The summer travel season is upon us, with its ballooning ticket prices and rash of flight cancellations, and I can’t help feeling nostalgic for better days. Some people might pine for the golden age of flying, that time of lavish onboard meals and enough space for a typical-size human to sit down, but I like to keep my expectations low. I fantasize about going back to a time when travel was just a little less horrible. I fantasize about going back to 2023.
Remember getting on a plane three years ago? Here was a time when you might have to pay only $30 to check a bag for a domestic flight. A time when you knew nothing of air traffic controller retirement trends and when you could wear athleisure to the gate without fear of the transportation secretary judging you.
In 2023, my tendency to show up at the airport four hours before a flight was summarily considered weird, likely symptomatic of an anxiety disorder. Now it’s something well-adjusted people do to get to their gates on time.
Back then, I often worried about being seated next to a screaming child, especially if it was my own. Now I worry about being seated next to a screaming dog. It seems everyone wants to travel with pets these days, and all it takes to make it happen is paying a fee equivalent to roughly the cost of one meal at LaGuardia ($150).
On a recent flight to Miami, I found myself comforting a fellow passenger’s comfort animal. “Your mom will be back from the bathroom soon,” I assured the wailing Pomeranian in Seat 21D. I patted his fluffy head. I tried to convince myself that the unidentified liquid dripping onto my purse was from his water bowl. I also felt a little jealous. If anyone were allowed to have a panic attack on this flight, shouldn’t it be me? The dog hadn’t spent takeoff reviewing geopolitical risk factors and binge-eating a $7 bag of Doritos.
There used to be a sense that we were all in this mess together, united by the shared frustrations of modern travel. But that was before the rise of perks inequality. Now more people have special lines and special lounges, lie-flat seats and private cabins, insulated from inconvenience and discomfort. The rest of us walk past these anointed few to our sad economy seats, faces hot with shame, reconsidering all of our life choices.
“They cleared away my business-class champagne,” a friend recounted wistfully the other day, describing an upgrade I did not know existed. “And they brought me the first-class champagne instead.”
The biggest thrill I have had during beverage service is when the flight attendant hands over the whole can of tomato juice, instead of just pouring a portion. If I cannot get an upgrade — and I cannot, as I have no status, in any aspect of my life — I would like us to suffer more equally. I feel it would build camaraderie in this country. At minimum, it would make me feel less bad.
If we were all on a level playing field, maybe we could collectively turn our attention to solving bigger logistical challenges, like rampant flight delays and cancellations. Anything from an airline software glitch to an impromptu U.S. military campaign can send your vacation sideways. In recent months, visitors have been stranded in places like Puerto Vallarta and Puerto Rico, where they’re typically left with very large bills and too few pairs of underwear.
I’m not sure how much improvement is possible here, considering even Congress doesn’t seem to have much say in U.S. military operations these days. Still, if we can’t reduce flight cancellations by, say, 20 percent, I propose we at least try to make them 20 percent less traumatic. We could test out some of those rules they have in Europe, where airlines have to give you food and shelter if they strand you somewhere. Cushy!
I’ve never been stuck in a war zone because of a canceled flight, but I did recently get moored in Florida. This was on the way back from the trip with the Pomeranian. A storm dumped some snow on the Northeast, and the airline’s customer service representative audibly chuckled when my husband and I asked if we might at least be able to get home the next day. My in-laws did not chuckle when we called to tell them that they would need to continue babysitting for our children indefinitely, as we now lived in the Miami airport.
My husband refreshed the airline’s app like a DraftKings user with a problem, and at 1 a.m., he finally scored: two seats on a 6:30 a.m. flight. The flight had been added to the schedule at the last minute, to make up for all the prior cancellations, and the cabin had the jittery feel of that scene in “Argo,” everyone wondering if we were really going to make it out. The pilot walked the aisles, apologizing to passengers for all we’d endured. I thought this was really nice, until he added that he and the rest of the crew were “all really tired, too.” Considering they were meant to fly us home, this was disconcerting. The woman next to me took out a Bible and began reading.
I’ll never know if it was her faith or my anxiety that propelled us forth to LaGuardia, but we landed safely. Walking off the jet bridge, I took in the scene. Crowds of disgruntled travelers swarmed the customer service desk at the gate. A dog in a chic sage green carrying case yapped and yapped. I was bleary-eyed, famished and, like my compatriots facing flight issues the world over, definitely not wearing clean underwear.
Golden age of travel, it was not. But at least I was home.
