Back when I didn’t need the legroom, Daddy always flew me First Class. This spoiled childhood spent in the first three rows left irremediable marks: to this day, even though I now mostly turn right into No Class at boarding, I fly with great anticipation. The ritual habitual between check-in and lift-off, the shiny steel carcasses of the giant birds, the forced smiles of the polyester uniforms: they all put my mind at peace. Vicodin and vodka at the airport bar never hurt either.
My painless travel existence takes a wrong turn when a lunch appointment calls me to Girona, an airport only served by Ryanair, the Irish low-cost airline. In fact, things turn ugly as soon as I log on to their website. Flashy colors, ugly fonts, squalid layout, flaunting discounts like a starving stripper. I can’t stomach it. Distraught, I call my friend (the one who always says yes), give her my credit card details, and beg her to complete the booking for me.
I pour myself a long one trying to cleanse my head from that vulgar website when the phone rings. It’s my considerate friend, she’s telling me I can bypass the queue, and sign up for Speedy Boarding. “Speedy boarding?”, I mutter in horror, “Get me the basic ticket and sign out. No speedy, no quickie, no one-time special offers, please!”. Devolution completed.
Enter the airport. Once again, democracy’s ugly face is glaring at me. Now, everybody can fly. The words take on a new meaning with this crowd: chubby girls with protruding gums who feign orgasm as they stroke their fresh copy of Look At Me magazine, the face-bookers using their iphone (2!) camera to capture the moment that wasn’t, the pierced grannies in their hooker grand-daughter hand me ups, and those selfish bastards we call children, constantly celebrating everything I detest. Stop fellating that Cadbury’s Creme Egg and write your schoolmasters a postcard, damned creatures!
At the boarding gate, I try to escape this purgatory with my iTunes(tm) but reality calls me back with intrigue: there is a subgroup within those primates which has a certain swagger, a sense of entitlement that sets them apart. The way their stomachs protrude and their noses turn up; the way they smirk, almost against their will… I soon find out they have something on all of us. Yes, say hello to the ‘Speedy’ elite.
This low cost brahmanical caste have the rare privilege of being called in before the rest of us. Seats are not assigned on Ryanair so they will be called in first and will be able to choose seats ahead of us. Some of them appear almost embarrassed by such honorific treatment. Modestly, they look at their ticket and feign a little bewilderment “Oh dahlin’, look, I didn’t realize we ‘ad speedy boardin’, fancy that!”. They knew all along, and for 15 whole Euros they were shaking their booties to a different tune, one that goes “Ooh… Jet set!”
Once all these blessed beings have been pied pipered into their world of privilege, the rest of us mutts are summoned. As per my usual practice, I discreetly wait until the last minute, in order to be the last passenger funneled into the corridor. I enter, walk down the stairs, only to find that everyone, speedy nobility included, has been rammed into a large bus destined for our plane. As the bus takes off, I notice the fallen aristocracy has been pushed to the back of the bus (unlike Rosa Parks they paid extra for that right). Last one in, first one out, I jump off the bus, take my seat and watch as my speedy friends pile in behind. I’m back in my old childhood haunt, row 1 seat A. The cosmic order is reinstated. Thank you Ryanair.
