The other day, I went to a travel and tourism market and looked around and realised there were two types of travellers — and I did not fit in either category.
The first category is the frequent flyers: She has been around the world twice and nothing delights her any more, not even an offer of an extra free day at a resort somewhere in the exotic Far East.
The second type is the First Class or Business Class flyer: For him, the flight is just another assignment and he might as well be travelling by bus as he looks bored sipping some chilled beverage at 8am in the exclusive lounge, specially built for him at airports around the globe.
I am the type of passenger that hops off the taxi at the ‘Departures’ gate in a tizzy, sweaty and heart beating fast after being stuck in traffic and after listening to the driver complain about the horrible motorists.
We listen to him on how lonely he was here without his wife, about how his terrible roommate watched TV the whole night and about his ungrateful children, who were having a great time somewhere in South Asia while he slaved round the clock.
“Did you shut off the gas?” asks my wife, as we quickly pay the taxi driver and I try to push a suitcase with wheels that has a mind of its own and keeps going off the pavement and on to the street.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, as I get visions of me coming back from my holidays and being arrested. “You will have to come with us, sir,” says the polite police officer, when I return. “You are charged with killing the neighbour’s parrot that she dearly loved.”
Lovely time
“Why can’t we get a porter?” asks my wife. “Are you crazy? I retort. “Why pay Dh30 for something that is free”, I answer smugly as I hurriedly follow my suitcase.
At the travel exhibition, one airline announced that it would be offering a bedroom in the sky for its high net-worth passengers that will have a separate bathroom and a butler to hand you the loofah from behind the bath curtain.
“Amazing,” I told myself and walked on because that offer had nothing to do with me. Even if I was travelling to Mars in the future I wouldn’t need a bedroom as I would be immersed in a metallic tube with saline solution and wires attached to my brain that would project American sitcoms or Bollywood movies inside my eyeball the whole time I am up in space.
The only time I travelled First Class was when I was offered a freebie to write an article on the lovely time I had in a spa in a city that seemed just ready to go to war. The masseuse gently placed two sliced cucumbers on my eyelids and as I shut my mind, I could hear the roar of the jet fighters overhead. Unfortunately, that article was not well-received by the sponsor.
In the First Class cabin I was travelling, it was embarrassing to get all the pampering. I even tried to sneak under my shirt some of the expensive colognes from the toilet, but found I could not sit straight because of the bottles at my belt.
Nevertheless, I managed to get a fist full of the free chocolates, the butter pats and a couple of those tiny jam packets for my breakfast the next day.
I sincerely believe there should be a travel and tourism market conference for no-frills fliers like me and airlines that allow on board my wife’s sandwiches and her curries. That, unfortunately, does not seem likely in the near future.
