Reagan National to Atlanta, Georgia.
And Back

The big deal, here, is I will be leaving from Reagan National Airport which was closed until this past Thursday; then opened for shuttle flights to New York and Boston and; now, is open to the hubs of the major carriers from here: LaGuardia, Pittsburgh, Charlotte, Chicago, Atlanta, and Dallas for the majors: US Airways, Delta, United, and American.

I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to make certain I was not late for my 11:05 departure.

I long ago gave up being thrilled by the concept of being the very last person to jump across the gap between the retreating jet way and the closing cabin door.

Under regular travel procedures I tend to want to arrive at the airport about an hour early so I can get my boarding pass, buy a book or magazine or newspaper; go to the Delta Crown room (and feel oh, so superior to those people who have to sit on blue plastic chairs); get to the gate 35 minutes before departure so when they call for First Class passengers I can duck my head (as if somehow embarrassed that I am being forced to respond to this announcement), gently, and apologetically ask people to excuse me as I make my way forward, and just before I get to the ticket agent, turn toward the other passengers, wave my boarding pass over my head and shout at the top of my lungs: "Does Seat 3B Count as First Class?!"

I had not packed the night before, but as I am only going out of town for one night so, again, under normal procedures I would have packed a small duffel. However, I know, from my extensive preparations for this flight, that there will be only two carry-on bags permitted so my plot is to pack my roll aboard with the stuff I need for my speech to the DeKalb County GOP and return on Sunday, leave room for my extremely testosterone-heavy shoulder bag which is not made of Italian leather but is made of Eddie Bauer heavy canvas which I will, then, place inside leaving me with my roll aboard and my also-very-manly canvas briefcase by Orvis which contains my computer as the two carry-ons.

Clever, huh?

By 6:15 I was showered, dressed, packed, and ready to go for a flight which was not going to leave for nearly five hours. Regular Mullsters know that my house is 3.5 miles from Reagan National so I could have walked there and still arrived in plenty of time.

I got the Washington Post and read about the troops in Uzbekistan. I'm a little weary of reading how little modern Americans know about foreign lands. I wonder, at the beginning of World War II, how many Americans knew the locations of battles in North Africa; or Anzio, or, even, Normandy. Or, for that matter, how many Europeans knew where Des Moines or Kansas City or Atlanta were.

In the Metro section there was an article about getting through the new security procedures at Reagan National. Oh. Good. Real data.

In the piece by Post reporter Katherine Shaver quoted an FAA spokeswoman as saying: "Leave underwire bras and metal jewelry at home" in the interests of keeping the security lines moving.

Excellent intelligence. Excellent Intel. I choose not to wear an underwire bra on this trip.

At 7:15 I can't stand it any more so I load up the Mullmobile and head to the airport. I stop at the Old Town Starbucks for a Grande Mocha as much because I need a hit of chocolate as because I need to kill four hours.

I climb back into the 'Mobile and continue the trip.

As you enter the airport (and don't get me started on the "new, improved" traffic pattern which is stupid beyond abysmal so much so that the people who designed it, approved it, and built it should be forced, as if they were descendants of Sisyphus, to drive toward the terminal, not quite make it, have to go back to the entrance to the airport, and try again.

Forever.

Arriving at the airport, I pulled into the Daily Parking area. The third level, at DCA is the parking level which connects with the walkway. All the levels connect, but you don't park on Level 3 you have to take an elevator up or down so the is the preferred level and, therefore, fills up first.

There are about ten spaces at the top of the ramp which are REALLY choice; then there is a gate which, under normal circumstances, is open unless the area is full then you are forced to drive up the circular ramp to a higher level.

This morning there were two cars in the high-value spaces and no cars on the rest of the third level. The gates were down and the red "FULL" sign was lighted.

Some security deal, I supposed.

Feeling, as the line from "The Big Chill" goes, "like I just made a great deal on a used car," I parked the Mullmobile next to one of the other two cars, got my things out attached them as I always do: Hook the briefcase with the computer, etc. to the strap hanging down the front of the roll aboard; raise the handle; and hook my not-a-European-carry-all-but-very-very-manly-Eddie-Bauer-shoulder-bag over the handle so it, too, hangs down the front.

I have a theory about the way people deal with their roll aboard and other items they are carrying on an airplane: Either they understood vector problems in high school geometry or they didn't.

