Things happen on an airplane for reasons, though not all of them are obvious, or discernible, or even reasonable.

Take for example the curtain between first class and economy, which is intended to fool first class passengers into believing that the back half of the airplane isn’t tagging along behind them. Then there’s the tiny scratched-but-certified-shatterproof plastic windows at opposite ends of each seat row, as if a view rationally explains how traveling at 550 miles per hour, 39,000 feet above the surface of the Earth, is normal. And while I’m chronicling the crazy, convince any sane passenger that by slipping on a little yellow rubber inflatable life vest and blowing into a red tube, a person might stay afloat, much less alive, in a sea of disaster.  

A kind of modern mythology must be embraced by passengers when they climb aboard an airplane, but even more disturbing is that airlines have manipulatively latched on to the notion they cannot only sell these myths, but that services ought to be dispensed by the pound or by the inch.

Anyone who has flown today’s less-than-friendly skies can’t help noticing the ironic “handy hints” provided by the airline to keep passengers feeling fit while en route to their destinations, like rotating one’s foot in one direction, then the other 15 times, raising the leg and tensing the muscles of the thigh 30 times. A bit idiotic really, because it’s the same airline that eliminated the space to safely perform even these minimalist exercises they’re so prudently recommending.  Try doing the “back and arms” stretch 15 times by bending forward and moving your hands down to your legs as the passenger in front of  you slams his seat backward against your skull.  

On a recent trip to Italy, I confess, I purchased an upgrade – economy PLUS. I’d inquired about the upgrade at the check-in desk. Business class? Sure, why not. I am, after all, a writer. The cost? An additional $1,360! That’s more than the total price of my ticket! Oh, economy PLUS is only $100 more. Sure, I’ll take that.

By paying an additional $100 for legroom near the front of the cabin where the plane manufacturer was forced to install a wall, the airline assured me I’d be able to “see what other travelers are talking about” and to “savor more space to work and relax.” It may have been the word “savor” that tipped the scale for me. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.  All I know is that I’d never paid for anything so extravagant before in my touristing life. I figured the splurge cost me about $20 an inch.

I stayed with the standard economy class on the return flight, but I’d lucked out and been assigned an aisle seat. From that vantage I noticed an attendant stopping on her way toward the front of the cabin and glancing down at a passenger.  She crouched very low, like a kindergarten teacher talking meaningfully to a toddler, and made gestures toward her own eyes.  Another cabin attendant approached from the other direction and some sort of secret conference transpired until one attendant walked away, returning shortly with a plastic glass filled with a cloudy liquid. The passenger drank it, both attendants watched, talked a bit more, then the miraculous event occurred.   

The passenger was invited to join the passengers in the first class section, and the entire delegation disappeared behind the gold curtain.  

As I glanced down toward my feet, thinking about the futility of touching them for the next three hours, I noticed a tiny paper bag in the pouch between the glossy airline product marketing magazine and the instruction card for emergencies. I pulled it free and read the label: sickness bag.  
So this is what it takes, I thought – barfing into a paper bag – to make an airline measure out an ounce of compassion.  I opened the bag and stared into it. The woman next to me seemed to be vigorously trying to rotate her shoulders in a circular motion – at least five times. Good for her.
The whole idea of packing people like cattle into an airplane, and then charging them additional exorbitant fees to be treated like human beings sickened me, but it was not enough to produce anything ... well, let’s just say, meaningful. I folded the paper bag and placed it back into its pouch.  

After all, the beverage service was about to begin. The wheeled cart had just appeared from behind the curtain.  Like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, I’d seen enough to realize the entire performance was a sham, but seriously, my mouth tasted like dust, and I needed something to drink.

 
– David Feela