Ticket on the Contraband Express
I smiled at him in an apologetic way. “Sorry, you are sitting in the wrong seat – I have 12C.” He looked at me blankly, then turned to gaze out the window, brushing me off as if I were a bug.
I was one of the last passengers to board the three o’clock flight from Rome to Algiers that Monday afternoon. The plane was oversold and total chaos. I stood in the aisle, watching optimistic passengers trying to stuff impossibly large backpacks, shopping bags and duffles into the tiny overhead bins.
When I finally made my way to Row 12, a man was sitting in my assigned seat, a handsome, bearded man with dark eyes. His tray-table was piled with so many things I thought maybe he had plans to hold an in-flight bazaar. He looked comfortably settled in, and suddenly I knew. This was not going to be easy. I smiled at him in a friendly, apologetic way and said, “I’m sorry, sir, you are in the wrong seat – I have 12C.” He looked at me blankly, then turned and gazed out the window, brushing me off as if I were no more than a bug. I stood there smiling, as Americans do, and repeated myself slowly, showing him my boarding pass with 12C printed on it. I don’t speak Arabic, but his reply was clear enough. He shrugged, wagged his index finger at me like a metronome and suggested I go look for a seat somewhere in back.
It is not unusual for travelers to be forced to choose between two unplanned courses of action. I weighed my options. I could quietly just go about the business of searching for another seat somewhere, no doubt in the very back next to the toilets. That would probably be best. Don’t cause a fuss, you over-privileged American. But, I couldn’t do it. I am not a person who relishes making a scene, but fair is fair, and I really did want my aisle seat near the front, which I had, after all, booked and paid for over two months ago. So I lingered there for a minute just to see if tenacity would make a difference. But it didn’t.
I worked my way back to the front of the plane and asked for help from the flight attendant. She looked at my boarding card, gazed heavenward, and heaved a sigh. She approached the man and there was a slight altercation, punctuated by significant hand gestures.
After a brief scuffle, he glared at me, gathered up his belongings, extricated his bag from the overhead and shuffled off to his assigned middle seat three rows back. Of course there was already an interloper in his seat, too, so they went through another argument about who had the right to sit there, which again was settled by the attendant.
That second man, obviously incensed, then gathered his things and went off to boot out the passenger who was ensconced in his assigned seat. This heated, Algerian version of musical chairs went on for about a half an hour, until maybe twelve men and their carry-ons were relocated to the seats assigned to them on their boarding passes. The captain was on the intercom the entire time, pleading for everyone to please find a seat so we could take off sometime that century. It felt like I was in a Marx Brothers movie. Except, you know, with a slightly hostile edge.
Finally everyone was seated and strapped in and we were airborne only 30 minutes late. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact for the entire flight. Yes, the delay was my fault! But sometimes a woman just has to politely assert herself. Right? I don’t know, maybe not. Then again, it could have all been avoided had the men sat in their assigned seats in the first place.
What I wasn’t aware of at the time was that these young single Algerian men took flight AZ800 every day on business and felt they had a right to sit wherever they liked. It was their plane! They naturally resented a one-time flyer disrupting their laissez-faire system. But the oddity of that flight did not stop there.
As soon as the fasten seatbelt light was turned off, young Algerian men began to form lines at the restroom doors, each one carrying several plastic shopping bags. Each man emerged a few minutes later without the shopping bags and looking considerably fatter than when he had gone in. I found out later, from a flight attendant, that this cohort takes the morning flight to Rome several times a week to buy bags full of clothing that they then resell at a good profit on the Algerian black market. They don’t have licenses and can’t legally import these goods, so they put them all on – jackets over jackets, shirts over shirts, pants over pants, and wear them through customs. Hey, a guy has to make a living.
After the men had finished dressing, the food came out. These young entrepreneurs had brought their suppers on board with them – the tray tables were soon laden with pizzas, hamburgers, pommes frites, falafel, sausages, boxes of garlicky dumplings. The plane filled with the heavy funk of spicy international cuisine. The miasma of this gastronomic extravaganza at 30,000 feet, made my head reel.
When we landed, I waited calmly in my seat until the pushing and shoving was over and nearly everyone had debarked. The plane looked absolutely trashed, like the aftermath of a carnival brawl: empty plastic bags wadded up and tossed everywhere, grease and food all over the tray tables and arm rests, packaging debris stuffed in the seat pockets. I thought Alitalia must have to hose down this plane every evening and hope it dries in time for the 4 am return fight. I wondered if maybe they used the same plane every day to save wear and tear on the rest of the fleet.
Algiers was one of the most exotic places I ever worked. Standing on the small balcony of my third-floor hotel room, I looked out through the tops of date palms, down onto the ochre and gold mosaic-like city. The fragrance of jasmine and star flowers floated on the evening breeze. A ballet of swallows was playing in the sunset, rising, swooping, diving in unison, performing incredible, swirling aerobatic dances. I watched them, mesmerized, and was absolutely certain they did this for the sheer joy of flying.
As for me, I, obviously, did not experience the joy of flying that Monday on The Contraband Express. It wins the prize, hands-down as the most bizarre hour and a half flight of my entire life, but there is always something to be learned, isn’t there? There is a time to assert oneself and a time to just let go. Sometimes we need to take a lesson in humility and patience, a lesson in cross-cultural communication. Sometimes we simply have to expand our tolerance. And at other times we are best served by standing up for what seems logical and fair. I doubt I made the right choice that day. It would not have been the first time. So if you ever find yourself on the 3 pm flight from Rome to Algiers you’re going to have to wing it. Buon Viaggio!
*Alitalia made its final flight in 2021, after 74 years in business, due to financial concerns. It was reborn as ITA Airways.
Flying can be a great adventure..... or not! Enjoyed the learning.
I enjoyed this story so much, Sharron! My brief stay on the Moroccan coast was my first view of what I saw as non Western World life. It was fascinating. - Sometimes you have to follow through - you bought and expected that seat.