One of the things about travelling by air in the 2007 summer season is: So many airlines have escaped from bankruptcy only by cutting costs, that there are fewer planes flying fewer flights over more routes resulting in more people per flight (many of whom fly once every 2,347 years) which is excellent for the airlines but not so terrific for the regular traveler.

It starts at check-in. Delta - the Mullings carrier of choice has gone to the automated kiosks where you punch in your frequent flyer number, or your ticket number, or put in ANY credit card "FOR IDENTIFICATION PURPOSES ONLY. YOU WILL NOT BE CHARGED!" and then press some buttons and your boarding pass spits out.

Except most people have apparently never used an ATM and are dumbstruck by the notion of pressing buttons on a screen. So they stand there, frozen in space and time, waiting for - who? The Oompaloompahs? - someone to see them in their catatonic state and offer to help.

That someone is generally standing behind them in line and his name is Rich Galen.

"Press the 'CONTINUE' button there in the lower right hand corner."

"Here?" They say pointing to the button which says, in plain English "CONTINUE."

"Yes. Just press it."

"Here?" The finger poises over the blue "CONTINUE" button, immobile.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"How do I know it's the right flight?"

"Look just above it. Your flights are listed on the screen."

"Oh." But, rather than taking the one small step for (a) man and pressing the patiently waiting "CONTINUE" button, he or she reaches into his or her pocketbook or briefcase or backpack to find the itinerary they had printed out in their office, the better to compare.

"Don't you know which flight(s) you are on?" I ask.

"I just want to �" amid the rustle of pawing through papers, pens, checkbooks, iPods (and related accessories), digital cameras, loose change, loose paper currency, paperback novels, laptop computers, a refrigerator, two arm chairs, an armoire, a sofa and a compact (and energy efficient) automobile "� to make sure."

The Hebraic people, having suffered mightily for lo these many millennia in lo these many places, have a very colorful phrase for moments like these: Oy.

So, one finally gets to an open kiosk, deftly presses the "CONTINUE" key on demand, gets one boarding passes, itinerary, and (if someone else is going to be billed for the trip) a receipt and heads for the security line.

I have told you this before and I tell you again now: I want a security line at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport for me. Not for people like me. For me. I want it to say, "Rich Galen's Line."

I am too old to run through airports, therefore I am too old to get to the airport at a time when having people who have never flown before can clog up the security line to the point where I am in danger of missing my flight.

What with wireless service everywhere sucking the vitamins out of our bodies and allowing the CIA to read our innermost thoughts, I can work in a Delta Crown Room or an American Airlines Admiral's Club just as well as at my office or in my den at Mullings Central.

So, I get to the airport in plenty of time.

Never � the � less.

I am always right behind

Who didn't know that you have to take your laptop out of your carryon and his laptop is not in a briefcase or a backpack but is strategically placed just on top of his underwear and beneath the synthetic fiber dress shirts in his roll-a-board the better to protect it from unwanted shock. So he has to pretty much unpack to get the laptop out.

Or, the woman had no idea that footwear had to be removed before going through security or she certainly would never have worn (because she is on the Delta Shuttle to New York City) the boots that are sooooo sexy because they lace all the way up her calves to her knees.

Or, the guy who had no idea that the rules on carrying liquids had changed such that he was no longer allowed to carry the five gallon container of gasoline he was bringing to fuel the motor on the boat he and his brother-in-law had rented for the fishing trip to Missouri where, apparently, gas has not yet been invented.

Or the woman who doesn't understand the physics of 27 el-bee-esses of belts, bracelets (wrist & ankle), rings (finger and toe), necklaces, tiaras, and bolts through her nose, tongue, ears, eyebrows and who-knows-what other metal is secreted on her body which makes the magnetometer squeal like a 14-year-old girl at a Beatle's concert in 1964?

And when did they decide you can't carry on your personal Samurai Sword? Or the cigarette lighter cleverly disguised as an AK-47 you bought at the gun show that you're bringing to your fraternity brother's sister's wedding as a housewarming gift?

This happens every time. Every. Time.

Which is why I get to the airport well before most normal people would think necessary.

This particular trip is fraught with potential airline problems. The itinerary is:

Friday: Leave Washington, DC at 6 am for Atlanta. Atlanta - Sacramento arriving at 11 am. Drive to Sonoma. Dinner in Calistoga.

Saturday: 9 AM Drive to San Rafael. Lunch. Drive to San Francisco International. Leave SFO for Salt Lake City at about 4 pm then on to Anchorage arriving at about midnight.

Sunday: Overnight in Anchorage. Drive to Seward.

Monday: Speech in Seward. Drive to Soldotna, Alaska.

Tuesday: 5:30 am - Salmon fishing in Soldatna. Drive to Anchorage. Sit at the airport until �

Wednesday: 1 AM flight from Anchorage to Salt Lake City. Salt Lake to Washington, DC. Home at about 7 pm.

Even if everything goes right I will be an exhausted, cranky traveler by the time I get home.

Actually up to this point, everything has gone well, in spite of my own foolishness. I had booked these flights using my Delta Platinum one-class upgrade certificates. I can usually clear first class because of my Platinum status, but I didn't want to risk all those five hour flights (ATL - Sacramento; Salt Lake - Anchorage; Anchorage - Salt Lake; Salt Lake - DCA) in coach so I booked using my certificates which � I couldn't find at 4:30 on Friday morning.

While walking Titus the Wonder Dog I called Delta and told them of my problem. The wonderful agent put me on hold for about ten minutes and came back with an offer: If I didn't mind flying coach from DCA to ATL they could use Platinum upgrades for everything else.

I was so grateful I almost wept. Well, not really, but I was very nice to the woman and thanked her just short of the point of offering to marry her.

The other problem was, I lost my inflatable back-support cushion. I know it makes me look like a dottering old man but I am a dottering old man and I need it, especially on small airplanes like the one I was on for the flight from San Francisco to Salt Lake.

I keep it in my back pack where it acts as a cocoon for my laptop but I couldn't find it. Then I remembered: I used it at RFK when The Lad and I went to the Fourth of July game between the Nationals and the Cubs.

In my excitement over the Nats having won, I left it.

Drat.

TOMORROW: Adventures in La La Land