It started innocently enough when I flew to New York last year. Air Canada dinged us with a fee for checking bags: $25 per bag, per person, per trip, that’s $100 for two people to make a return flight.
After that I thought I’d smarten up and buy one of those carry-on suitcases. The type that’s so big that it takes up all the room in the overhead bin yet is still too small to carry all your clothes.
The first time I used this, packed with my toiletries, I had my shaving foam confiscated at the airport because it was over the 100 ml size designated for liquids.
The CATSA agent obviously had no education in the sciences as I argued the fact with him that shaving foam is not a liquid, and furthermore totally contained in a steel canister. How could that possibly be a security threat?
Never the less I eventually arrived in New Orleans a little later sporting a small beard.
I’m old enough to remember the days when flying used to be fun. It was a sense of adventure, you could even smoke on airplanes. Everyone who flew with Wardair still comments on the fine dining with china plates, silver cutlery, warm facecloths and after dinner liqueurs. And that was for all passengers, not just those hobnobbing it in business class.
Compare that to the bag of pretzels you get today.
Nowadays flying is just the hassle you have to go through to get to the place you want to be.
Yet it’s not just the cutbacks on service. It’s also the hassle of going through security. Lining up for half an hour for the privilege of removing your belt and then your shoes whilst your pants fall around your ankles.
The so called budget airlines of today order their aircraft specially configured to have more seats in the same space thereby depriving you of comfort, legroom and possibly your sanity. I take comfort knowing that all those extra seats must be costing them big time for all the extra pretzels.
They may not lose your luggage these days but they do employ former linebackers as baggage handlers to tap dance on your suitcase.
If you think it can’t get any worse, I just took an eight hour flight from Barcelona surrounded by half a dozen screaming babies and three screaming toddlers.
Why me Lord ?
When I used to dream of being a babe magnet this was not what I had in mind.