easter airport cluster-fuck

It is the Thursday evening before Easter, two thousand and ten, and terminal one at San Diego airport is in chaos.
Three lanes lead past the terminal, bisected by a pedestrian crosswalk. As soon as this light turns red, arriving travelers bolt from the curb into the arms of their friends, where they hug, kiss, and eventually start loading their bags into too small trunks. Invariably, the light turns green again before the greeting and loading rituals are completed, and traffic remains halted rather than flowing.
In the waning light, passengers throng to the edge of the sidewalk, craning their necks to try and see over others craning their necks for a glimpse of the person coming to pick them up. Once positive contact is made, the motorized loved-one parks her car any way possible, in any proximity to the curb, shifts into park, and exits her vehicle for the welcoming ceremony.
There are only three security officers on duty. They patrol the hundreds of feet of curb as best they can, flashing their flashlights at drivers who have waited too long and hurrying along those inept at loading luggage. The officers might as well be herding cats. Cars stop in any and every lane to load passengers, blocking traffic behind them for minutes at a time. Vehicles cut sharply toward the curb, forcing those kind enough to let them into one lane to wait until someone in the next lane is kind enough to let them into that one, too. Unlike other, larger airports, the arriving and departing passengers share the same curb at Lindbergh Field; those travelers with little time to spare tussle with those recently freed from their cramped seats who are enjoying a leisurely, leg-stretching stroll.
I hate driving into airports to pick up arriving friends; there are few things I loathe more than entering a confined airport loop closely monitored by a cash-strapped police force. A close second in my pantheon of loathing, however, is people who turn into self-centered assholes the moment they see a loved one. You can almost see their vision tunneling, their hearing blocking out any frustrated honking, their skin flushing and their hearts fluttering. Without a moment's hesitation or the slightest concern for the needs of the vehicles behind them, they stop their car in the middle of traffic to hug, kiss, and chat with whomever they are collecting. Doing your hugging and kissing and chatting in the comfort of your own home, or at the next gas station, is not nearly as romantic or special as doing it in front of a packed airport, but it is far easier on the people who are sitting in traffic for the sole reason of physically picking up their peeps.
So, next time, consider leaving your ride in short term parking - you will have all the time in the world to say your hellos without fear of someone getting run over. You will not stoke the wrath of everyone around you with your obliviousness to how much of everyone's time you are wasting. And you won't have someone shining a flashlight in your eyes and yelling at you to move along.
In short, never abandon common courtesy, even if you haven't seen Granny in months.

Ultima Ratio Regum.
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