Around 18 months ago, travel became a feature, rather than a bug, of my job. I’ve been on more planes in these last months than in the past five years combined, so it seemed prudent to start collecting air miles.
Every trip is the same: I momentarily forget the largely joyless experience that is modern flying (the queue through security that moves as though in a communal trance; the tired and understandably crabby airport staff; the indignity of having to take off your shoes) and marvel at aviation. Apologies for sounding like yer da, but flight! Is! Still! Amazing!
On a recent trip, as I collected more points I may never redeem, I remembered one of my favourite films-partially-set-in-airports (it’s a niche list), Up In The Air. I don’t think airports are meant to inspire joy, no matter how pleasing and avant garde their design (hello, Terminal 5 – you come the closest). Up In The Air gets that. For all of the magic of flight, the beginning point is supposed to be a bit grim. It’s the circumstances: we’re about to be shoved into a tin can, strapped in and transported. The onboard booze is not complimentary so much as semi-required. We need to feel as if we’re getting something. Anything.
I am not a frequent flyer, like Ryan (George Clooney) in the movie. I know I will never rack up 10m miles, let alone be the youngest person to do so. But I understand the fleeting euphoria of collecting something, even if that thing is losing value in real time.
And so I tapped in my account number and watched the miles tick slowly upwards, dreaming of a free beach holiday one day, maybe before I’m 80.
