The Perils of Airline Travel

The Perils of Airline Travel

Airports: the most pleasant, easiest, most hassle-free way to get from point A to B, unless you include boat, helicopter, motorcycle, train, bus, bicycle, car, camel, or donkey- but who cares about those things?

Of course, in order to get on a plane, you’ll have to travel to the airport by car. And, by airport, we mean the tiny parking complex fourty kilometres away from the airport, where you parked because you assumed it would be cheaper. Surprise: it isn’t! After horking up the better part of your wallet, you get to cruise along in a rickety old bus for a half-hour, with a senile driver belting “Kumbaya.” Aren’t you glad you opted for a nice, relaxing holiday?

Upon arrival at the airport, you will discover three things: one, the line to check in stretches all the way back to the parking complex; two, you’ve brought along the wrong luggage; and three, your plane is seven hours late. The advil is at the bottom of your packed luggage. Good luck!

Should you ever make it through the line, then comes the wondrous voyage through security, and it’ll be the most fun you’ll have all through the trip! Normally you’d have to pay in the shady areas of town before people would start feeling you up, but at the airport, they do it for free! Stage Directions: Snap a Rubber Glove

Of course, there’s always the fun you’ll have in customs: a time when you can get the one-on-one attention you really need. Here, you’ll be asked a variety of personal questions, just like you would pay for at a psychologist’s office! There are no long couches, ink-blot tests or bespectactled, middle-aged men here, though: just a long red line which you must stand behind… Hairy men with bad body odour, gruff women with mustaches, and a good chance at having your passport denied! Excitement and adventure abound in this great wonderous place, complete with a line-up three hours long! Now, let me know: business or pleasure? There’s no need to reply. We all know what the answer is.

Finally, after all that fun, you’ve arrived at the gate to your seven-hour wait. The average airport has many things to entertain you during lengthy delays, but really, who needs entertainment? A delay is easily the most relaxing part of the journey. Who wants to get to their holiday paradise when they could be sitting on cheap chairs from the mid-80s while listening to wailing babies and people arguing with their spouses? I mean, I know what I’d prefer, not sure about you.

If you do need to be entertained even with the fascinating viewing available to you, the airport can keep you busy in many different ways: there’s a duty-free shop with designer knock-offs and alcohol that couldn’t pass for vinegar! If you’re not into duty free, the magazine store supplies a great variety of products… And by great variety, we mean, “overpriced Mars bars, Pepsi and a week-old newspaper.” Do you want a receipt for that? I didn’t think so. If you’re in the mood for a larger meal, given your long stay, you can choose from a variety of cuisines: chicken wings and cold fries, cheeseburger and cold fries, tomato soup and cold fries, and a lobster bisque with a green salad.
Only joking! You can probably get a hot dog with cold fries too.

And as you lie on the dusty and filthy floor of your gate, stomach filled with food the rough equivalent of raw sewage, shivering, convulsing and contemplating death, you hear a beautiful sound: over the crackling intercom system, a monotone voice announces that your flight is boarding! You leap to your feet and charge towards the gate entrance, only to be turned away by the flight staff. Alas, it seems that you have misinterpreted “pre-boarding” for “boarding.” A small army of elderly people meander casually towards the gate. You’re easily waiting another three hours.

But then, by some the hand of some serendipitious god, you’re boarding!
Wait, nevermind, they’re boarding rows one through fifteen.
What does your ticket say? One hundred fifty eight?
Don’t worry, I kept the spot on the floor warm for you.

When midnight rolls around, you hear the faint call to bring you on to the aircraft. You dole out the boarding pass, wander down the aisle, and fall into your seat. It’s a middle seat, back of the bus, next to the washrooms, the absolute worse on the plane, but you don’t care. You’re there, right? That is, of course, until you notice that you’re sitting between two obese long-lost cousins who are both somewhat deaf, but not mute.
“I SAID, IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”
“WHAT? SEEING YOU IS GOOD, THOUGH.”
It’s going to be a long flight.

If only they would get it going! Now, I’m not sure about the rest of you, but I know how to put on a seatbelt. In fact, I can say with confidance that every person in this room over the age of five is capabable of putting on a seatbelt. Well, all except for maybe a few rugby players, but we’ll ignore that. We know you guys are. All the same, the flight crew insists on showing you how to do up a seatbelt, turn on the light switch, escape from a burning aeroplane and other useless things like that. And then, insult of all insults, they insist on doing the whole thing over again in French! Now, aside from Quebec, France, Lousiana, Haiti, Tahiti, Belgium, Switserland and Chad, who speaks French these days?

But finally, after long-winded announcement on how to salvage your luggage from rabid hippos, should you crash-land in a swamp, or the mechanics of basic flight, should both the captain and the co-captain have to go to the bathroom at the same time, you’re up in the air. A friendly screen tells you your cruising altitude; polite young people offer you flat beverages and stale pretzel mix… You nod off to the sounds of a crap movie playing in your earphones, and everything is beautiful.

You arrive at your island paradise, well rested and ready for a week’s worth of fun, sun, sand and copious consumption of expensive food. Your luggage is waiting for you, and it rolls out undamaged—things are going well, for a change.
You run towards the exit, bag in hand and a smile on your face. It’s raining outside, maybe a little, but that doesn’t matter, now. What’s a little water in the greater scheme of things? Not much, that’s what. But then, your joyous dash is brought to a halt by a barricade covering the doors. Oh, well, you can use the other set! No, they’re blocked over, too. A grainy voice comes over the intercom in musical, local tones, to inform you:
“It’s typhoon season. A major storm has hit, and none of the taxis, buses, trains, donkeys, helicopters or camels will be running for the next two weeks. Please go back to where you came from. Thank you.”

Well, all in all, it could have been worse.
At least you didn’t get tasered!