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THE MILE-HIGH HUNGER GAMES

Tara R
6 days ago
3 min read

Travel used to be aspirational.Silk scarves. Slim suitcases. A sense of mystery.

Now every departure is just a mass audition for Who Can Be the Absolute Worst Version of Themselves in a Public Setting?

The transformation begins the moment an airport comes into view. Something chemical happens. Like a full moon. Or rabies.

Normal, functional adults—people who recycle, send thank-you notes, and know their barista’s name—cross the automatic doors and immediately lose all sense of social contract. It’s Lord of the Flies, but with neck pillows.

Let’s start with boarding.

Listen, boarding groups are not a suggestion. They are not a vibe. They are not “open to interpretation.” And yet, when Group 1 is called, the entire gate stands up as if summoned by a secret dog whistle only they can hear.

Group 7? On their feet.Group 9? Hovering aggressively.People who are not even on this flight? Lurking.

There is always one man—usually wearing a fleece vest and a Bluetooth headset—who boards confidently, despite the fact that the airline has not yet invented Group Negative Four.

And the urgency.

Where are we going?To a seat we already paid for.That will not leave without us.

But logic does not apply because THE BINS.

The overhead bins have become prime Manhattan real estate. People will do anything to secure space. Anything. Including pretending their clearly-not-a-carry-on is, in fact, a carry-on.

We all know the bag.It has wheels the size of tractor tires.It could house a family of four.It once held skis.

“I think it’ll fit,” they say confidently, as a flight attendant stares into the middle distance, questioning every life choice that led them here.

And when it doesn’t fit, they act betrayed. As if the bin personally wronged them.

Then there are the emotional support animals.

Listen, I love dogs. I truly do. But if your dog weighs more than a toddler, has its own Instagram following, and is wearing a custom harness that says THERAPY, we may be stretching the definition.

This is not emotional support.This is branding.

The dog is stressed.You are stressed.The dog is now licking the armrest.

We’re thirty minutes delayed and the dog has already seen too much.

And speaking of licking—why is someone always barefoot?

Shoes off. Socks off. Feet just… out. Like we’re at a spa.Like this is normal.

It’s not.

Then comes the entertainment.

Once upon a time, silence was implied. Now it must be actively enforced. And even then, not successfully.

Someone is watching a show on full volume.No headphones.Just blasting dialogue into Row 22 like it’s a gift. And it’s always something intense. A crime. A breakup. A British accent that feels aggressive at altitude.

We make eye contact. They do not care.

They have decided this plane is their living room and we are all just… guests.

And the announcements. Oh, the announcements.

“Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign is turned off.”

Immediately, someone stands. Like a petulant teen. They have not moved in six hours but suddenly cannot wait one more second. The plane is still taxiing.We are actively moving.

And yet they’re up—bent at the waist, digging through the overhead bin like it owes them money.

Sit.Down.

And finally, baggage claim.The final frontier.

Everyone crowds the carousel, pressing forward as if waiting to glimpse the Fountain of Trevi—not a pileup of battered Tumi knockoffs. Space recedes. Manners evaporate.

Someone else’s bag comes out.You grab it.You examine it.You realize it’s not yours. You nearly dislocate a shoulder hoisting someone else’s pile of crap back onto the belt.