Back in January, as the Year of the Ox approached, a surge in in- and outbound holidaymakers added a much welcomed boost to the presently dire airline business situation. For the many flight attendants manning the overflowing departures during this festive period, it means the craziest time of the year spent away from families and friends. As for the superstitious Chinese public, it means a particularly sensitive time when all things perceived or happening seem to portend either a year of fortune ahead or bad luck. Or so it seems.
"Excuse me, I refuse to take my assigned seat. It's on row 34." Amongst a rampage of requests for pillows, blankets, and newspapers so typical of a Malaysian flight, this complaint struck me out of the blue. What's wrong with 34? A "four," the unlucky number most abominated by the Chinese. Still, you've gotta be kidding. It's 34, not 44. "Ma'am, I'm sorry you're not happy with the arrangement, but this is an absolutely full flight." The last thing we need is to endeavor a seat change on an already notoriously stressful and strenuous flight that is Kuala Lumpur. "Chinese New Year is around the corner," the woman snapped, adjusting her spectacles, "it is inauspicious for my husband and I to sit on row 34," Geez, tough luck, shall I say? Are we to move somebody else into your misfortune? "I can try my best to find you another seat, if any. But we can't promise you anything."
"Madam, there is only one vacant seat at row 39, would you like to take that?" After going through the entire passenger seating list, I returned to the woman only for a much anticipated response. "I need two seats together to sit with my husband." Ugh, lunch is getting started, I have no time for this. I informed my purser of this trouble-maker, who then confronted her to explain the situation. Problems as such could be sorted out on ground by the ground staff, but once in midair, they spell trouble.
The woman was less than pleasant. Her husband, though mostly silent, hissed at times. The woman's persistent babbling and struggle with the cabin crew has already garnered a curious audience around. "What nonsense!" The purser stormed into the galley and went on to attempt what nobody wishes: finding passengers kind enough to give up their original seats. Needless to say, it was a royal pain in the neck.
"Madam, I've arranged two seats for you," the purser, whose normal duty was by now entirely interrupted, collectedly announced the good news to the couple. Taken aback by surprise, and instead of being thankful, the woman lashed out, "you know, you really didn't need to do all that, just forget it!" Confounded, even offended, the purser refused to falter at such irrationality, "Madam, I have gone out of my way to entertain your every request, and if these efforts are not appreciated, I really don't know what more there is that you would want from us." At that, the woman grumbled, "upgrade us to Business Class."
Ah-huh. That explains it.
The No. 1 outlandish request that we hear all too often by cheap title-holding wannabes. Nice try. "Madam, if you would like to pay the outstanding fare of an upgrade ticket, you are more than welcome to join our Business Class," the purser beamed. Might I add, we accept a variety of credit cards. The woman, upon hearing this, shushed like a quail. Case theretofore considered closed.
