AISLE SEATS, ANXIETY AND AIRPORTS

 AISLE SEATS, ANXIETY AND AIRPORTS - my tryst with Travel 

Living in the UAE makes it so easy to travel around the world. Non-stop flights, well-connected hubs, and short travel times mean the globe feels closer than ever. And yet, for me, the joy of travelling is complicated. 

When my wife suggested a short trip after Christmas, my stomach tightened. Everything connected with travel and airports unsettles me. I am no Christopher Columbus, no Ibn Battuta; I enjoy the destination but detest everything that precedes it. Flying doesn’t faze me—but ticket booking, baggage check, airport lights, and security scanners do.

There are three types of travellers: the audacious who live to travel, the ambitious who travel to live, and hapless mortals like me, who need a week of recovery after booking a ticket. Those demi-gods of the skies who casually drop, “I just flew in from Timbuktu via Belarus, didn’t even have time to shave,” deserve constellations named in their honour. Meanwhile, I prepare for a simple three-day trip as if it were a mission to Mars during monsoon season, complete with packing simulations, passport drills, frantic calculator sessions to check baggage weight, and mental rehearsals of surviving security scans without collapsing.

My Mumbai trip—a short three-and-a-half-hour flight—felt like a dramatic ordeal. Booking the ticket was a test of endurance. About 35 flight options appeared: 1-stop, 2-stop, 3-stop flights via strange countries—Nauru, Sri Lanka, Kyrgyzstan—essentially a world tour in the sky minus sightseeing but with all the nausea. The non-stop flights felt like VIPs hidden at the bottom of the list. When I finally reached them and began keying in my details, panic set in: did I spell my name correctly, enter the right passport number, type the date wrong, transpose numbers in my credit card? Every keystroke felt like walking a tightrope over lava. The verification code didn’t arrive. By the time I tried again, the fare had risen by three hundred rupees.

Packing was no less dramatic. Indecisive weighing scales, rebellious zippers, and a suitcase that mocked me made it feel like an obstacle course. I pack, unpack, reweigh obsessively, then prepare hand luggage: clothes in case the suitcase vanishes, passport, ticket, phone, chargers, pens, wallet, iPad, key ring, spare keys. I obsess over trivialities—what if the suit feels too warm, the shirt collar too tight, or I burn something while re-ironing? Extra unnecessary clothes are inevitable. Three pairs of cufflinks? Of course—what if one falls into the luggage abyss? The tiny locks and their keys always add more chaos.

Early morning flights make the night before dramatic. Two alarms are set, checked, rechecked, while I imagine a dozen catastrophic scenarios. Breakfast is avoided—two fried eggs and leftover vegetables could launch a digestive revolt. My wife is kind, supportive, and likes to act as if she’s a travel expert, yet she convinces our daughters that I am the reason our luggage is singled out for inspection. When we travel together, she mutters, “Just behave normally. Don’t talk unnecessarily,” as if my mere existence triggers chaos. She becomes a backstreet driver guiding me straight to the gallows, pointing at every pothole and danger along the way.

At the airport, static shocks from the trolley, serpentine queues, and check-in staff wielding more power over my happiness than anyone else greet me. My single wish is simple: an aisle seat. I always pay extra yet still fret I won’t get it. To add to the misery, I am horribly claustrophobic. I smile, project humility, and wait for the golden words—“Mr Guzder, I’ve given you an aisle.” Heaven opens.

Then comes passport control, the stage for all my anxieties. My name is always mispronounced—creatively, confidently, and with conviction—and I never look at the right light or camera. My mind races through catastrophic possibilities: What if my passport image is unrecognisable? What if the chip is damaged? What if a page is torn? What if someone with my name is wanted in Argentina? The officer studies me, the screen, me again. I am convinced a supervisor, a sniffer dog, and a small committee are about to appear. Only when the stamp is finally applied do I exhale with relief.

Security is no less nerve-wracking. I remove every metal object—watch, belt, coins, key ring, mobile, pens—emptying my personality into a tray. I hope they don’t ask me to remove my chain and pray my hand-luggage contains no rogue nail-cutter. Inevitably, my bag is pulled aside, my heart rate doubles, and I imagine someone has planted an explosive device inside. After a thorough check, they find nothing more dangerous than a camel-shaped key ring, a packet of coins, and a pen so blunt it couldn’t injure butter.

Finally, the flight itself is serene: food, drinks, the loo, and the aisle seat are all manageable. At my destination, I repeat the ritual in reverse—passport control, luggage scan, hand-luggage inspection, endless questions—while trying not to burst from nerves or bladder pressure. Stepping outside into the fresh air, I realise I have survived once more, ready to endure it all again the next time someone casually says, “Let’s take a short trip after Christmas'