First Airport Goes Nude in the War on Terrorism

By Penny Penn-Schyll
Nashville Star-Sun-Post-Reporter

NASHVILLE, TN-- Responding to the thwarted terrorist attack on Northwest Airlines Flight 253, the Bettie Page Memorial Regional Airport and Discount Lingerie Outlet, outside Nashville, has taken an innovative step toward passenger safety: mandatory nudity in all terminals and departing flights.

Dubbed the BareTrans Program®, now passengers experience travel in the buff, beginning at airport security checkpoints. Upon disrobing, all clothing must be stowed in airtight Spacebags® and will be scanned for prohibited substances. The bagged clothing must then fit completely inside a carry-on bag. This is hermetically-sealed by trained security using Hermet™ (patent pending), duct tape and those twisty-ties they put in toy packaging. There is a fee of $15 per bag, and bags must remain sealed until passengers reach their final destination.

Other changes have been made to accommodate the new, more rigorous safety requirements:

• Temperatures in the terminal have been adjusted to a consistent 75 degrees.
  
• Disposable plastic covers are now available for hygienic airport seating, and can be purchased from the airport shop at just $5.00 per cover.
  
• And the Hooligans' Family Restaurant will no longer serve its Sizzle-n-Spice Fajitas due to potential spatter injury and class action lawsuit.

With the elimination of pockets and carry-on bag access, post-security money-handling is now prohibitive. Passengers must pre-pay for any food, beverages or souvenier items they predict they might possibly consider purchasing in the airport or in-flight.

Passengers estimate their total future purchases at Check-in and receive a bar-coded hand-stamp for that amount. As purchases are made, each item's cost is debited from the passenger's pre-paid account by simply scanning the barcode.

While airport officials indicate the new program is still in transition, passengers do seem to like the sense of safety the BareTrans Program provides.

"Fer 75 years, ain't nobody seen me nekkid but Doc Graham and my husband Everett here," said traveler Emmeline Dodd, age 94, off to visit her baby sister Margaret, 90, in Tuscon.

"But if it takes me givin' half o' the county a cootch-show in order to keep the good ol' U.S. of A. safe, why, I'll do the patriotic thing and make my privates public fer Uncle Sam."

Mrs. Dodd's uncle, Sam Johnson, age 102, declined to comment.

With the early success of the BareTrans Program, travelers can expect airports across the nation to follow their lead. Hanes Community Airport in Thredbaya, Maine, is currently implementing a variation of the program, called the "Tightie Flightie Initiative." While the process remains largely unchanged, passengers may retain their undergargements throughout the course of travel.

But officials at Bettie Page Memorial call the Tightie Flightie plan "risky."

"When you have terrorists willing to stow WMDs in their BVDs, you just can't take chances on things like personal privacy, dignity and Victoria's Secret," explained airport public relations manager, Buffy Bethune.

"We have a new slogan here at Betty Page Regional: 'Bare in the Air Gets You There.' And we stand behind that. Well, not directly behind. But more to the side. With our eyes averted. Politely."

For information on these and other security programs in your area, please contact your local airport.

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Planes, Pains and Automobiles

Every time he snored, the monitor bolted to the ceiling would rattle.

It was impressive, really-- he'd only just put his seat in the reclining position and we hadn't even reached 10,000 feet. Yet the man two seats over from me was already sawing Giant Redwoods with Paul Bunyon's high-end chainsaw, and drifting unawares in the Thanksgiving vacation spot of his dreams.

The rumble rivaled the jet engines, and I thanked the gods of air travel and assigned seating, who'd been kind enough to make the guy that should have been in the window seat cancel his plans this day.

Otherwise, I would have spent the flight in the middle seat next to him, fighting against hurricane force winds and hearing loss. As it was, the poor man had no idea he'd just inhaled the dude's toupee three rows ahead of us, as well as half a dozen drink napkins and a score of empty peanut bags.

He'd have to have them extracted once he reached his final destination. And I think it was going to hurt.

Ah, but that's travel for you-- you never know quite what you're going to encounter.

I had a reasonable idea I would get lost in Miami, though. I've managed to incorporate it nicely into my Thanksgiving tradition each year.

I mean, if I'm not at some point during my trip lurching in a rental car with my seat too far back...

Winding through some desolate warehouse district where seagulls fear to flap lest they get shot in a drive-by ricochet ...

And where everything is one-way and none of them are mine...

Well, it just isn't the holidays.

This time I recognized a few of the burnt out warehouses as landmarks before I became witness to any dumping of the bodies of lip-flapping ex-relatives, or congenial weapons exchanges. So I was able to U-turn back onto the right path with all my hubcaps intact, plus no price on my head, which was cool.

