Please Do Not Evacuate the Airport

My wife, her cousin, and I went through hell trying to get to our flight at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport (MSY) on Sunday during the partial government shutdown.

This was, without a doubt, one of the top five worst experiences of my life so far. Not worst days, or worst things to happen — it ended ok and there were some good life lessons, like never leave my house again or travel on an airplane again (lol I kid), but the experience itself was horrific. I wanted to puke. I wanted to fight. It tore my stomach and brain to pieces. I need to write this down to fully process it. If you are in a hurry or do not care about any of the back story, skip ahead to “Please Do Not Evacuate the Airport.”

This was written entirely by me without the help of AI. All em-dashes are the sole property of my writing style.

Our week in New Orleans

The whole story starts a little over a week ago, Sunday, March 15, when we flew into New Orleans from Pittsburgh. We were keen to observe the outbound traffic and TSA lines so that we had an idea just how bad it was going to be the following Sunday for our return flight. It looked like maybe 30–45 minutes of wait and the MyTSA app confirmed as much. No big deal, right?

Other family flew in and out on different days; I rented a huge VRBO with 5 bedrooms and a driveway to use as a home base. We all spent a fantastic week in New Orleans touring old mansions, plantation houses, the zoo, the World War II museum, and we even went on a boat into the swamps. We ate great food and made awesome memories.

Sunday morning, the three of us still in New Orleans woke up early to pack up, clean the house and get out of there. I cooked up two pounds of bacon, covered it in light brown sugar and put it in a ziplock bag. “Snackin bacon” for the flight. It was nice not being rushed — the property owner didn’t permit a late checkout, but I had actually rented the house until Monday to avoid being stuck for hours between checkout and our 5:30pm flight.

One Last Cigar on Magazine Street

We were ready to go by 11:30am and that pre-flight anxiety started to kick in. Chris asked if we could just leave early for the airport, as we both had been getting texts about long wait times at TSA from Breeze on our phones. I told him that while I totally agreed we should go early, we didn’t need to go six hours early. I checked the MyTSA app and saw that TSA lines were running 45–60 minutes, which placated both of us. Of course, we didn’t check the news or social media; we had no idea about what had been going on at the airport since 7am.

So, instead of heading to the airport, we parked down at Mayan Import Company on Magazine Street in the Garden District, not far from our VRBO. I purchased a Padrón 1964, a bottle of coca cola, and found a nice spot under a big oak tree in their yard to smoke. Jess and Chris went over to the antique dealer. We killed a couple hours. It felt like the perfect send-off to a wonderful trip.

The Turn

At 1pm, we dropped our rental vehicle off without incident. They had plenty of shuttles running back and forth to the terminal, it was super seamless compared to when we landed a week earlier. I leaned back into my seat and said the worst thing I could possibly come up with, “I can’t believe how smoothly this is all going.” Everyone yelled at me, “we aren’t there yet!” and it is true, you should never tempt the universe with such stupid words.

Realizing what I may have just set in motion, I double checked the TSA app and confirmed the wait was only going to be 45–60 minutes. Wew. Close one. Then I remembered another fear — did I put my cigar cutter, shaped like a bullet, in my carry-on or did I properly pack it in my checked luggage? I dug through my carry-on and could not find it. It must be in my checked bag, I thought.

The shuttle arrived at departures, and we made our way inside. Not even ten feet inside the door, we realized we had to climb across a line that snaked its way multiple times back and forth across the entire level to get to the Breeze counter to check our bags. It looked like a lot of people, but we still didn’t realize how much trouble we were in. (The line on this floor was for CLEAR+ members, an expedited system faster than even TSA PreCheck. We later found out it took 4½ hours where the regular TSA line only took 3½. So much for paying for priority!)

We checked our bags, and still under the delusion of “we are so early”, I asked the ladies at the Breeze counter, “there’s a lot of people here, you don’t think we will have a problem getting through for a 5:30pm flight?” expecting them to say, “you’re fine.”

The first lady said very bluntly, “I am not going to lie to you” and didn’t offer any other advice. The other lady said, “You could make it. Maybe.” It was at that moment I knew I had fucked up.

Follow the Flagger

Before I had a chance to grab him, Chris took off without us. He thought he was in a different line since Jess and I have TSA PreCheck and he does not. He went to a restroom before getting in line. Now, I had not peed since my cigar. But I didn’t have time to go, because we spent all that time trying to find him. We had to go down four levels, outside into the parking garage. TSA PreCheck had to stand in the same line with everyone else.