The idea is to transfer as much of the weight as possible directly to the wheels at the angle you hold the roll aboard while walking. The issues is: If you have the load too high, it will make the handle feel heavy because you are transferring the weight through the handle, up your arm; down your body, to the ground.

This, as you can tell, is not very efficient. The other choice is to hang all the stuff such that when you are walking, the handle feels balanced meaning you are transferring the weight directly to the wheels then using the entire Earth to support the load.

Given these two choices, I vote for the planet.

[Dear Mr. Mullings:
This is neither amusing, nor instructive; nor, probably, accurate in terms of its mathematics or physics.
Please get on with it.
Sincerely, EVERYONE.]

Ok. Ok.

So I have my roll aboard arranged the way I always do even though I know there is a strict two bag limit on carry-ons. Before the Eleventh, there was a two bag limit which was, as they say, observed mainly in the breach. Everyone has seen someone struggle down the aisle to their middle seat in the next-to-last row after everyone else has boarded (because "I needed to finish my cawfee"), all the overhead space has been used up, all the passengers are in their seats making that one last oh-so-important cell phone call to their agent or broker or (this is my favorite because people talk so loudly when they're doing this) an underling with specific-instructions-which-must-be-carried-out-under-pain-of-immediate-dismissal-if-they-are-not-accomplished-by-the-time-the-plane-lands-are-we-clear-on-this?

Anyway the person struggling down the aisle has the complete contents of their three-room apartment with which they always travel and never check because: One time? When I was going to visit a friend in New Yawk? I checked my bags? Well they LAWSTT THEMM and I had to wait until, like, eleven thirty that night for them to be delivered to my friend's apartment in Hoboken. And we were going to go out to dinner? At, like, a very nice restaurant? But we CUDDENTT because awl I had were my jeans. Oh, I'm sorry (as she slices off someone's arm at the elbow). These...Aisles...Are...Too...Narrow!

As I walk through the empty parking garage I have three items.

I admit to a small amount of apprehension as I make my way to the x-ray machines. I had printed out my itinerary from the Delta web site which, I thought, was enough to get me through security to the Crown Room where they could print my boarding pass.

I could have gone to the ticket counter, but I wanted to do this the way I normally do it and see what changes had been put in place.

At about 7:30, there was not another soul in the airport. It could have been 3:30 in the morning. I wheeled my way to the security area and counted 18 - not a misprint - eighteen people in security company uniforms, army uniforms, plain clothes with badges, government agents in knit shirts with their agency embroidered on the front. And me.

I stopped to show my printed-out itinerary and my driver's license. I was told, gently, that I would only be allowed two carry-ons on the airplane. I said that I knew that but the small bag would fit inside the roll aboard, but I needed it to work upstairs while I waited the three and a half hours for my flight.

As I was waved toward the x-ray machine, the clip holding my briefcase to the front of my roll aboard came loose and, as I walked away, my briefcase was left laying on the ground in front of all these people, many of whom one suspects, had guns.

I stopped, turned, and said: "This is another way to solve the two-bag limit problem."

Everyone laughed.

I expected someone to ask, "Is this your first trip to Israel?"

I collected the errant bag and two other security guards came to help me put things in the right place.

"Is there a computer in that bag?"

"Or am I just happy to see you?" I think. "Yes," I say.

"Can you take it out?"

"Sure."

I did and she took it and placed it on the belt separate from the other things.

I put the rest of my things on the belt. They, and I sailed through.

As I was the only person going through security at this time, a man asked me if he could wand me. I don't think he used the verb "to wand" but you know what I mean.

Front. Arms. Legs. Back. Arms. Legs.

My shoes beeped as they always do when I'm being wanded. I'm not sure why my docksiders have enough metal to set off detectors at airports but they often do; although they didn't this time.

The woman who was holding my computer gave it to another woman who did the thing where they rub a piece of cloth over it, put the cloth into some detection device and then tell you "Thank you."

In the interests of maintaining good relations between the security people and myself I said "Thank YOU" back and reloaded my roll aboard.

There were three more soldiers on the other side of the security area with M-16's slung down their backs, two of whom were Spec-4's and one of whom was a sergeant. Because I have been watching "Band of Brothers" religiously, I said, "Hey, Sarge." And "Hey, Specialists" and walked on.

