Air Travel

Binge Intro:

Here's what you're about to do. You're about to clear your schedule, cancel your plans, and say goodbye to polite society for a little while. Because you're about to listen to The Binge. We're going deep. We're going long. We're leaving no stone unturned, no corner unexplored, and no subject un-devoured. So settle in, get comfortable, and prepare to indulge.

Rant Intro:

And now... it's time for The Rant. Buckle up, because things are about to get loud, unfiltered, and passionately opinionated. We're taking on the topics that make your blood boil, the injustices that make you scream, and the everyday frustrations that unite us all in shared exasperation. Get ready to unleash your inner outrage, because here on The Rant, no holds are barred.

Right, I've had it. I've truly, utterly, and spectacularly had it with the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of… modern air travel. You'd think, wouldn't you, that after a century of flying through the air in metal tubes, we'd have figured out a system that doesn't involve quite so much… soul-crushing misery. I mean, the basic concept is sound: you get in a plane, it goes zoom, you arrive somewhere else. Fucking marvelous. But the execution? It's as if it's designed by a committee of sadists, each one competing to make the experience more unpleasant than the last. A competition, I imagine, held in some windowless, fluorescent-lit room, possibly near an airport, with complimentary stale peanuts and lukewarm coffee as the grand prize.

Take, for instance, the security. Oh, the security. We've all been there, haven't we? The endless queues, snaking back and forth like some kind of Kafkaesque conga line, the shuffling, the resigned expressions on everyone's faces as we contemplate the indignity of what's to come. You take off your shoes – and let's face it, airplane carpet is a biohazard, a petri dish of unimaginable horrors – your belt, which inevitably sets off the metal detector despite being made of something that looks suspiciously like cardboard, your watch, your jewelry, your loose change, your dignity… and then you get to shuffle through some sort of futuristic microwave while a bored-looking chap stares at you like you're a particularly uninteresting insect, or perhaps a potential threat to national security because you forgot to take out your contact lens case. And for what? So they can confiscate your tiny, clearly non-lethal tube of toothpaste? The one you bought specifically for travel, in compliance with their ridiculously stringent rules? It's a fucking pantomime. A ritual humiliation disguised as "safety." A safety that, let's be honest, is probably more compromised by the sheer incompetence of some of these screeners than by anything we, the bewildered passengers, could possibly be carrying.

And then there's the seating. Economy class. Ah, yes. The clue's in the name, isn't it? Economy. As in, "we've economized on everything, including your personal space, your comfort, and your will to live." You're crammed into a space roughly the size of a bread bin, your knees jammed into the seat in front, which, inevitably, will be reclined into your lap the moment the "fasten seatbelt" sign goes off, reducing your already minuscule living space to something akin to a coffin. The air is stale, recycled, and smells faintly of desperation and feet, the lighting is harsh, a kind of buzzing, fluorescent glare that makes everyone look vaguely unwell, and the person next to you is either snoring like a constipated rhinoceros, drooling slightly onto your shoulder, or trying to engage you in a conversation about their stamp collection, their dietary restrictions, and the agonizing details of their recent surgery. It's a goddamn endurance test. A feat of human contortionism and tolerance that would make Houdini weep.

And the food! Oh, the food. I use the term loosely. It's not food, really, is it? It's some sort of… substance. A grayish, vaguely gelatinous concoction that bears no resemblance to anything found in nature. It comes in a plastic tray, accompanied by a plastic fork, a plastic knife, and a plastic smile from the flight attendant, who is clearly just as thrilled to be serving it as you are to be eating it. You pick at it, you poke at it, you try to identify its constituent parts, but it's a mystery. A culinary black hole. A beige-colored enigma wrapped in plastic. You suspect it might have once been chicken, or perhaps fish, or possibly some sort of root vegetable, but after hours in the air, recycled and reheated, it has achieved a state of matter that defies categorization.

Then there's the baggage. You entrust your worldly possessions to these people, these… baggage handlers. And what happens? They lose it. They mangle it. They send it to Ulan Bator. Or, even worse, they send it to the other airport in your destination city, the one that's a three-hour bus ride away and closes at 5 PM on Sundays. And then, when you finally get it back, if you're lucky, it looks like it's been used as a football by a team of angry gorillas. A team, I might add, with a particular penchant for targeting the most fragile items in your suitcase. You're left standing there, amidst the wreckage of your suitcase, surrounded by shattered souvenirs and clothes that now resemble abstract art, wondering why you ever bothered to leave the house in the first place. Why you didn't just stay home with a good book and a stiff drink, and imagine yourself in a far-off, less stressful locale.

So, yeah. That's my rant. Air travel. It's a fucking nightmare. A symphony of suffering orchestrated by the forces of bureaucracy and incompetence. I feel slightly better now. Slightly. The security lines are still long, the seats are still small, the food is still inedible, and my luggage is probably still in Ulan Bator, or possibly being used as landfill in Newark. But at least I've got that off my chest. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go scream into a pillow. A large, soundproof pillow. And possibly book myself a very, very long train journey for my next trip.