After a rather hectic week travelling from Los Angeles to Oslo (and getting piss drunk) and Oslo to London (and getting piss drunk) and back to Los Angeles, I had thought my journey was nearly complete. After clearing customs in Norway and England and walking through the 10,000,000th metal detector (attention terrorists: Norwegian metal detectors don’t detect crap, I walked though with a necklace, belt, watch, wearing a baggy shirt etc. But then, I also took 2 lighters through without any comment from anyone, I thought those weren’t allowed), I finally signed as I stepped off the plane and onto my hometown LA soil. I expected a little bit of traffic, but what is a little traffic compared to 10 hours (or whatever) on a plane? It was 3:00, I should have been able to beat the main rush hour traffic.
Lugging my luggage up and down a few flights of poorly-planned stairways, mana, I finally reach the exit. Still being half asleep, I fill out my customs declaration and queue up for the TSA person to stamp it for whatever reason they are required to stamp it. But no, alas, Ms. Fox (name has not been altered to name the bitch) Like an annoying web form that doesn’t remember your settings when you go back to it, found a field missing. In a brisk tone (this is before I thought of her as a bitch) she instructs me to go to section A and points to the other side of the airport.
Here I would like to mention that since I usually wear sandals, being in LA and all, my feet are literally bleeding from blisters and abrasions after wearing shoes for a week.
I groan and apologize for the inconvenience, and lug everything back to section A. I fill out the required field, and get back in the queue (a 30 minute prospect). At this point, a little warning starts sounding in my head, that I will be hitting some pretty heavy traffic. My original flight plan would have left me about 30-60 minutes late for my first class that evening, but I had worked it out with the professor beforehand. Now I’m looking at being 2 hours late. Anyhow, I get back up to Ms. Fox, and note that she is more armed than a LAPD officer (which is to say, she’s packing some heat). A cruious thing I put in the back of my head, having been around British and Norwegian police all week). She looks at me and says, “What are you doing here? Get the hell out of here and go over there”, pointing to the guy who inspects the stamp on the customs form.
I should pause to mention, that this is all taking place next to a big sign that says “We are the face of America” with giant American flags decorating the background like a Nazi rally. The notice of irony passes through my head as I think, “no wonder everyone wants to kill us”
Now, I don’t heap blame on her, yet. The error on the form was my fault. It registers with my mind that she could have handed me one of the numerous pens on her desk so I could fill out the field, or let me open my bag and get my own pen, but whatever.
So I wander wearily to the stamp-checking guy. He says, “you have to go back to the line and get this stamped”. A moment passes before I feel the hatred for Ms. Fox rising in the back of my head. So back to the queue I go (by this time, almost everyone has depaned, so it was a shorter wait). I hand Ms. Fox my paper and say the guy said it needs to be stamped. She looked at it, looked at me, stamped it, then, literally, stuck her tongue out at me. Face of America, indeed.
But whatever, I’m not going to bother with it. I go back to the stamp-inspecting guy, and of course have to wait in a line of elderly people who move like cattle. It is now past 4, and I finally get out of customs (where, incidentally, I had nothing to declare anyway). The stamp-inspecting guy (also armed) takes my declaration of nothingness and lets me through. A few more flights of stairs and long, pointless hallways later, I finally get outside of LAX and breath the fresh air of my homeland. Surely, my trip must be over!
I go find the LAX parking shuttle stop and wait 15 minutes for a bus to arrive. It says Lot C, which is where I am parked. The bus promptly drives to Lot B, and the driver asks me if I am getting off or not. I inform him that his sign says “Lot C”, and he checks it. He then offers to take me back to the airport. Sighing, another 15 minute ride back to LAX to wait for another bus.
30 minutes later, after a half dozen taxi drivers say they aren’t for hire and 3 Lot C busses that don’t stop at the terminal, I finally spot a Lot C bus at a stop light letting people on, about 100 yards away. I burst into a run, dragging my luggage behind me and waving at the driver, who closed her doors. Like a merciful angel in a land of the Beast, she lets me on. 15 minutes later, I finally arrive at my car.
Longer story short, I got to class 4 hours later after driving 40 miles through stop and go traffic. I actually had to wait until the mid-period break in the class after mine to speak to the instructor and get the notes and practice project.
6.75 hours after landing at LAX, I finally get home (about 20 miles away)
Anyway, to the TSA and DHS and everyone else at LAX, and especially to you, Ms. Fox, fuck you. I was more welcome in London and Oslo than in America.
Ah, I should also note the loudspeaker. Addressing the foreigners, it said something like, “Even though we’ve already told you this a dozen times, if you are continuing, you still have to pick up your bags,” which I think is quite rude.
So, yea, fuck everyone at LAX. The next time I fly internationally, I hope it’s going to be one way.