I arrived in the Delta Crown Room at about 7:45 for my 11:05 flight. The man behind the counter knows me by sight and asks where I am going today. He knows and I know that there are only six Delta flights scheduled out of DCA today, and the next one isn't until 11:05.

I tell him I'm going to Atlanta. He says he wasn't sure if I was going on the Shuttle to New York.

I shut up and make believe I am not a moron.

He prints out my boarding pass and, looking at me sheepishly, asks me The Questions.

I answer them and say, "Let's do it according to the book."

I packed my bags myself. They have been in my control since I packed them. I have not accepted anything from a stranger.

I wanted to add that I was not wearing an underwire bra, but I wasn't sure he had read the article.

I made a cup of coffee and hunkered down at a desk with a local telephone line and dialed in to check my e-mails. Not that there were any new e-mails since I checked 45 minutes earlier. Even my very chatty readers don't get up that early on Saturdays.

There was one other person in the Crown Room, and then a third guy came in. We chatted about the Eleventh, about air travel, about getting flights booked and changed when the schedules were so fluid, and so forth and so on.

Years ago when Maxene Fernstrom and I were traveling through Eastern Europe to introduce the notion of Democracy to the old Warsaw Pact countries, we hit it off with a guy who was very senior in the nascent government of Hungary. He was of German extraction and spoke English with a noticeable but certainly not unintelligible German accent.

He had a verbal tic in which he misspoke the idiom "and so forth and so on" as "and so far and so far." Max and I thought this hilariously amusing. It was. Then.

Ok, smart guy. Next time you're in Budapest and someone says "and so far and so far" see if you don't choke on your chicken paprikish.

At about 10:15, assuming the flight would begin boarding at about 10:35, I decided to go on downstairs and maybe get something to eat.

As I exited the elevator a woman was running passed the soldiers saying, over her shoulder, "Late!"

"How," I wondered, in this environment, could anyone be late for an airplane. Who would come to DCA and not leave enough time?

So I decided to do my famous Inspector Cluseau act and followed her down the concourse.

She wanted to get on the 10:30 Shuttle. When I caught up with her she was complaining, loudly, that Delta's ticket agent had misinformed her on the telephone as to whether or not there would be Shuttle service on this Saturday.

The guy behind her said he had gotten confusing information as well.

The woman - a thin, middle aged, blonde whom I now hated - was saying she was going to "write a letter and it is going to be a nasty letter."

She looked around for nods of support, but got none. She zeroed on the guy behind her who looked a little uncomfortable and appeared as though he wanted to say, loudly, "I'm not with her. I just happen to be in line behind her. Never met her before in my life."

I know this, because I have seen that exact look on the faces of The Lad and the Mullings Director of Standards & Practices more than once over the years.

I was standing away from the line with my Official Sky King Reporter's Notebook in hand taking all this in.

The Shuttle started boarding and people had to show a picture ID along with their boarding pass. In addition, there was a man wanding people at random.

I murmered, "Please, please, please, PLEASE, pull that woman out of line and make her submit to a search."

He didn't.

But God was not sleeping in. In her anger she forgot about the picture ID deal and as she fumbled for her driver's license in her purse, the shoulder bag she was carrying slipped off and her things spilled out everywhere.

"Thankyouthankyouthanyouthankyouthankyou," I murmured as now the REST of the New Yorkers who were on line behind her began to get restive.

She showed her ID and huffed her way onto the plane.

Satisfied that my work there was done, I wandered over to the departure gate for my flight.

It was now about 10:35 and the ticket agent picked up the microphone to make what I thought would be the announcement saying boarding would begin with the favored First Class cabin.

I glanced out the window and noted that there didn't appear to be an airplane at the gate.

The announcement was to inform passengers that the plane inbound from Atlanta had been cleared to land and would be arriving shortly.

In addition, the agent, said, there are some additional security items we needed to know. On flights departing from DCA passengers and crew are required to remain in their seats for 30 minutes after take off.

Hmm. Ok. Good idea. If everyone is supposed to stay in their seats then anyone who is in the aisle is probably a bad guy at whom the Sky Marshals have a clear shot. Good idea.

Wait. Wait. There is something I generally do in the first thirty minutes of flight. Especially after a Grande Mocha and a regular cup of coffee. I trotted down the hallway to the men's room.

The flight from Atlanta got in and what looked like about a third of a planeload of passengers got off. About five minutes later, two young strong-looking man with black duffel bags got off the plane. I assumed they were security of some sort - either Sky Marshals or explosives experts.

