I FEEL SORRY for students these days. They’re travelling in an era in which there is no leeway with airport security. They’ve taken their first international flights, arriving hours before take-off and having never known a time other than being treated like a criminal and a potential threat.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time before this one – the era of Air Travel Innocence – when, even though terrorism existed, the world wasn’t forced to live in a state of alert against suicidal lunatics.
I remember. I was there.
I was a student living in France for a year and I was on my way home for the holidays. It was a four-hour train ride from Montluçon to Paris. I didn’t want to miss my plane so I went up the night before and stayed at the family apartment of a fellow student in central Paris.
The next day, a quick visit to the grave of Doors singer Jim Morrison turned out to be an hour longer than expected, so I had little time to spare when I finally got on the RER train to the airport.
After about six stops, however, I noticed that the train was going in a direction that was diametrically opposed to Charles de Gaulle airport.
I got out at the next station. There was a taxi rank. I hopped into the first in line. Then hopped out again to withdraw money from an ATM to cover this unforeseen additional cost.
Five precious minutes later, I was back in the taxi. “How long will it take?” I asked. “Oh, we’re quite near – maybe 20 minutes . . . it depends on the traffic, Monsieur.” My flight was due to take off at 2.25pm. It was now 2pm.
My taxi driver was a talented man behind the wheel, whistling calmly as he obligingly manoeuvred his sleek Citroen between cars, up ramps, around motorbikes and under bridges.
I paid him, got out and ran towards the security check. As I approached the security guard, I experienced a sudden revelation: There was a flash of light and I had a clear vision of my passport sitting on the shelf beside my bed in my room back in Montluçon. For that was where I had left it.
I fumbled through my wallet and took out whatever dog-eared pieces of student ID I had. I explained, in between deep intakes of breath, that I was an Irish student going home for holidays, that I had left my passport in my room 350km away and could I please go through. Please. He looked at my tattered evidence, presumably trying to think back to training courses he had attended, explaining what to do in such a situation. “My plane is due to take off in two minutes,” I added, hopefully.
“Yes, well you should have brought your passport!” came the impatient retort. He examined the evidence in his hands one last time before handing them back to me and waving me through.
At 2.25, the time at which my plane was due to take off, I approached the check-in desk. The clerk looked at me incredulously and spoke to me in English with a comic French accent reminiscent of Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau: “Ah’m surry, sir, but ah’m afred zat you are too late – ze plane ‘as already departed.”
But I did get on that plane. As luck would have it, a mechanical problem delayed the take-off, but the truth is that I made my international flight even though I had no passport and I was technically too late because they were the days of Air Travel Innocence.