Flying is an awful experience. This is glaringly apparent everywhere, but especially at the airport of a tourist destination in March. When I showed up at Cancun airport to come home I was greeted by a crush of hot, grumpy, sunburned people, most of whom looked like a warning ad for melanoma.
One man wearing a tank top with the sunburned outline of a hand on his shoulder thought that talking louder would help the hispanic airport worker at the check in kiosk understand English better. It didn’t. Neither does being a jerk to the gate agent, Mr. “I have a business class ticket and I’m much more important than you people”. You’re right, I’m not important but I have a radio show and a microphone and I will tell Des Moines Iowa that you, sir, are indeed first class….a first class jerk!
Thanks to first class, business class, “Economy Plus” at the front of coach, and charging extra for exit row seats, there are now more seats that I can’t afford to sit in than those that I can.
If you decide you don’t want to pay to check a bag, that doesn’t mean you get to take just as much stuff and cram it all in the overhead bin. Tough choices need to be made, people. Don’t be that person trying to shoehorn in a bag you should have checked, sweating and grunting while a logjam of people forms behind you.
Enough with not giving us the whole can of pop already. It’s so dry on the plane I can hardly croak out “Diet Coke please”, and my eyes have no tears- I can’t even blink to communicate. I need more than two thirds of a very small cup of liquid, dammit. And yes, I’ll take that “snack”- the world’s smallest bag of the world’s smallest pretzels. I think they’re the pretzels they stick inside the M&M’s, they’re so small. I guess it’s all relative. Delta must think I’ll hold up the pretzel to the window and think “I can’t possibly eat this, it’s as big as that lake!”