Frequently, I travel for business by airplane, which leads to the ever-present airport dilemma. DC’s got three decent sized airports that serve it: IAD (Dulles), DCA (Reagan National) and BWI. I hate driving to Baltimore (contrary to what Tony Kornheiser thinks, I might as WELL be going to Nepal.) and parking at National is sparse, not to mention flights from there cost an arm and a leg, so it’s off to Dulles for me.
Usually, I’m a pretty mellow traveler, I get my ticket at the kiosk, I check a bag, I hit the security line, take out my laptop, put all of my techie bits through the X-ray, and away I go without a slight delay. Why? Because I wear sandals when I fly. It’s just what I do. I don’t care if it’s October and it’s only 40 degrees at 6am, it’s just easier than wearing real shoes, untying them, shoving them through an X-ray machine and then re-dressing myself when all is said and done. Except this morning I was told I could not wear my sandals through the metal detector.
Yes. You heard me. I was made to take off my fucking sandals at a TSA Gestapopoint, er, Checkpoint. Here we are, making a fuss about my sandals, when we won’t X-ray the cargo hold of an aircraft, or check containers at the ports.
Grudgingly I told the TSA bozo what I thought of his policy (it’s likely I’m on a watch-list now.) and removed and X-rayed my sandals.
Sandals, people. Sandals. WTF.
This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs