I believe every long-haul flight has a villain. On my recent journey home, the roles were played by “Dave and Lia,” a duo of entitled newlyweds who seemed to think the airplane was their private love nest. It began when Dave, my seatmate, asked me to swap seats with his wife in the back of the plane. I politely declined unless he reimbursed me for the upgrade. His reaction was swift: if he couldn’t sit with his bride, he would make sure I couldn’t sit in peace.
His performance was worthy of a bad reality show. He became a one-man symphony of disruption, featuring a concerto of fake coughing, a solo of blaring movie audio, and an interpretive dance of spraying snack debris across my lap. The grand finale involved Lia joining him for a cringe-worthy cuddle session in the aisle seat. I felt like an unwilling extra in their personal romantic comedy. Realizing negotiation was futile, I summoned the ultimate authority: a flight attendant.
I presented my case like a seasoned lawyer listing charges. The attendant, a true hero of the skies, delivered the perfect judgment. She informed them that their public display of affection was, shockingly, against airline policy. In a move that brought quiet joy to everyone in earshot, she banished them both to the depths of economy class. The collective sigh of relief from our section was palpable. A nearby grandmother even mouthed “thank you” to me. I spent the remainder of the flight enjoying the serene silence, occasionally wondering if Dave and Lia were learning a valuable lesson about karma at 30,000 feet. Some honeymoons start with a bang, but theirs started with a well-deserved grounding.
