I most recently flew just last week, and by the time I reached the airport — at 8:05 am, meaning I had to get up around four, thank you very much — I was already exhausted, and my flight wasn’t even delayed yet, which felt suspicious. At check-in, a cheerful sign announced: “ALL BAGS MUST WEIGH LESS THAN A SENSE OF OPTIMISM.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the desk agent sighed, slapped a sticker on my bag, and whispered, “Good luck out there.”
Security was next. The line snaked so far back it crossed two time zones. When I finally reached the scanners, I was asked to remove his shoes, belt, jacket, laptop, tablet, smartwatch, emotional baggage, and one regret of his choosing. I picked the regret from last Tuesday.
At the gate, the departure board flickered like a slot machine: ON TIME → DELAYED → BOARDING → JUST KIDDING → TECHNICAL DIFFICULTY → BOARDING ZONE 47. No one knew where Zone 47 was. Rumor said it was “near the Starbucks but beyond hope.”
When boarding finally began, priority groups multiplied like rabbits. First came Group 1, then 1A, then 1A-Elite, then Platinum-Sky-Preferred-Ultra, then “People Who Once Spotted an Airplane,” then “Anyone Named Steve,” and finally my group: Group 9—The Unfortunate.
On the plane itself, my seat didn’t recline, but the seat in front of me did—enthusiastically. The drink cart ran out of everything except warm tonic water. A toddler behind me kicked his seat rhythmically, as if practicing for the World Cup. Oh, and the handset for my "in-flight entertainment system" was missing, and the video screen didn´t work anyway.
And yet, through it all and against all odds, I smiled. Because in 2026, surviving air travel isn´t just transportation—it´s character development.
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