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I’ve flown enough now to conquer any fears I once had of flying. The bumps, the drops and the bouncy landings don’t bother me nearly as much as they used to, nor do I ever think about the reality of travelling 30,000 feet higher than any creature without hollow bones ever should.
But as old fears fade, new ones have stepped up to take their place. And while experience has taught me that flying is the safest mode of transportation, it’s also shown me that the most terrifying part of any flight is when I find out who I’m sitting next to. Like all good zombie movies, it’s the people who are the monsters, not the plane.
The fear starts before I’ve boarded. The first zone is called, passengers mindlessly surge forward, and I know exactly what the flight is going to be like. All these people are so eager to get to their assigned seat that they’ll delay the whole boarding process for the privilege.
When I do finally get on the plane, I’ll shuffle into my seat and find that the one next to me is miraculously empty. It will stay this way for just enough time to make me think that my prayers to a wide and vengeful assortment of gods have been answered, then the captain will announce that we’re waiting for the final passenger to board.
Enter my cellmate, a passenger whose arms are drowning in duty-free purchases. They’ll stroll in and happily crush my backpack in the overhead compartment, making room for whatever garbage they delayed a whole flight to buy.
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At best, this person will whack on a movie and say nothing to me for the next nine hours. At worst, it could be the guy I had on a flight from Tokyo to Singapore, who went on an expletive-laden rant at his wife before hanging up on her (without switching his phone to flight mode, I might add). Then, proceeded to crack a can of beer that he smuggled on board, smash it in 30 seconds, and pass out, slumping onto me and snoring his way through the next few hours.
Or my seatmate could be the woman who had a body temperature a few degrees shy of boiling point. There was sweat oozing off her feverish face and her cough had been dragged out of the depths of hell. The flight was full, I’m trapped in her recycled atmosphere, and now I have to accept that ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ on my two-week holiday.
I used to think that flying was a romantic thing, and was excited to meet the person next to me. We would sit, chat, and reach a silent agreement to put on headphones and watch whatever movie dropped from the screens above. These days, all I ask for is someone who doesn’t spread their legs like they’re eating a meat pie, or who isn’t skilled in the arts of armrest kung fu.
These might seem like small things to complain about, but they’re symptoms of travelling in this age of entitlement. People no longer recognise planes as communal spaces and aren’t willing to make small sacrifices for the comfort of others. It doesn’t take much. Just give the armrests to the man in the middle seat, let the woman behind you eat without picking her tray table out of her teeth, and try your best not to piss all over the bathroom.
But this is still too much for some. It’s like we’ve forgotten that flying is a privilege, not a right, and we should treat it (and each other) with the respect it deserves.
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