Derek Blasberg, stylist and frenemy to the stars, advises women aspiring to classiness that the only time is is acceptable for a lady to sit next to a stranger for several hours without saying a word is on an air plane. If only it were so simple – Clearly, Derek's experiences are with flying first class.
At the moment I am watching the sunset at Tokyo Narita airport, feeling very much like it is 2AM. Overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotional stimuli (yup, that one's for you) over the past month, I have recessed into a semi-catatonic, grunting, boarding pass brandishing shell of my former self. Faced with six hours of limbo between my old life and my new one, I obviously cannot think of a better way to spend it than regaling you with my woefully standard travel complaints.
On the Montreal-Detroit leg of the flight, I was seated with an ordinary and inoffensive (Read: Of average weight and bathed) man. Behind us, however, was this mean old Southern woman with a hate-on for the lone flight attendant. Before we had even started taxiing, the woman had started in on the attendant about the imagined imminence of missing her connecting flight. We couldn't even make it through the safety demonstration without her chiding remarks and audible sighs, which increased in their audacity to the point where any time the flight attendant spoke, even a request to fasten a seat belt was followed by an “Oh for the good lord's sake, lets get going!” She somehow conned the guy across the aisle into being her fetch-it bitch for the storage compartments - “Hey, grab me ma purse now, would ya?” A demeaning duty to which he was puzzlingly amenable for the duration of the flight. Before the seat belt light was turned off, she was pushing mothers and babies out of the way to be at the front of the plane, bullying the attendant into lowering the ramp faster and demanding an escort.
As I walked the 20 minutes (actually) to my next gate, the only-present-when-in-reference-to-The-States bile of Canadian Nationalism rose in my throat. How many burger shops can realistically be sustained in a 100 metre stretch? Five, apparently. Sorry, I was raised in granola and folk music country, I can't help my nature. This pathological disdain only prepared me for my next seatmate.
By virtue of something akin to bad karma I was in the middle seat, sandwiched between a nondescript yet polite man and a lard-laden, Coca-Cola swilling, snorting, putrid abomination - And that's being generous. He introduced himself with a tactful, “The window seat's mine, can ya move?” And proceeded to plant his generously portioned self at the aisle exit, as if he expected me to levitate out of the way. His in-flight behaviour was nothing less than one would expect from the poster boy for fat assholes everywhere. A relentless barrage of horking and coughing, very circa 2009 Swine Flu. Needing to use the bathroom suddenly and often, screaming, “Gotta get out!” In my ear any time I encountered the briefest moment of sleep. Occupying 1.3 seats, which is a 0.3 seat succession I should clearly make due to the conspicuous lack of Cola and wieners in my diet. And oh, the stench. If the angel and devil on his respective shoulders were waging a battle between showering and fried chicken, it must have been Two-Dollar Tuesdays at Church's.
Unfortunately I could go on, but my battery is dying and it's pre-boarding ... Next time I complain it will be from Taipei, and will most likely involve cockroaches. Here's hoping.
At the moment I am watching the sunset at Tokyo Narita airport, feeling very much like it is 2AM. Overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotional stimuli (yup, that one's for you) over the past month, I have recessed into a semi-catatonic, grunting, boarding pass brandishing shell of my former self. Faced with six hours of limbo between my old life and my new one, I obviously cannot think of a better way to spend it than regaling you with my woefully standard travel complaints.
On the Montreal-Detroit leg of the flight, I was seated with an ordinary and inoffensive (Read: Of average weight and bathed) man. Behind us, however, was this mean old Southern woman with a hate-on for the lone flight attendant. Before we had even started taxiing, the woman had started in on the attendant about the imagined imminence of missing her connecting flight. We couldn't even make it through the safety demonstration without her chiding remarks and audible sighs, which increased in their audacity to the point where any time the flight attendant spoke, even a request to fasten a seat belt was followed by an “Oh for the good lord's sake, lets get going!” She somehow conned the guy across the aisle into being her fetch-it bitch for the storage compartments - “Hey, grab me ma purse now, would ya?” A demeaning duty to which he was puzzlingly amenable for the duration of the flight. Before the seat belt light was turned off, she was pushing mothers and babies out of the way to be at the front of the plane, bullying the attendant into lowering the ramp faster and demanding an escort.
As I walked the 20 minutes (actually) to my next gate, the only-present-when-in-reference-to-The-States bile of Canadian Nationalism rose in my throat. How many burger shops can realistically be sustained in a 100 metre stretch? Five, apparently. Sorry, I was raised in granola and folk music country, I can't help my nature. This pathological disdain only prepared me for my next seatmate.
By virtue of something akin to bad karma I was in the middle seat, sandwiched between a nondescript yet polite man and a lard-laden, Coca-Cola swilling, snorting, putrid abomination - And that's being generous. He introduced himself with a tactful, “The window seat's mine, can ya move?” And proceeded to plant his generously portioned self at the aisle exit, as if he expected me to levitate out of the way. His in-flight behaviour was nothing less than one would expect from the poster boy for fat assholes everywhere. A relentless barrage of horking and coughing, very circa 2009 Swine Flu. Needing to use the bathroom suddenly and often, screaming, “Gotta get out!” In my ear any time I encountered the briefest moment of sleep. Occupying 1.3 seats, which is a 0.3 seat succession I should clearly make due to the conspicuous lack of Cola and wieners in my diet. And oh, the stench. If the angel and devil on his respective shoulders were waging a battle between showering and fried chicken, it must have been Two-Dollar Tuesdays at Church's.
Unfortunately I could go on, but my battery is dying and it's pre-boarding ... Next time I complain it will be from Taipei, and will most likely involve cockroaches. Here's hoping.
