Bygone Days of Decadence

(image taken from Pink Julep Abroad)

(image taken from Jungle Dream Pagoda)

(image taken from Mixed Fashion Design)

Flying over to Dublin, I was brutally reminded that, while still an incredible and awesome privilege, it is no longer the luxurious, romantic experience it once was, an experience still popularly and iconically idolized and memorialized. Checking in with my larger bag and obtaining my boarding pass was rather seamless; as has become custom, passing through security was a borderline dehumanizing routine, shuffling along with the other cattle, removing all items from pockets, removing shoes. My line was held up a bit, as a young man who did not speak English was repeatedly told to empty his pockets, over and over, to no success; finally, some minimal pantomiming subsided his confusion. The article in question was a crumpled receipt.

Obediently, I pass through the body scan chamber, a mildly more evolved kin of some of the medieval prison devices. As I go to exit, I find I am entrapped in a small yard, each side blockaded with red tape. I turn once, then twice, a bit unsure, when a mouth-breathing cretin tells me to exit to my left. I explain to him that, with him standing in front of the opening with his bulky frame, I had assumed I was not permitted to pass. He laughed with his gang, and a young woman not much older than myself snickers under her breath that perhaps I should visit a doctor. My immediate reaction, internally, was to respond in kind, something snarky, connivingly condescending, something with stabbing, multi-syllabic words. Realizing that such utter vapid and inconsequential people hardly deserve my attention, my eloquence, my moments of dignity, I moved on.

On the actual aircraft, one that was shockingly small, settling into my aisle seat, I am encompassed by a family with an infant and two small children, and a gaggle of very large Irish women carrying their weight in duty free cigarettes and cheap jugs of alcohol. Throughout the entire flight, one such kind lady, without so much as a pardon, continually sat on me, her wide behind covered in taut polyester purple pants, to allow the others to pass to perform some unknown frequent, and apparently crucial, ritual in the restrooms. With a steady round of turbulence, a growing intimacy with my dear and lovely lady friend across the aisle, the crying baby, and a constantly roving and slightly too wide drink cart, which took a liking to my elbow bone, I barely could close my eyes, let alone contemplate sleeping.

This diatribe is a bit melodramatic, perhaps, however, complaints and first world worries expressed, I now feel relieved, and can hopefully muster the courage and strength to brave the flight home tomorrow morning.