You’d think paying thirteen hundred dollars for a one-way flight from Europe back to the U.S. would at least get you the basics. A meal. Maybe a drink of water without having to dig out your credit card. Something to make you feel like you weren’t just a walking ATM strapped into a seat for half a day.
Nope.
I don’t want to call out the airline by name. It was a smaller one that you’ve probably never heard of unless you fly around Europe a lot. I had actually never even seen one of their planes before that day. Maybe it’s a familiar sight over there, but for me, it was a complete unknown. For the sake of not calling out companies, I’ll just leave it at that.
From the moment I got to the gate, I could tell this was going to be rough. My carry-on — the same bag I’d been flying with for weeks — was suddenly “too big” according to their new, apparently invisible rules. They told me I could only bring what amounted to a laptop bag into the cabin. Everything else had to be checked. That cost me sixty euros. Sixty euros just so I wouldn’t have my backpack with me for the next thirteen hours.
Boarding felt like lining up for a bus nobody wanted to be on. The seat was cramped in a way that made me wonder if they had somehow shaved a few inches off just for this plane. No seatback screens. No charging ports. And then the announcements came.
No complimentary water service. Water for purchase only. The same for soda, coffee, tea. No included meals either. If you wanted to eat, you had to pay airline prices for what looked like shrink-wrapped sandwiches from a gas station. It was a thirteen-hour flight.
I decided to tough it out and just get something when we landed. The guy sitting next to me, Steven, had a different approach. He was tall, probably in his forties, with that calm “I’ve seen worse” look. As soon as we took off, he ordered two beers. I figured one was for him and one for me, some kind of seatmate bonding gesture. Nope. He handed the second beer to a friend sitting three rows ahead. Then ordered more. And more.
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash
Every twenty minutes or so, another beer would leave our row and make its way up to his buddy. About half of them ended up making the return trip, untouched, and landed right back on Steven’s tray table. Which, honestly, I think was his plan. A slow, sneaky stockpile. By hour six, he had a small wall of cans in front of him.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, he started to get visibly annoyed. I couldn’t tell if it was because his friend wasn’t drinking them fast enough or because the flight attendants were starting to give him side-eye every time he ordered two at once. I was half-asleep when he muttered something about “waste of money” and cracked open another one for himself.
Meanwhile, I was dehydrated and sore. My back ached from the seat. My throat was dry from the recycled air. I finally caved and bought a tiny bottle of water. It was warm and cost more than a coffee back home. I sipped it slowly, like it was some rare imported whiskey, just to make it last.
By the time we landed, I felt like I’d been in some low-budget endurance challenge. Pay to check your bag. Pay for water. Pay for food. Sit perfectly still because there’s no room to move. Watch your seatmate build a beer fort and silently feud with his friend across the aisle.
The kicker? I checked the price for the same route a week later. It was five hundred dollars cheaper.
If I ever see that airline’s name on a search result again, I’m scrolling right past. Some travel headaches you can laugh about later. This one is still just annoying.