Of course, Miami also is home to the Free-for-All Exit Ramps. Which means that just because you've passed five exits on the right-hand side of the eight-lane highway, doesn't mean they won't test your keen NASCAR skills by tossing in a surprise left-hand exit now and then, just to mix it up a bit.

I guess I didn't spot the warning sign sooner, and found myself several lanes away from the left-hand exit I needed, in Miami holiday traffic where the drivers are already in a bad mood since Great-Auntie Consuela is coming to stay...

And that woman's a viper.

So I used my Super-Pittsburgh Parkway Powers and bullied my way over four lanes, taking myself on a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride that had me shrieking in terror all the way. As an 80s 'Vette blasted into my oncoming path going 85, I aged a year or two and now have a well-placed gray streak in my hair. But made it intact.

I'd like to know the number of stunt-drivers from The Italian Job who live in Miami. I suspect it's fairly high.

The trip as a whole was filled with sun and palm trees, not a hardship when you've come from the sleet and gray skies of the 'Burgh. If you're curious, you can check out some pics of my trip on my other blog. Just click here.

And soon it was time to return home. Due to weather and the number of flights in the air at one time-- and the fact that the Law of Averages says both coming and going cannot be on schedule-- my plane from Miami to Atlanta was delayed an hour and a half, so I'd potentially miss my connecting flight home.

But, you know-- I've discovered the benefit of being on anti-anxiety blood pressure meds. It is the pleasure of total and complete apathy.

Turns out, I just didn't give a flying fig. If we made it we made it. If not, not. I recall thinking, "Geez, I should be really cheesed about this." But then started wondering how my former seatmate was faring and whether he ever got that toupee out of his sinus cavity. Which somehow seemed a bigger issue in the Great Scheme of Things.

When we did finally get off the ground, however, it seemed the same laidback attitude was not being enjoyed by one of the flight attendants.

I dunno, maybe he'd had a dry turkey...

Maybe he'd been pushed to the brink by Thanksgiving Humanity...

Or maybe he was just feeling the inner rage of being a male middle-aged flight attendant with bright red hair working over a holiday...

But he was the first flight staff member I've seen who approached his job like a third-world dictator. I mean, I've never seen any airline attendant give seatbelt and oxygen mask instructions angry before.

His movements were crisp, jagged... Yank went the seatbelt! Snap went the band of the oxygen mask! Pointing out the emergency exits involved rigid arm swinging one step from a purposeful salute.

The lady next to me and I had been laughing about this, but soon we got ours. Out of nowhere, the redheaded squad leader swept in with his tanks and asked her, "Do you want a beverage?" the way Mussolini would have discussed his next invasion. The poor woman jumped a foot, as his white freckled face appeared before her, scowling about coffee, tea, milk and the takeover of Poland.

But, I'm home now, safe and sound. The wonderful thing about being away is having a home to come back to.

I read a quote this weekend which said, "Thanksgiving is a feast to the gods of paradox."

And if that isn't the truth. There's a certain plus-minus, a yin-yang, a plane delay versus palm tree dichotomy which weaves it's way through the hours of the holiday season, isn't there? And what it comes down to, is you can fight it-- you can sit down at Paradox's table and refuse to take a bite. Or you can belly up to it, see what it has to offer... pick and choose what you like and simply leave the rest.

Or maybe that's just the anti-anxiety meds again. You never know.

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One other order of business- For those who haven't entered my photo caption contest, don't miss out! Click here and play along! Entries will be accepted until midnight this Monday.

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The US Goodwill Ambassador to Shmertz

As I was making reservations to visit the Pop in the Florida Keys this Thanksgiving, I had a flashback to my, er, travel challenges of last year.

I had used a rental car company-- let's call it Shmertz-- to get from Miami Airport to my hotel, and from my hotel to the Pop's domicile. And as a result, I had one of the more surreal travel experiences I can recall.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. My plane had gotten in a bit early, and everything had been smooth up until this point. So like those moments where Indiana Jones smiles cockily because he's just blown up, like, twelve Nazis and escaped, I was pleased with myself. And should have known things would go awry from here.

My rental reservation information indicated that the Shmertz rental desk was inside the airport. So I headed down to baggage claim to where the rental desks were.

Only that entire area was gone. And by gone, I mean, the rental desks were gone. The signs were gone. Even the floor tiles were missing.

I went off to find an airport map.

A thorough analysis of the map showed every rest room, lounge, hot dog stand and souvenir shop... except for baggage claim level.

So after losing a half-hour, I finally asked someone in Missing Baggage. I figured missing the rental car desk was close enough.

"Oh," said the Missing Baggage Dude, "those desks are gone."

"Um, yes."

"You need to go outside and stand and wait for a shuttle to Shmertz."

