A segway [sic] to class discrimination

Whilst travelling for work last month, I viewed a story on CNN about a man whose condo complex was going to deny him the use of his Segway! (If you didn't know, I love dudes riding Segways, especially cops.) Fortunately for all of us, they came to their senses. Initially, the condo management claimed the rolling wonder of physics "endangered lives", but they "failed to prove their case". Apparently, their attempts to throw people in front of the old dude's ride caused nothing but tread burns and husky apologies. Stanley Blumenthal: Jubilant!

In other news, I had several funny moments on a Continental flight from Newark to Chicago a few weeks ago (air travel story...big surprise). Most of you know that many airlines are charging $15 for any checked bag now. And most of the airlines that are charging $15 for a checked bag call it the "first checked bag charge", or simply "checked bag charge". We get it - we're being charged to give you the suitcase which, by law, cannot be taken on the plane with us. Fine.

But not Continental. Continental Airlines not only takes your $15, but they cause you to examine your life and all its mistakes and confusion. The official name for the charge?

"Excess Baggage Fee"

I am not making this up. This fee is not for your 2nd, 3rd, or eleventeenth bag. For your first bag. Your one and only suitcase, maybe. But you should pay for that one suitcase, as it is clearly and in all contrast to proper travel decorum, excessive. And you should be reminded of that fact in print.

"How's that new passenger, Continental? Your relationship growing?"
"Yeah, Delta, I guess so. He's pretty great - sits where he's assigned, always finds an efficient space for his carryon in the overhead compartment, keeps his iPod volume at a respectful level. But he's got some...baggage."

If you peruse Continental's website, the "excess baggage" term simply applied to heavy/oversize bags in the past, and the fine was much more for those indiscretions. But the gadget in their system that applies fees and prints your receipt for you wasn't worth changing, I guess, so your check-in screen and receipt are there to remind you of all the burdens and toiletries you're lugging along in this crazy, mixed up world.

As if this wasn't enough, I then had to endure an actual case of class discrimination by Continental's award winning cabin staff, North America's best. Maybe I was more sensitive to the situation than normal. I was, after all, engrossed in Sinclair's The Jungle, empathetic to Jurgis's unending struggle against the corporate machine and all its political and social injustice. It came down to the one simple amenity that even airlines haven't chopped: The Lavatory. I had patiently waited through some turbulence, and finally the seat belt sign was off. I looked back to the tail of the airplane (I was in row 7, just 5 rows back from the small First Class section) to see a small line gathered near the lavatories - both occupied - as well as the clattering beverage carts being prepared for service. Earlier at the airport, I had downed an afternoon coffee as well as a bottle of water, but was in a hurry-up mode once I reached the gate, and boarded without making a pit stop.

Boldly, I stepped through the curtain separating Coach from the First Class section. And really - do airlines need to patronize us by calling our section "Coach"? Like we're duped into thinking our rigid, leg-roomless, disease-carrying fabric-wrapped seats are some sort of hired transport in the olden days? Anyway, the forward lavatory is clearly empty, and I'm clearly going to use it.

The forward attendant, a foot shorter than I, literally steps in front of me and says, "Sir, would you mind using the rear lavatories?"
"Yes, I would. It's busy and the carts are going to block me anyway."
"No, I see that the carts are still being prepared. You'll have time to get back to your seat."

I really wanted to come up with a smart, sure, even aggressive statement to get by her, but all I mustered was a roll of the eyes and a quick turn. At this point, I noticed my surroundings - a grand total of EIGHT people in this section, all occupied in the Wall Street Journal or sleeping, and one lavatory, vacant. My churning brain did some quick 737 math, and realized there were about 140 people in Coach for the two lavatories there. 8:1 vs. 70:1. This operation would've taken me no more than a minute, and not one of the people would've even noticed!

I shuffled my way down to the rear and, of course, had to step into a vacant seat (whose occupant was in line for the lavatory) to let the beverage cart by. GRRRRRR! And more of coursely, upon my return, had to ask the beverage cart wranglers to push it up a few rows so I could get into my seat. As I was standing there, I shot that forward attendant's eyes the nastiest glance I could generate, which unfortunately appeared to her as nothing but a calming field of blue ice. (nothing I can do about that, right ladies?)

All the fees, fares, taxes, and leg cramps in the world can be explained and even understood by this traveller. But lavatory restrictions based on your seat assignment when all logic and circumstance show a better solution? Sheer madness.

I'd like to apologize for the overuse of links in the first paragraph, especially for a silly story about a Segway, a vehicle which I have never commandeered, despite my distant fascination.