Jess and I were walking forever between long, snaking lines of people from one side of the garage to the other. It is a parking garage, after all, and a vehicle turning around caused us to get stuck in a crowd for ten minutes. We were completely disoriented and confused. The parking garage staff directing the TSA line were all yelling the same thing “follow the flagger.” Exasperated, I yelled out, “What flagger? I haven’t seen a single flagger yet!” Some people nearby helped, “keep going, you are going the right way.” We finally saw the guy holding a flag — marking the end of the line.

We join Chris in line and start to discuss how stupid it was to go smoking cigars and killing time when we could have just come here at 11am. “Yes, it’s my fault,” I tell them. “I put too much reliance in that stupid TSA app.” I open it again to show them and THIS TIME a message has appeared that the app isn’t being properly updated because TSA funding has been cut — a message that wasn’t there earlier in the day. I have never missed a flight. I overthink everything. I overprepare for everything. These kinds of situations happen to other people — not me! And yet, here we were, and I took Chris and Jess down with me.

In the first ten minutes of the line, there is an opportunity to line jump as both lines get pushed together very closely before going separate ways. We asked the people in the other line, “how long did it take to get from here to there?” and they said 90 minutes.

I (jokingly?) mentioned to Chris and Jess that we should line jump here, and even noted that we could bribe the people in the other line with $50s and $100s to be quiet about it. But, at the same time, we started to do the math on 90 minutes and realized we may actually make it without cheating, so we didn’t take the chance to jump. (Also, as I would find later, neither Chris nor Jess were comfortable with jumping.)

I am both a professional complainer and professional worrier, and despite my negativity, Chris and Jess kept me positive. I tried to focus on what Oddball (Donald Sutherland) in Kelly’s Heroes said, “think that bridge will be there, and it’ll be there. It’s a mother beautiful bridge, and it’s gonna be there.” (In the film, it turned out that the bridge wasn’t there.)

It did take us 90 minutes to reach that spot in the line. I nervously looked at my watch, doing the math, and assured myself we were going to make it. Some lady four people ahead of us chimed in, “I heard from my husband that we have to do this all over again in the parking garage one floor up.” Panic sets in. I left the line to run up the stairs to see if there were lines in the parking garage on the floor above us. There were not. I returned, and almost got thrown out / sent to the back of the line, until I convinced the parking lot attendant that I was already in line, my wife was still in line — I only stepped away briefly.

What a shit show. I would not be leaving the line again after that. And I still had not peed.

My wife and I are not very religious. Chris is a devout Christian. We go back and forth a bit while still maintaining great respect for each other’s beliefs. With absolutely nothing to lose, I jokingly told him we should pray, something I hadn’t done, maybe ever, as an adult. And of course, when I said it, I snidely added that we need to pray we actually make it, none of that “if it’s God’s will that we make it” malarky. This of course sparked a religious debate, which I cut short when I decided to just break into prayer myself with a quick, “Dear heavenly father, please get us on this flight and home safely. Delay the flight, speed up TSA, whatever you need to do. Amen.” No one closed their eyes or anything, and Chris looked dumbfounded: both at the fact I prayed, but also at the way I disregarded the required humility.

I disarmed the situation with some of my “Snackin Bacon.” Chris and I ate about half of it. Jess watched in bemusement.

Please Do Not Evacuate the Airport

It was 4:10pm and we finally walked into the building after two hours in the parking garage. As soon as we went in, we passed the first bathroom we had seen since we got there. While there was enough time for my wife and another lady in line to go, by the time they got back, our place in line was too far away for me to go. Somehow my body paused my bladder, kidneys, some type of genuine fight-or-flight response, because I was surviving alright without having to go.

4:25pm. We made our way up the escalators to the home stretch. Ten rows of lines that snake back and forth that make up the permanent TSA line queue system. In normal conditions, during peak hours, this is as far back as the line gets. I opened the “Snackin Bacon” and we finished it, Jess even had some this time.

4:40pm. After going through a couple rows, we figured out that it took roughly five minutes per row. Now it was just a math problem. Eight rows, that’s forty minutes. I kept doing the math, reviewing my ticket, and hoping that I was misreading the numbers.

BOARDING TIME 05:02 PM
DOOR CLOSES 05:17 PM

We were going to miss doors closing by like ten minutes. TEN FUCKING MINUTES.

The lady in front of us, who we had kind of become friends with by this point, was granted an amazing turn of events. Her departure time was originally fifteen minutes ahead of ours, but her plane was delayed in Houston. We celebrated with her when she got the text. She was safe. We, however, were not.

4:45pm. Seven rows to go. I start to tell Chris and Jess that I would have been happier if we had failed in the parking garage, or just gave up the moment we got here, than to make it this far and still miss it. I was starting to lose my mind. To see the exit, but still not make it.

I told them we needed to line jump, or we’d be spending the night in the airport. There was a single place to do it — a column on the far end when we make the bend. We had one more chance to use it before we ran out of time. They both adamantly fought with me about it. In short, had I done it, I would have been abandoning them there, which I wasn’t going to do.

While we were squabbling over the situation, another group of people did line jump. People started yelling at them. “You’re a bunch of fucking assholes!” “All of us are late for flights, go fuck yourselves!” They were yelling back and forth at each other. The place was turning into a powder keg.

4:50pm. Six rows to go.

About halfway down that row, the loudest alarm you have ever heard went off. Bright alarm lights flashed from every surface. I didn’t know if it was a fire, a terrorist attack, or what was going on. We are at war with Iran, after all, and nothing about today made any sense. After thirty seconds, a lady came over the speaker, “Please do not evacuate the airport. Please do not evacuate the airport.” The crowd went WILD — applause and cheers. (The sirens went away but the lights continued to flash the rest of the time we were in the airport.)

I wanted to use the chaos to make the jump at the end of the row, but they didn’t want to. It’s wrong. Immoral. There are lots of reasons that good people may not want to line jump. But I was willing to sacrifice my ethics to save twelve hours stuck in an airport.

4:55pm. Our last chance to line jump. Of course they kept me from doing it. We argued. Chris wasn’t too happy with me. I finally realized it was over. We were going to miss our flight. I put my hands up in the air. I cursed out loud. I yelled something but everyone around us were so delirious that no one even bothered to look. I may as well have been yelling into the void.

5:00pm. We rounded the corner again. Four rows to go.

People around us started yelling and waving. A few started flipping off someone. We turned around and realized the media was there. There were a lot of reporters and cameras. Apparently, of the entire TSA shutdown thus far, we were lucky enough to be in the WORST of the WORST chaos of any airport in the nation yet.

We kept going through the motions knowing that we weren’t going to make it. I refreshed the Breeze app over and over again hoping for a delay. I kept looking at my physical boarding pass hoping that THIS TIME when I read the door close time it would be different. Total insanity.

As my mind raced, the gate kept calling over the loudspeaker for all passengers heading to Pittsburgh on Breeze Flight 709 to make their way to gate A1 at this time. I cannot explain to you how infuriating it made me. I WANT TO MAKE MY WAY TO THE GATE, I REALLY DO.

5:08pm. We had nearly made it two more rows. I sent a flurry of messages to Breeze through the Live Chat feature of their app. I was almost embarrassed to even ask this of them, I understand how planes must get from airport to airport to airport to keep their full day’s schedule. But I also know that the squeaky wheel gets the grease. We had a little over two more rows to go.

5:17pm. Still stuck in line with about a half of a row to go, but this was the time that the doors were scheduled to close. I looked at the clock completely dejected. I was able to yell across to a TSA worker, “the doors are closing right now for our flight, is there anything you can do?” (No.)

5:20pm. We made it to the end, but that’s when we realized there was a loop of people in a mini queue in front of each agent. With the loudspeaker still blaring for Pittsburgh, I start to realize that they haven’t left yet, and there was still hope. I show everyone in the small queue ahead of us our boarding pass, “Do you see our door closing time on this ticket? May we PLEASE go ahead of you?” They let us in. Specifically — a lady wearing a shirt that read, “PRAY — PRAY — PRAY” let us in front of her.

We were so jammed in there with the TSA agent and each other that Chris and I ended up fighting over personal space. It was total insanity and no one was thinking straight. When the line pulled ahead, we refocused. They were ready for us now, but there was no space to place a bin on the conveyer belt. We stood there for at least five minutes waiting for room to add our bins. It was horrible. I was sweating profusely.

We finally got bins and sent our things through. Chris did not wait for his stuff. He ran from TSA to gate A1 to try and hold the flight for us. My wife grabbed her stuff and Chris’ stuff and started running towards the gate. My bag was flagged. I had to go off to the side to talk to a TSA agent.

She asked if I had anything sharp in my bags, I said no. She started laughing when she found it. It was the cigar cutter. I immediately apologized and offered to throw it away. She didn’t confiscate it. I was now on the move, running as fast as I could.

About halfway to the gate, I catch up to my wife and we see Chris jogging back with his thumb up. He yells, “They are holding it, we have eight minutes!”

I look at them both and say, “I don’t care, I am running.” I don’t know if it’s because I needed to physically vent my stress from the events of the day, or if I didn’t really believe they would wait, but I ran full throttle the rest of the way until I handed the lady at the gate my boarding pass. I told her, “thank you,” at least five times.

5:28pm. We are seated on the plane. We update family and friends to tell them we made it. I sent a message to all my guy friends in the GC — “we are on the mother fucking plane.” Even with the happy ending, my stomach was still in knots, this was the worst rollercoaster I had ever been on.

Most of the other airlines did not delay their flights; they just left. There are countless stories on Facebook today of people that missed their flights with other airlines by just minutes.

Breeze officially announced a delay as we were sitting down. When we arrived, 35 people were still missing. I didn’t count exactly, but I think there were fewer than 15 still missing when we eventually took off. One of the last people who boarded our plane before the doors shut, a girl around twenty years old, looked like she had been balling. I cannot forget her face.

The fact that Breeze did this for their customers — for us — I am forever grateful. They will be my preferred airline for life. On the way back, we heard so many stories that were far worse than our own. There were at least five different groups on this flight that had been in the airport for twelve plus hours. They all missed their flights with other airlines by 10, 20, 30 minutes and got trapped, their bags on the way while they were left to stand around. We could have been one of those people, on Monday morning’s flights, but we got lucky. We got damn lucky. Or maybe it was the prayer. I am not going to say. It isn’t for me to decide.

The Shuttle Driver

Once we landed at Pittsburgh’s brand new, state-of-the-art airport, we quickly made our way to the baggage claim area. Everything was so smooth and efficient. Our bags were on the carousel within ten minutes of landing. We waited there for a total of three minutes. I called my son and told him to meet us at Arrivals door number 5.

Before you judge this too harshly, remember that everyone standing at this door was coming from the same baggage claim carousel, meaning everyone there had just been through a day of hell at New Orleans International, some worse than others. And we were now here, at the brand-new Pittsburgh airport with different lanes and rules that we don’t yet know about. Apparently, there is a coned off section at each door for shuttle drivers, but you wouldn’t know that to look at it. It isn’t obvious.

Well, wouldn’t you know, someone’s family pulled up in a car for them to load when a shuttle driver for the Sheraton or the Marriott or somewhere pulled up, honked and proceeded to yelled out of their window.

The passenger loading his bags stopped what he was doing and started mother fucking the shuttle driver. Both fingers in the air, telling him to go fuck himself, it was a reaction that would normally feel like 100x way overboard for what had occurred. The shuttle driver looked around at all of us, like we were going to take his side and agree the guy yelling was crazy.

That. Isn’t. What. Happened.

Every person there started yelling at the shuttle driver. Men. Women. Mothers. Children. Old people. If the pope had been there, he would have told this shuttle driver to go fuck himself.

This old guy with a Penn State shirt and WW2 Museum hat yelled the best line of anyone, “That bus driver must be from Philly!” I literally buckled over laughing. It diffused the situation, but you could tell by the look on the shuttle driver’s face, he had no idea what he had walked into.

Alternate Outcome

Upon reflection, the situation was a total powder keg of desperate people in a disorienting and ultra stressful environment. Sirens, emergency lights, and time running out.

There was one group that line jumped, and you heard how the crowd lit them up. Had we line jumped right after, it could have led to even more people doing it, which could have led to a stampede. The situation could have spiraled completely out of control. On camera. For the nation. The butterfly effect.

And even if that didn’t happen, we could have simply got caught, and sent to the end of the line. And missed our flight.

It is not easy to do the right thing when under extreme stress. But it was the right thing to do.