Fasten your seat-belts

In life and on flights sometimes you cannot choose. Airlines are shocking, in this regard: when you are boarding, some of them ask you if you would like them to donate a kidney to you; others do not even acknowledge your presence on board giving you something rare, like a smile.
Today I could not choose my seat and I am travelling with one of those that are still called “national companies”. Too bad that their financial flag is geographically in the Middle East, and their name evokes pizzas and mandolins. However, it is not vital for this story to understand who issued my ticket. This brief travel account describes feelings that will be unpopular and will clash with good-hearted, well-thinking people out there. Still, I am keen on telling the truth on travels, no matter how acidic or soft Truth is.
When I fly, I avoid kids. For some time, I believed in a compassionate Fate that would grant me a cherub as a next-seat neighbour, a small human being that would be beautiful to look at and fun to listen to. Someone that would reinvigorate my motherly feelings.
I take from 2 to 8 flights a month, depending on the time of year. I have been taking planes since I was 18. Fate has always been an asshole towards me. In more than 15 years, I never found myself sitting near to an extraordinary kid. Today, a monster is sitting on my right. Her name is Rihanna; I did not invent her name. She is wearing clothes I did not think existed for the little ones. Since we left a Scandinavian capital city, she has been singing. She sings like there is no tomorrow. She is painting her nails and every 5 minutes she gets up and walks down the aisle for a while. She does not travel alone, but perhaps it would be better if she did: her father tries to pull down walls of fruit on a screen that is as wide as a tanker. Her mother reads a book by Susanna Tamaro. This will not go down well, but please do not procreate if you prefer to spend your time reading Susanna Tamaro. Do not have children if you do not plan to be able to keep them at bay. Above all, however, do not become parents if you let them become little monsters that terrorise schizoid travellers on millions of planes that take off from thousands of cities every day.
Am I heartless? Yes, but I am also sleepless, patience-less, family- and friend-less, bed-less, and I will not see my quiet beautiful 50-square-metre-flat until tomorrow night. I am sincere, too.
In previous flight adventures, I met young kids that, in no particular order, would: talk about sex; cry continuously for 5 hours, sometimes without even taking inhaling and then becoming amaranth ; touch my hands, my arms, my boobs, my glasses; scream that they should not be there; pour various biological fluids onto their parents, me and other crazed travellers; look ugly; call “stupid” their parents because they did not let them win at CandyFuckingCrash .
When I fly, I avoid animals too. The list includes: ferrets; retards arguing on the phone while we are taking off; dogs; idiots who think they are in their cosy homes and that then proceed with long burping and god-cursing performances; cats; half-drunkards; women into horoscopes – “I am Libra, and you?”; rabbits; vegan terrorists; Catholic terrorists; arm dealers and manufacturers; have I mentioned cats and ferrets?; people who smell like they have just got out of a lazaretto; folks that have probably just got out of a lazaretto and that cough into your face; filthy morons that use the toilets and you know that it is not possible that they have washed their hands in such a limited amount of time.
Why do these samples of human beauty drive me so much bananas, though? In a way, you can also meet them on the ground, so I should have constant bowel spasms, you might argue. The difference is that when you are on a plane, Reality is pressurized. You are all floating above the clouds. You are hopeless. The monsters will have the upper hand. Fasten your seat belts.

 It’s a small world. It keeps re-crossing itself   Ode to Summer 

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