On our way home from Italy, we are routed through Chicago. Our trip through Passport Control and Customs is uneventful, but our exit from these two areas dumps us into the most peculiar and confusing Passenger Hell I’ve ever encountered.
After exiting Customs with our bags in tow, we are directed to continue down a wide, featureless corridor. When I pause to wait on the older members of my party, TSA agents are on hand to frown at me, point to the corridor’s end, and shout, “Keep moving! Keep moving!”
Once I pass through the doors, I can’t believe my eyes. I’m in a huge room with hundreds of other people. People are lined up, but no signage reveals what lines go to what destinations. On the far side of the room, other people are chucking their luggage onto huge, messy piles of suitcases and boxes. Even more people, including me, are wandering around in the middle of it all, clueless, trying to make sense of the chaos.
I’m flying Northwest, but the only airline logo in view belongs to United. I avoid the lines streaming toward the United logos, turn a corner, and find two Northwest employees sitting behind a deserted Northwest ticket counter.
“Where do Northwest customers recheck their bags to their final destination?” I ask.
The two employees are chatting about personal things: Christmas, travel, and the presents they received. They don’t appreciate my interruption. One of the women gestures back at the chaos behind me. “Down there.”
“There’s no sign that says Northwest,” I say.
She frowns and points. “See that man in the green vest? Leave your bags with him.”
I strain to see what she’s pointing at. “I don’t see a man in a green vest.”
“There. He’s there. In the green vest. He’s the one.”
I still don’t see him, but I walk in that general direction.
In the end, I never see him. Instead, I find myself being yelled at by a TSA employee. He points to my bag, points to a growing pile of bags on the floor, and says, “Put all bags here!”
I point to the unsorted bags on the floor around him. “Here? With all these?”
“Put all bags here!” he shouts again.
It’s the worst system for handling bags I’ve ever seen, but I comply. When we arrive in Memphis, we discover that one of our bags — the largest one, packed with sweaters and purchases from Italy — is missing.
The Northwest baggage agent isn’t surprised. “Chicago,” he says, shaking his head. “They never get bags right.”
Forty-eight hours later, we still don’t have our bag.
You got it. We have a similar story to tell, but then we had to endure those terminal-to-terminal trains. I was almost smashed by the closing doors after people were packed in like sardines.