Transatlantic Transitions

Aboard a transatlantic aircraft, on a western-bound red eye flight, the sun does not ever rise. Those pastel rainbow glowing rays do not ever pinnacle the horizon.  It is nighttime for 18 straight hours as we collectively hide from the sun.

We are vampires in a plastic flying coffin, afraid even of the illumination from a small orb reading light situated above. It is icy cold, a fitting temperature for the cult of the undead. In the absence of fresh food, we eat things out of plastic, on tiny trays with plastic cutlery, sip tiny amounts of water out of individual plastic cups. The choice is limited to meat protein or veg, and what is under the foil wrapping, what lays on that semi-warm plastic shell is anyone’s guess.

In order to cross the mighty Atlantic in the span of one day, I will happily morph into a vampire, I will skip a day of seeing the sun, I will greedily eat my allotted plastic foods, I will freeze and undergo frequent muscle spasms because the seats are more uncomfortable the a coffin buried underneath the cold earth, long forgotten by anyone except a few close loved ones.

They stopped at improving the design of the aircraft seat, leaving it to be more uncomfortable than decade old Ikea furniture because vampires don’t have feelings, vampires don’t deserve luxury. They should cut out the whole chair concept and stack us in coffin-like boxes for the journey. Just hand out straws and we can go without the whole sitting upright concept.

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