I know it's wrong, but sometimes I feel nostalgic for the old days of flying, when you paid through the nose for your ticket and the airline made you feel special, writes Frank McNally
The first time I flew anywhere was like dying and going to heaven. I remember a dark tunnel - it was the thing that connects the boarding gate to the plane, apparently - and then a blinding light, which turned out to be the smile of the stewardess welcoming me on board.
We were going to Amsterdam. And in fact, establishing a tradition that would continue to this day, I had missed my scheduled flight. But it didn't matter then. This was the year 3 BR (Before Ryanair). So when I rang Aer Lingus, panicked, to say my alarm had malfunctioned, they said not to worry. I could get the following day's flight instead, at no extra cost. And why not? Sure hadn't I paid for it twice already?
When I eventually made it to the plane, it was like a Jihadist's paradise. There weren't 72 virgins waiting for me, but given the Aer Lingus staffing levels, it must have been close. I do remember that there were only 10 other passengers. So the stewardess's soothingly choreographed safety routine had the sort of intimacy for which nowadays, in certain bars, you'd have to pay.
Then we took off and I had that unforgettable first experience of flying over white, sunlit clouds. Meanwhile, the cabin crew checked every five minutes if there was anything else they could do to increase my comfort. It was only when we landed in Amsterdam that I knew for certain I was still alive.
There's an other-worldly quality about flying, even now. But visions of heaven are scarce, certainly around Dublin Airport. It no longer seems a coincidence that, like Dante's hell, the flying experience comprises a series of circles, involving different degrees of torture. There's the circles of the short-term car-park as you search for a spot near the terminal; the circles of the long-term as you try to remember where you left your car; the circles at 20,000 feet as you await permission to land; and of course there's the baggage carousel (of which more).
Then there's the ninth circle of hell, the abode of the truly damned. I was forced to visit it last week when, maintaining tradition, I missed a flight to Lisbon. It would not be a case this time of just coming back in the morning. There was no flight in the morning, in fact, and the next one was full anyway.
So Aer Lingus advised me to do a round of the other airline desks and check my options.
After a couple of circuits, it was clear that my options were all expensive. I was half-hoping an old-fashioned Aer Lingus stewardess would emerge to rescue me with a financial safety routine. But the emergency exits were not clearly marked. There was no life-jacket under the seat. And as I handed over my credit card to British Airways, an oxygen mask did not drop down from anywhere, allowing me to continue breathing as normal.
The good news is that I caught the scheduled flight home, thereby getting to pay Aer Lingus's exciting new "excess baggage" charge for the first time. And guess what? They lost one of my suitcases, also for the first time. I had a bad feeling from early on at the carousel, when a set of cases taped with Xs came around for the third time. Almost as ominously, there was a bongo drum circling on the belt, also unclaimed.
It was plausible that a drummer might be spaced enough to forget his baggage, but a fusspot who marked cases with tape would surely be here. Even allowing that Dublin Airport's arrivals hall is like Ellis Island circa 1900, the owners should certainly have found the right carousel after a few minutes. But when the marked cases and the bongo - we were playing it ourselves by then - came around for the 15th time, we knew our suitcase would not be arriving today.
It emerged that it was still in Portugal and, happily, would be able to catch a next-day flight. Indeed, far be it from me to criticise the bag charges. For a mere €8, my case enjoyed an extra night's accommodation in Lisbon and a free taxi-ride home. Besides, as fans of the TV series Lostwill know, there are worst things that can go missing on flights. It's the fate of the bongo-player and the X-case person I fear for.
Anyway, at Dublin Airport, there's always something else to worry about. Partly due to the luggage crisis, I had a newspaper column to finish, there and then. As the deadline passed and drops of cold sweat fell from my brow onto the laptop, threatening to disable the keyboard, my only consolation was a sign nearby declaring the airport a "WiFi hotspot". There would be no problem e-mailing, anyway.
But first I had to get a WiFi card. So I asked a passing stewardess who, with typical poise and authority, assured me the cards were for sale at the Dublin Airport Authority desk downstairs. They were not, as it happened. But the DAA desk was fairly sure the shop across the hall sold them. It didn't, but thought the bookstore adjoining might. Wrong again.
Someone said O'Brien's sandwich bar on the mezzanine definitely sold them. My cold sweat was now mingling with recently arrived warm sweat, from the exercise, but O'Brien's didn't have them either. Neither did anywhere else I asked. With a horrible feeling of déjà vu, I realised I was circling Dublin Airport, awaiting permission to land. I might get it eventually, but I would probably run out of fuel first.
So I pressed the ejector button - ringing Aer Rianta and declaring myself a distressed journalist. Five minutes later, I was sending my piece down an old-fashioned phone line, in an office. It was just like the good old days, before anyone had even heard of Michael O'Leary.