O’ar Pali says it isn’t easy being on planes next to strangers all the time — and you quickly find there are a series of character types, dying to tell you about themselves
Perhaps it goes with the territory: if you have decided to live your life between two countries you must accept the consequences. And no, I am not talking about Darling’s taxation treat. I am referring to what most non-doms endure on a monthly if not weekly basis. While the average UK citizen may undergo the travel dilemma a few times a year, usually during the summer and winter holidays, entitling them to complain about Heathrow’s Terminal 5, non-doms have been forced to evolve past such trivialities. Over many flights we have not only had our bags lost, mangled or sent to Uganda, but been stripped down to our bare essentials and made to hop on one foot while the sole of the other one is being examined. More importantly, though, we have been tamed to the point where we have learned amicably to accept our airborne neighbours. Personally, I have become an expert on the man seated next to me.
I have met the annoying Pseudo-philosophers who think that Nietzsche’s death has left them a vacancy and make it their mission to convert you to their way of life during the flight. The Sleaze, who assumes that because you are a female and happen to be seated next to him, you must be impatiently waiting for his round of unoriginal chat-up lines — ‘You are the spitting image of a French tutor I fancied back in my school days. Parlez-vous français?’
The Travel Guru, usually under 35 years old, has travelled the world and is dying to share his experiences with you; whether you are interested or not is of little importance. (Beware: it is often the case that this type does not bathe regularly.) The ‘And Then’ neighbour is easily spotted as he will usually ask the flight attendants a thousand questions before taking his seat. My best advice is: avoid eye contact. If you speak or pretend to speak no English they will probably try your native tongue, and that can be more painful than if they spoke plain English. I recently had some older English chap scream pigeon Italian to me all the way to Rome. Sadly, Italian is one of those languages that everyone thinks they speak a little of, so the ‘sorry, no speaka English’ method may prove more effective if your lingua franca is Mandarin.
The Businessman has come up with the best new business idea and is travelling for some terribly important meeting that will cement the future of his company. He will happily talk to you about his work on a no-names basis as ‘it is all very confidential’, and he may even opine on the general direction of the post-credit-crunch economy (although you may be forgiven for thinking this sounds uncannily like this week’s Economist editorial).
And finally the Bore, someone who, like you perhaps, has had one too many bad neighbours and has decided never to utter another word on board of aircraft again. These flight veterans can last up to nine hours without so much as a single word passing their lips, apart from ‘chicken’ or ‘vegetarian’. I believe them to be the least of the various evils. Nevertheless, remember to be on your guard at all times, as the odd cross-over does occur and your average Bore could transform into a Bunny-boiler by the end of the flight.
On my last flight from New York to London I initially assessed the male next to me as harmless. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, designer jeans and freshly polished black shoes, he was rather quiet during taxi-ing and take-off. But at 35,000 feet his courage grew to new heights. As we waited for the entertainment programme to begin, he began the attack with a series of questions: what did I do, why was I going to New York and how long had I been living in London? The general questions that we allow from the individual seated next to us during a flight, but might at ground level think a tad uncivilised even during an interrogation by Scotland Yard.
Although he was unable to accost me for too long as mercifully the entertainment began, he got me on my way back from the bathroom, the only time during the flight when my headset was off. Could he possibly have me listen to an aria from one of his favourite operas? He was sure I would love it. Before I even had the chance to consent, he whipped out his collection of CDs. Yes, CDs, not mp3s. While the Travel Guru may be in his twenties, the typical Pseudo-philosopher is above 35 years of age.
Following the very best from Tosca, La Traviata and Don Giovanni, I was able to politely feign sleep. Still, after what seemed like a good two hours of pretending to be asleep, I mustered the strength to open my eyes and face my neighbour. To my surprise, it appeared that he and his sketchpad had been facing me for some time — ‘You looked so peaceful, I hope you don’t mind, but I felt inspired to sketch you.’ Now, why would I mind?
What could make a random stranger share more with his neighbour during a flight than he may do with his friends or partner throughout the year? Maybe it is because, psychologically speaking, all inhibition is lost and they know that they will never see the person strapped next to them again, and that even if they bore us we cannot run away. We are their prisoner for the duration of the flight, held hostage several miles up in the air. Or a simple scientific explanation may be more accurate, that at those altitudes the lack of oxygen affects the brain.
On a trip from Berlin I had a guy in his late twenties tell me about the two years he had spent in Asia. Don’t ask me how we got on to that; I really don’t believe I initiated that conversation. I think it all began with him asking me if I had ever been to India and a very underwhelming ‘no’ on my part. Before I knew it I had David Copperfield and Robinson Crusoe rolled into one, ‘He was born... Then he travelled to the far reaches of Asia, at times living in the wild...’ His story finally reached its climax on our descent to Heathrow as he confessed to having been bitten by some unknown bug in an Indian forest where he was camping at the time. The bite grew to the size of a mango and started pussing (needless to say I no longer eat mangos) until he finally made it to a hospital. The institution, he assured me, was indeed prehistoric, as it was in the middle of nowhere near some forest. It was only after almost a day’s wait that they operated and surgically removed the infection, according to him substituting a sharpened spoon for a scalpel. To prove it he lifted up his shirt and showed me a rather large scar on his lower back. He was at least right about the size.
Although I must confess that I have sometimes learned more about certain cultures and their natives during my flights than I have upon week-long visits to those countries, I still can’t help but close my eyes and dream about those lovely partitions in first class. After all, how much does one really need to know about one’s fellow man?
O’ar Pali works at Luxury Publishing and is a journalist for Spear’s WMS.