Philadelphia International Airport: Still Sucking After All These Years

I can not reveal much more for fear of bringing incredible shame on myself, the groom, and the rest of the perpetually inebriated partygoers, but in short, it was a good time.

Fast-forward to the end of the trip: The St. Louis airport was a model of efficiency. Despite being mind-blowingly drunk, I breezed through the check-in counter in about five minutes. The restaurant that we went to drink more headache-inducing Bud Light was painfully slow, but that was OK, because the airport’s security checkpoint moved along in impossibly brisk fashion. I swear, I got through to my gate in about the time it takes to listen to the Cliff Notes version of a Ramones album.

The flight? Couldn’t have gone smoother. Yes, there was turbulence in points, but since I was catastrophically numb on horsepiss, I slept through half of it, even despite the fact that I snore, drool and sleep with my mouth open: the dreaded Triple Crown of Public Snoozing Embarrassment. Hell, I was even lucky enough to have a priest seated directly next to me, which I could only take as a positive sign, even if he did keep bothering me every minute for a new piece of gum when I was awake. As we touched down in the beloved city of my birth, I shook the hand of the Wrigley-hoarding Catholic honcho next to me, and prepared to disembark the flight. I checked my phone to make sure that my wife was there to pick me up. Wouldn’t you know that she was right around the corner waiting patiently on a shoulder of 95, ready to pick me up and whisk me to my Norristown abode. She was even nice enough to bring my beloved bulldog Bumpkin with her to greet me. For a moment, I thought about how lucky I was to complete a trip absolutely unfettered by complication.

But then I remembered: I’m in Philly. Official Home of Travel Clusterfucks. Looking back on it, I should have taken my first stop as a sign. Armed with a shirt that did not fit—I will not blame them for that since I had just returned from a trip wherein chili nachos was considered a healthy option—I stopped at the gift shop to make an exchange. When I saw the look on the cashier’s face, I wondered for a moment whether I had spoken the words “I’d like to make an exchange” or “Go fuck yourself.” He asked me whether I had a receipt. “No, that’s why I’m making an EXCHANGE!” After two minutes of getting absolutely nowhere, I chalked up my losses. Not willing to let this dolt ruin my getaway, I simply kept the minuscule shirt for a re-gift and spent more Monopoly money on gifts for my wife and dog.

And, finally, there was the baggage claim. Why, why, why must there always be a problem with the baggage? Here is the drill as I understand it: plane lands, people get off, handlers grab bags, handlers drive in funny car with baggage and put it on to conveyor belt, which sends bags out to disgruntled travelers. I’m sure it is more complicated than that. There probably has to be a useless union representative there to watch as each bag is lifted. There has to be one arm available for each worker to pick his own ass while performing the actual job. And that doesn’t even take into account the time that goes into rechecking the bag to make sure that any valuable items stored within are stolen in the name of national security.

Still, overall it seems like an easy process. But not here. Here, I get to sit for 90 minutes waiting for luggage that is just sitting on a tarmac after an otherwise flawless flight. Here, I get to see my relations with my wife go from “I can’t wait to see you, Honey” to “When the fuck is your luggage coming in so I can go home and get some sleep?” Here, I get to watch three workers sitting around, joking and staring at every female ass in a 200-yard radius while their bag-handling co-workers play “Watch the Lakers-Celtics Game While the Customer Stews.” Here, I get to tell my wife to drive around to arrivals because the voice on the loud speaker said that the bags will be up in five minutes, only to see her whisked away multiple times by Rent-A-Popo when the process takes seven minutes. And by the way, thanks to the nincompoops at the World’s Worst Airport, you can bet that this brother didn’t get no kinda love upon his return to the city of.

Bottom line is I am tired of having to apologize for this airport any time a friend has to come remotely near it. I’m tired of pilots coming on the loud speaker saying, and I shit you not, “It looks like we will be getting you home on time, but with Philadelphia, you never really know.” I’m tired of dodging bolts of lightning while circling the airport for an hour in a thunderstorm on the way back from Palm Springs because the Keystone Cops down below can’t clear the runways quick enough.

In closing, I will say that I have no ideas for making this situation better that don’t involve blowing the thing up and hiring people who know what they are doing. And I shouldn’t have to offer them. These heads just need to get their shit together. Look, there are problems at all airports, but Philadelphia International Airport boasts a pattern of misbehavior longer than a 90-year-old hooker. I’ve never in my life been to an airport that caused more complications, and that includes the foreign ones where I couldn’t understand a word I was reading or hearing. I understand that these folks are kind of hamstrung because the idiotic, lame-duck Bush administration has them analyzing three ounce Ziploc bags of shampoo to make sure that the carrier can’t blow up the world Dr. Strangelove-style, but somehow we need to make a change that has these folks doing something valuable… like making sure that I am home in time to get some action.

Until then, Philadelphia will continue to be the airport where flying in does make your arms tired…from throwing them up in disgust.

Image Credit: Flickr user t-bet.