On Sunday the 23nd we were up at 4:45 am. Our flight wasn't until 9:50 am, but we were told to be at the airport at least two hours before our departure time. Art's son Pete drove us to Seatac. As we approached the terminal, I could see a long line of taillights. I had heard that security was very tight at the airport and that arriving vehicles could be searched. We had Pete pull into the parking lot instead, and he dropped us off there. It was 6:30 am.
Inside the terminal, the United check-in line wound through the roped area, past the last desk in the front of the terminal, and around to the retail shops in the central terminal area. I'd guess the line was close to 800 feet long. Eventually we arrived at the end of the line, down by the Starbucks stand. Art muttered insults to the intelligence of airport security; "They should have expected this and put more people on." In an odd kind of way, it was an adventure to me. It was very clear that security was a major concern at Seatac, and that comforted me.
We stood in that line for an hour and a half. The actual check-in didn't seem much different from the other times we've traveled. I wondered what had caused the long line. Were some bags searched? Were there bomb-sniffing dogs? I wasn't sure.
Once we'd checked in we headed for the security station, which was on the fourth floor rather than down by the train to the auxiliary terminal. There was a short line there, too. My purse got checked twice - once as we got in line and again as we were about to put our stuff on the belt. The security person asked me to unzip my bag and then she searched it with a wand. I wondered whether she would open up a tube of Tampax and check it. Nope, she didn't.
Only passengers with a ticket were allowed past the security checkpoint. The train to the United satellite was nearly empty. The concourse itself was not only sparsely populated but also very quiet. Most vendor shops were closed. It felt like we’d arrived at the wrong time, like in the middle of the night. Art was ready to get a Cinnabon and a latte, but we were late on boarding time so he had to pass. That did not sweeten his mood.
When we boarded the plane, I said to the flight attendant, “I hope your pilot is armed.” She replied, “Honey, we have it covered.” We found our seats in the last row of the plane. During the final check before takeoff, the attendant came back to our section. Two men in their 30s were sitting across the aisle and one row in front of us. The attendant said to them, “All kidding aside, you’re my men in the back, okay?” They said okay. So I knew that if there were a terrorist on board, those two would jump the terrorist while the rest of us threw books and pillows and shoes.
The flight was bumpy but otherwise uneventful. We had a three-hour layover in Chicago. The concourse where we spent that time was draped with American flags. Patriotic music played over the PA system. I have been through O’Hare airport on a number of occasions. It has always been much more crowded and much noisier. I have never seen a flag there before. For some reason, the patriotic displays were comforting. I hoped they meant the security was fully in place. We spent a few minutes walking the underground passageway between terminals where there are moving lights and spacey music to accompany passengers as they traverse the walkway between terminals. I remember the first time I got off a red-eye and walked under the runway passage. It was such a sensory treat to my jet-lagged system. On this layover, Art was as impressed with the walkway as I had been the first time. It’s fun to introduce him to things I’ve seen before and have him respond in a positive way.
It was after dark when we landed at Baltimore-Washington International airport. Art retrieved our luggage while I went looking for the Shuttle Express desk to sign us up. Art appeared with the luggage. It was the first time in several trips that we’d separated in a terminal and found each other again without any difficulty. This was a good sign – or maybe it was just because the terminal was sparsely populated. Half an hour later our names were called. We found the shuttle outside on the driveway and transferred our luggage to the driver.
The van was full, and we were the third stop. As the shuttle rolled along unfamiliar dark roads, its occupants chatted. Our fellow passengers were interested to hear that we were heading for an exchange home we'd never seen. The group was about evenly divided between "What a great idea" and "I could never do that - how can you trust strangers in your house with your stuff?"
When it was our turn to be dropped off, there was silence in the van as it turned off the main road onto the dark street of a residential area. We could see wide lawns with two-story, Colonial-style brick houses set back on their properties. Someone commented, "Well, it looks like a safe neighborhood." The van pulled into the driveway of the address we gave. The porch light was on, and there was a light on somewhere else in the house, on the first floor. The driver waited to remove our luggage from the rear until I had a chance to make sure the key fit the lock of the house. It did. Art paid the driver and brought the luggage up the walk. We waved to the van as it pulled away.
We flipped light switches all over the house as we explored what would be our home in the DC area. On the main floor, a formal living room, large family room, bathroom, kitchen and eating area. In the basement, a large office and storeroom. Upstairs, five bedrooms, two bathrooms. This house was about twice the size of ours at home. We knew we'd be spending most of our time in the kitchen-eating area. Its big wood table and chairs invited conversation and, in my mind's eye, I could see tomorrow's edition of The Washington Post spread out on the table while Art read the editorial section and pored over the grocery ads.
The woman who lived in this house couldn't have had decorating taste more different than mine. Every wall was papered and adorned. Pictures of family, groupings of paintings, sconces with brass plant holders, ivy garlands. My own house is more modern, with much simpler decor. I could imagine Holly walking through my house,
shaking her head at our nearly naked walls.
I should say that I am no interior designer; I'm not even visually oriented. I would never have guessed that another family's taste in decorating would be the biggest surprise of the exchange. Holly and Vince’s house was a great place for our home base in exploring the DC area. We made ourselves at home and felt very comfortable during our visit.
Holly had left bread, lunchmeat, apples and eggs in the refrigerator. We ate a simple meal and headed for bed.