This was published 1 year ago
Flying economy class turns us into selfish, angry and clueless people
By Steve Madgwick
Fifteen-plus hours in economy class is indeed a litmus test of humanity. Increasingly, a test that many fail.Credit: Getty Images
If it were possible for a human being to magically mutate into a cow, it would happen high above us, around the 10-hour mark of a long-haul economy class flight.
You know, just as those few revelrous glasses of 'free' booze, which seemed so clever at take-off time, are morphing into an early-stage hangover. When the whiff of the second meal heating up triggers salivary glands and base territorial instincts, re-alerting you to the fact you're incarcerated in a fart-dense tube for at least three more feature-length films heard through crackling headphones.
Subjecting yourself to the equivalent of two full working days trapped in a space the size of concertinaed coffin sounds like one of those 'experiments' that governments hushed-up in the 1950s. Fifteen-plus hours in economy class is indeed a litmus test of humanity. Increasingly, a test that many fail.
For me, it's not necessarily the food, space or service standards that gives economy its "cattle class" brand, but the fact that some of us turn into angry, selfish and clueless cows. And, yes, that "us" now officially includes me.
Unable to sleep on long-haul flights, I would endlessly people-watch, silently judging foibles and failures, as if on a higher plane/plain so to speak. But on a recent North-America-bound flight, I crossed over the cattle-grid and the watcher became the watched.
The first few hours were calm – schmaltzy comedies binged and book chapters devoured – but as darkness replaced daylight and soothing clouds, it all went pear-shaped, fittingly at the Last Supper. By the time the big steel trolley reached my tail-end seat, they had run out of my preferred choice – for the second time on the flight.
"Wouldn't it be fair to start service from the back for the second meal?" I bellowed like a self-entitled Friesian, loud enough to swing heads. "I'm sorry, sir, this is what we have left," came the practiced, polite, rhetorical reply.
I could offer plenty of vacuous excuses. I boarded the plane already tired, irritable and hungover. And I had accidentally booked the non-window window-seat (with more plastic wall than porthole) so my claustrophobia was stratospheric. As soon as the battle for overhead-bin space began on the heaving flight, I was cutting the tension with my airline-issue plastic knife.
Yet ruminating on that second-choice meal, seemingly rationed by an army accountant, it dawned on me that I had simply been a silly, supercilious and just plain-rude cow. After trays were cleared, I found the steward, who by this stage looked almost out on her three-inch heels, and apologised.
To her credit, she did her best to reassure me that I wasn't a scumbag, explaining that she and her colleagues regularly copped worse. She also conceded that she felt sorry for non-sleepers like me, because at least she gets to catch a few hours vertical shut-eye in the secret sleep pods above us.
With my cow tail firmly between my hairy cow legs, I walked back to my observation cell to study the final few hours of the descent of both plane and humans, eager to call out each instance of cattle bastardry with my new, big brown-cow eyes.
Right on cue, the giraffe behind me began kneeing me in the back, intermittently, cruelling any chance of a snooze. My row buddies continued to grunt, tut and sigh for armrest rights. A woman angrily voiced her opinion about toilets of apparent post-festival grimness. She spoke as if it were the steward who chucked the used toilet paper on the cubicle floor.
A few rows ahead, an ignoramus waged a running squabble with cabin crew about why he had to wear a mask; after they had politely reminded him to put it back on for the fourth time. (He must have missed the news for the past two years, and the unambiguous explanation at check-in, and the pre-flight announcement).
I am certainly no defender of airlines, especially given their recent performances, un-contactability and baggage black-holes, but venting frustrations at front-line staff is ignorant and churlish. If you don't know that mask-mandates and/or any safety regulations cannot be solved by talking to cabin crew like they are 'the help' in a Victorian novel, then perhaps you should be flying with a guardian.
Similarly, complaints about meals, leg room et al should be stored up to fire at number-crunching airline executives, who are rewarded when they work out a way to give you less for more, and are happy to slurp up bonuses when their companies are metaphorically spiralling out of control.
If we don't channel our red-eyed rage correctly, perhaps economy class could degenerate even further, into the much-discussed realm of stand-up, rollercoaster-style seats and pay dunnies. Currently, there is zero motivation for airlines to make this anxiety-breeding space more liveable. They could learn a thing or two about cabin design from the multi-tiered 'sleeper' buses in Vietnam, for example, but then how could you charge customers four times the price for a business class seat?
The most bovine cattle-class manoeuvre surfaces during the Great De-planing. If you have a tight connection, tell the cabin crew, who'll do their best to ensure you'll make it (again, not their fault you booked a tight connection). Otherwise sit the hell down and wait your friggin' turn. Those who stampede past the rows in front are the very embodiment of cattle-class cows.
Surely the past few forsaken years has taught us that flying is a privilege, even in cattle class, and that we need to be most human in the face of trying circumstances. After all, we can only control ourselves and our reactions. So next time, pack patience, empathy and self-awareness, and just like mum said: "Treat people how you want to be treated."
Perhaps a little mirror on economy seat-backs might be helpful, so we can keep an eye out for signs of sprouting horns. I've owned my bovinity, do you need to look in the mirror, too?
Sign up for the Traveller newsletter
The latest travel news, tips and inspiration delivered to your inbox. Sign up now.