Just Plane Annoying - USA

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Travel overseas is one of the most exciting, interesting pursuits you could ever care to undertake in your lifetime. Part of the experience is about the bit between leaving your house and getting there: customs, security, checking in, checking out — and sitting in your allocated seat anticipating take-off.

But what about the people you end up sitting next to on that plane? Sometimes their intention seems to be to make your trip as difficult as possible. I found this out on a trip to the U.S.

Exhausted before the journey had even begun, I clambered toward my assigned seat. I noticed my seat number was smack in the middle of the middle row — covered in diapers, baby clothes and baby wipes. A Jewish man sat beside my seat with whom I assumed was his wife; they were trying to console their sniveling baby.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly to the man, “but that’s my seat there.”

The man looked at me and shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, maybe you can sit over there instead.” He pointed to the row in front. Understanding their mini crisis, I smiled. “Ok, no worries, I’ll just sit here.” I sat in front of them and lay back. What do you know - minutes later a couple came along and told me I was what, sitting in their seat - what else? I moved out, turned back to the Jewish couple.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anywhere else I can sit — I really need to sit there.”

The man shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sure zer are some seats at the back — I’ve seen zem,” he said impatiently. By this point a line of people had formed behind me, waiting to get past the aisle I was blocking.

“Sorry, but it’s my seat — I don’t wanna look for another seat,” I said, trying to remain polite.

The guy simply shrugged.

“Excuse me, miss,” said the guy standing next to me.

"Sorry about this", I mouthed.

“Would you like me to call a flight attendant?”

I nodded. I was furious. How dare they stop me from obtaining the seat I’d paid for!

“Can I help you, ma'am?” the airline attendant said in her thick, Southern American accent.

“Well, that’s my seat there, and they’re telling me there’s no space, but there’s nowhere else I can sit.”

The Jewish man kept his head down, his wife looking from the airline attendant, to me, anticipating what would happen.

The airline attendant turned to the man. “I’m sorry sir, but this a fully booked plane — there is nowhere for this young lady to sit, so I absolutely insist you move over so she can sit down.” Her voice was firm, insistent — with an underlying strict tone to it. The man shrugged again, acting indifferent. I was still angry. I hoped he felt embarrassed that I’d had to go to such means just to get the seat I was entitled to!

“Fine,” the man said, eventually. “I will sit here — she can sit on the edge, where my seat was.”

The attendant nodded, indicating for me to sit down. Before leaving she put her hand on my shoulder. “I can check at the back for extra seats if you prefer.”

“No, no, thanks. This is my seat and I want to sit here.”

“Ok, no problem.” She smiled and walked off.

I settled back, relieved I could switch on the mini television in front of me and listen to some chilled out tunes. My happiness was short-lived, though. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I immediately grimaced. It was him again.

“Umm...” he said, scratching his neck. “I think you are in my seat.”

I frowned. “Yes, I am, and you are in my seat because we agreed to swap!” I almost shouted. It struck me how rude and arrogant this man was.

“But you see…”

“No!” I snapped. “You see! You are in my seat, so I am sitting here and I’m not moving!” I turned back to my TV screen, angry.

“Excuse me,” a gentler voice — a woman’s — his wife’s, “He gets very airsick.”

Her husband intervened. “You see, I will need to get up all the time to use the bathroom. ”

“This is my seat and I’m not moving! Do you un-der-stand?” I said, between clenched teeth. “You get airsick? There’s a bag." I grabbed my own bag. “Here. You can have mine.”

“But I will keep interrupting you to get up.”

“I’m not moving!” I repeated myself with ferocity. “I’m not moving!”

“Please,” his wife pleaded, even after an attendant had come over, my shouting at them, they were still bothering me. Unbelievable.

I turned to her, pouting, giving her the most evil scowl. I did this for a long time, before standing up, retrieving my bag, hastily slinging it round my shoulders and hissing, "That’s it, I can’t take this anymore." I stormed off.

“You know what? I will have that other seat,” I said to the attendant.

She nodded and helped me into one of the only seats left.

“You know,” the steward added, “They shouldn’t have had that seat anyway — they should have said they’d need an extra one for their baby and all their — stuff.”

Needless to say, I started off my trip feeling somewhat resentful, which quickly vanished when I ended up sitting next to a mother with the cutest baby girl. I got a few free glasses of wine brought over voluntarily. Ah, the beauty of compensation.

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