They went off toward the Delta Shuttle area and I lost track of them. I did not see them get back on our flight.

Once we boarded, the first class flight attendant told us that there was a small addition to the thirty-minute rule: Passengers and crew had to be seated during the last thirty minutes of the flight as well as the first half hour.

"This flight is only an hour and twenty minutes long," he said to those of us in the front cabin. 'If we have to be seated for the first and last half hour, that only leaves 20 minutes for a meal service. I don't think we'll be able to serve you any food. I'll get you whatever drinks you want."

I raised my hand.

"Yes?"

"I don't think anyone will starve between here and Atlanta, but would it be possible to send someone out to the jetway and pick up enough Deli Meals for us?"

Men threw their hats in the air and cheered. Some women swooned with joy. Others tried to shower me with kisses.

"Stop. Really," I said demurely. "I'm just doing my job as a fellow first class passenger," as people tried to hand me money.

None of that happened. I had actually walked to the galley and suggested it to the flight attendant which he then did.

I watched as the rest of the passengers boarded and tried to pick out the Sky Marshals. I assumed that anyone in jeans, tie shoes, and a blazer or windbreaker was a cop. One guy I had picked out in the last row of first class got up but he had taken off his windbreaker and I didn't see a gun.

The forward lavatory had the "Occupied" sign lighted from the time we got on the plane. I wondered whether that was a security deal. Maybe they didn't want anyone to get in there as a launching pad to storm the cockpit. Or, maybe there was a Sky Marshal stashed in there. Whoo, boy. You had to have made someone pretty mad to get assigned the forward lav duty.

I had an image of the Pilot getting on the intercom and saying, "I told you to go before we left. Don't make me pull this plane over."

On the other hand, as Sigmund Freud is alleged to have said, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Maybe the forward lav was just out of service.

In any event, I was very, very proud of myself for having gone before I got on the plane.

I declined the offer of another cup of coffee. My seat mate, who had been doing some serious calculations since the first announcement, ordered a bloody mary.

"If I get two, during that 20 minute window," he said, "I can drink one and save one for the descent."

I crossed him off my list of potential Sky Marshals.

We pushed back from the gate at 11:25 - about 20 minutes late. Not much worse, actually, than what could have been expected during normal DCA operations.

This is true: The flight attendant made the pre-flight safety announcement with the additional thirty minute stuff and announced the cockpit crew, thus: "The flight crew is made up of our captain, Ken; and our first officer, Buddy."

Wonderful. The plane was being piloted by Barbie's boy friend and co-piloted by Bill Clinton's dog.

We took off to the north and appeared to climb at a steeper angle then I remembered and we maintained that climb angle and power settings for longer than I remember. It wasn't an F-15 afterburner full military power climb, but it was noticeably steeper and lasted longer.

After a slight bank to the left to stay over the Potomac River between the Pentagon and the White House, we stayed on a straight course for what seemed to be much longer than normal before turning west, then south for Atlanta.

The 10,000 foot signal rang about five minutes into the flight. As DCA is just a touch above sea level that meant we had climbed out at about 2,000 feet per minute which is, I believe, somewhat more aggressive than normal operations on Delta.

Obviously, the rules call for aircraft leaving to the north to get above and away from the downtown DC area as quickly as possible which seems to be a good strategy.

The pilot, Ken, or the co-pilot, Buddy came on the intercom to welcome everyone and talk about the weather. He made a big deal about the bumpy weather they had encountered on the way up, and kind of muddled the thirty minute rule within the context of the rough air requiring everyone to stay in their seats.

As it turned out it was a little bumpy, but not so much that, under normal conditions, the cabin crew would have been asked to stay seated. If there has been a company decision at Delta to keep the passengers calmed by doing this, that's fine with me. It gave everyone a chance to internalize what was happening in a manner that was most comfortable to them.

My seatmate internalized his third bloody mary.

We touched down at 12:59. As we taxied to the terminal the flight attendant came on and welcomed us to Atlanta informing us that there would be ground personnel meeting the flight to help us with "ground transportation, baggage claim and ... and any other concerns."

I said I was concerned about the stock market and asked if they would be able to help me. I didn't say that. But I thought it very, very loudly.

Wednesday: I Stay at a Holiday Inn Select. Give a speech. And fly home.