunity (luggage that screams your name if you move too far away), and a story to tell.

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Final Notes

Thank you to

Charlie Bleecker

and

Rick Lewis

for their feedback on this piece.

Do you have a similar airport story? Let me know in the comments.

Share this with a forgetful person who would totally do this.

Until next time!