So dragging my suitcase, I went into the oppressive Miami heat and exhaust fumes.

Ten minutes later, I found a sign on a concrete median which read "Shmertz." So I parked my luggage and I waited.

Shmelamo went by.... And Shminterprise... And Shmarvis.... And Shmarry's SuperCheapo GoCart Rental...

No Shmertz.

I noticed next to me, two tall German men with poofy hair-- one blonde, one brunette-- were watching the various shuttles come through like a particularly intense tennis match. "Is it....? Yes? Yes?.... AWWWWWW.... It isn't."

"Are you waiting for Shmertz, too?" I asked.

Siegfried and Roy looked at me with surprise. "Why, yes, vee are," said Roy. Or was it Siegfried?

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Tventy minutes," said Siegfried wearily. Or maybe it was Roy. "Ze Shmertz shuttles, I see zem come around zat corner, but zen they go zat vay." He pointed to a median three down from ours, and then the exit from the airport.

Siegfried, Roy and I gathered up our stuff and move to the other median.

Well, such went another half hour. Shuttle after shuttle headed to the median-- and then passed us by and took the exit, filled to capacity.

We waited so long, Siegfried and Roy decided to take a cab. They'd pick up the white tigers later, I guess. And me, after forty minutes I managed to climb onto the roof-rack of a passing bus and get a lift.

(Okay, so maybe I just squeezed on to one bus because I wasn't a family of 37. But still. Same diff.)

So at Shmertz, once again, optimism was in my heart, because I am stupid like that. Even with the delays, and the hour-and-a-half drive ahead of me, I figured I'd get down to the Keys in decent time.

I used the automated check-in machine that said there would be a compact car waiting for me in the parking lot. I could just take whatever car I liked in that particular size, and that seemed so fun... so marvelous... I couldn't wait to try it.

It was like legalized car theft. Or being really, really rich. So I hurried to the parking lot, luggage trailing behind me and....

There was not a single car in the lot.

I looked at the Compacts sign. I looked at the empty spaces.

I looked at the Sub-Compact sign. I looked at the empty spaces.

Things didn't bode well.

A different set of German tourists were now with me, wandering around the Compact/SubCompact area in the intense heat and glare of the sun.

"Zer is no cars. Ver are ze cars? Is zis how zey do sings in America?"

"Er, no. This is an anomaly," I told them. And then I spent a few minutes trying really hard to build morale and act as a Goodwill Ambassador for the U.S...

Kinda like Angelina Jolie, you know, but without ten kids and Brad Pitt following me around.

But I don't think the tourists bought it.

Finally, as self-assigned Ambassador to Shmertz, I went to talk to one of the guys milling around in the Shmertz vests. He was speaking rapid Spanish to another guy in a Shmertz vest and ignoring all the lost customers wandering the parking lot.

"Um, hi. We..." And here I motioned to myself and a growing group of Germans, "we don't know what to do next. The paperwork says take any car in your size, but there aren't any cars there."

The Shmertz employee looked at me blankly. Just about the time I was wondering if I could cobble the same phrase together in Spanish, he scowled and said, "They're coming, they're coming. Go wait by your sign. You can't stand here. Go wait."

So I went back to the Compact/Sub-compact area, and relayed the information to Germany.

Naturally, the Germans weren't thrilled. Having not been in the States for more than two hours, their first impression of the place had already been fairly tainted by poor planning and pulsing heat.

More time passed. The sun was dipping in the sky. The crowd in the Sub-Compact area was huge by this time-- now including France, England and Newark, New Jersey. And I was now a solitary figure across the aisle in Compacts. I had pulled out a book and was using my suitcase as a lumpy chair.

Suddenly, someone started yelling at me in Spanish, then switched to English. "You! You move! You can't sit there. They're coming. They're coming."

And he had me move out of one of the empty Compact car spots as a wet Chevy HHR came swinging around.

More Compact cars were being pulled in, one by one. All wet, all narrowly mowing down the folks waiting for the Sub-Compacts that had yet to come.

The Sub-Compact people looked on sadly, as I guiltily grabbed the HHR. I saw their drawn, sunburnt faces in my rearview mirror as I pulled away.

But while I might have seemed the lucky one, the Travel fates weren't done with me yet. As I left the Shmertz rental behind, none of us knew what would happen next.

None of us imagined that the sign at the end of the Shmertz rental car drive, pointing toward the very highway I needed in giant letters?

Due to recent road construction, it pointed the exact opposite direction from the actual road. I would find this out as I drove lost and confused in the middle of Miami on unfamiliar streets in the increasing darkness, squinting in the dim light to read my Rand McNally directions.

I am trying Shmollar Rent-a-car this year. And I'm trying to keep the optimism at bay.

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