Traveling Light 

By Sean McVeigh

It’s that time of year again. Spring break means that I am headed to Arizona to see the Sport Chick’s family.

The time of year when I get at least one (and always potentially more) column out of the utter absurdity that is air travel in Anno Domini 2026.

This year, however, there were a few curveballs thrown into the mix. And while I can mash a fastball and have learned to sit on the changeups, the curveball is still what is really keeping me out of the big leagues.

For starters, this year I had the pleasure of traveling with a three-month-old. Having the baby in tow is really not a problem. (“Speak for yourself!” – The people around us on the plane.) The real issue is what the baby decided to pack. The days of a carry-on only are officially behind us. I entered JFK with a backpack, a diaper bag, two large suitcases, a stroller, a car seat, a wife, and a baby. For onlookers, I must have been pure comedy. For myself, it was tragedy.

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there have been some … “issues” at America’s airports recently. Because dysfunction is the lifeblood of government, the TSA workers were not being paid. Usually, a government shutdown involves a news story about a family from Missouri being denied access to the Lincoln Memorial, or a bunch of Riis Park lifeguards getting to stay late at Connolly’s for a week. This time, it was the disruption of the nation’s entire air travel system. We can only hope next time (and there will most certainly be a next time) the IRS is the victim of Congress’s asininity.

In one of those this-is-all-just-a-big-stupid-joke sorts of twists, the Department of Homeland Security remains unfunded as we go to press this week, and yet things at the airports have improved dramatically. ICE agents, the main target of the whole ordeal, were supplementing many of the stations normally held by TSA agents. How? Why? I don’t know. Ask your congressman.

The important part is that the airport lines were not the ninth circle of hell as I had feared. Diminished lines were certainly a relief. Flying with a baby is a fact of life. Flying with a baby and waiting in four-hour security lines is an act of lunacy.

As we joined the rows and columns of sheep that are airport passengers going through security, I began to prepare for the next potential hiccup in our journey.

Because I enjoy making my life as hard as possible, I have yet to get a REAL ID.

I tried. I went to the DMV and everything. But I did not have everything I needed, and after a pleasant (it wasn’t) exchange with a lovely (she wasn’t) DMV employee, I left the building contrite (I wasn’t) for having wasted everyone’s time.

There are signs everywhere in the airport that you will be charged a fee for not having a REAL ID, and there were a bunch of reports about a separate line they were going to make you wait in. It seemed like, without a REAL ID, the TSA was going to do what it does best: keep you safe make you miserable. I was prepared to accept it all. I was ready to argue with anyone. I was even going to pull the “I have a baby!” card.

Either the whole thing was a charade, or the DHS shutdown worked in my favor, because with big signs directly behind the ICE agent saying I needed my REAL ID, I went right through without a hitch. It was a spring break miracle.

Once through security, we began what can only be described as something of an “expedition” to our gate. I kid you not when I say we must have walked over a mile to a part of a terminal I didn’t even know existed. It felt like I was just walking back to Rockaway. But the walking was not the issue. Everyone warns you about traveling with kids. I knew there was going to be a preposterous amount of stuff to haul around, and I knew that on the plane there would be some fussing and such. But no one mentioned the elevators.

Along our trek, similar to what Lewis and Clark or Sir Francis Drake must have experienced, we encountered some obstacles in the terrain. The most daunting was, without question, the urban equivalent of a rushing waterfall: an escalator.

Maybe parenting pros have learned to get their airport caravan down these cascading metropolitan rapids, but the skill still eludes me. The elevator was our only option.

It’s not that the elevator is a difficult operation. Pressing a series of buttons is a task that even a Neanderthal such as myself can accomplish. But as Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part.

I’m not quite sure how it is possible, but we descended at least four times in this one terminal. It was like some kind of optical illusion. I kept thinking we were going to end up underground, but at the end of the road (literally, we were at the last gate), we were still walking in daylight, and our plane was there waiting for us.

The least eventful part of our adventure was the actual flying. My daughter was as good as a three-month-old baby can be at 30,000 feet for the first time. There was some crying, sure, but even I have found myself brought to tears by flying on several occasions.

After an early arrival, we landed safely in Phoenix, Arizona, where it was 95 and sunny. Just a few more elevators and we were officially on vacation.

With a few days in the desert and a return flight home in store, I have no doubt that there will be more to “report” on next week.