Think of me as innocent, naive, trusting. Or perhaps just plain simple-minded, slow on the uptake.

That’s because I still believe in the wonder of travel by airplanes, of romance pervading the very terminal. Rather, that’s how I used to view air travel. A series of recent flights has caused me to think differently.

First, some background:

I became a frequent flyer about 40 years ago, when the company I worked for thought its senior people should fly first class. I wasn’t very senior, but I still managed to get into the front of the plane.

In those days, you got some nice perks up there in the roomy seats: real cutlery, new magazines, real food and little salt and pepper shakers you could take home to your kids. Better, the flight attendants (although that’s not what we called them then) showered you with tiny bottles of liquor. I favoured Remy Martin; and when I got off the plane, my pockets clanked.

Nor were you crowded on those flights. There often were empty seats, and I do recall that one airline boasted that if the plane was crowded and you couldn’t get on the flight to New York, they would roll out another plane just for you.

Air travel was formal. You got a real ticket in an envelope. There was some security, but I never had to take off my shoes and they never confiscated my Swiss Army knife. Nor did I have to show a photo.

Let us cut back to modern times, in which I am shuffling through Pearson International Airport in Toronto, pushing a suitcase, with a carry-on bag over my shoulder and a laptop in one hand and a sandwich in the other. At the same time, I am trying to get all my coins into one pocket while I tuck my little penknife into my suitcase. Hoping I won’t be caught on a security camera. Wondering if they will let me take a sandwich aboard to eat while flying over Esterhazy.

But mostly, I am wondering how I can get onto the plane without a ticket. I am told that tickets aren’t necessary as long as I have a passport. This seems utterly wrong, but I fall into some line and am carried along until my suitcase is whisked away and I am told to report to a certain gate.

So far, so good. I am at least two hours early, but I present myself at security and manage to spill most of my belongings on the counter. They eventually give me four plastic trays to push along before I can get through the metal detector. It buzzes at least three times while I take off clothes.

Finally, I am in a room quaintly called a “lounge” and, when I take out my laptop to make some notes, I spill $11.87 in change because I had stuffed my change into my laptop’s case when leaving security. An attractive young woman helps me pick it up, then moves off to a farther seat.

(Should you be wondering, I have no need to use my laptop. But because everyone else has some kind of messaging device, I feel it will make me look as if I fit in.)

I look out the window onto the tarmac and it strikes me that we have no plane attached to our gate. Surely, that can’t be right. I look harder. Still no plane. Then, a voice announces that our plane has been mislaid in Boston, but another one much like it has been found hanging around on the far side of the terminal and they will wheel it around after they sweep it out.

The plane does come. And with it, the embarrassment that makes me long for my old days of first class. It seems that I am not worthy to get on board. First, they call for the elites and the super-elites. I assume this is some sports team, but it turns out to be just people with money. Next, they board a few Grand Klagons and anyone who went to school with the pilot. Finally, they look down at me and, realizing it is time for the plebeians, they let me on.

I immediately sit in the wrong seat and put my carry-on in the wrong overhead bin, drop my sandwich on the floor and spill more money out of my laptop’s case.

And I make a decision: next time, I will fly platinum privilege super-elite. Or take the train. IE

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