Ah, the Airport Lounge. The perfect encapsulation of that slice of society which has just enough money to escape the true poverty dwellers, but nowhere near enough to afford any sort of actual luxury. A slice to which I am proud to belong.
There’s something quietly relaxing and reassuring about watching people sip their complimentary glass of wine or pint of beer, the true equaliser of the lounge. I quite enjoy watching out for those who go back up for a second glass or pint, knowing that they have to pay for that one, a brazen demonstration of their superiority to the rest of us. Well, unless you’re like Carl, who, through both a miscommunication at the front desk and a lack of desire from myself and Mother to drink, has somehow ended up with six vouchers for a complimentary drink. Fair play, Carl – you know how to make the most of life.
Security stroll around the lounge, knowing they will have an easy shift, because no one in the lounge would ever dream of causing trouble. Even those charged with collecting rubbish and empty glasses seem pleased to be here, away from the troublesome tramps downstairs. One thing I can’t decide whether I like or not is the fact that one side of the lounge is made entirely of glass, through which you can see Duty Free. Now, I don’t like to judge, but Duty Free at an airport is what I imagine feeding time to be like for the gorillas at Edinburgh Zoo – chaotic and violent, as the alphas of the pack fight desperately to secure sustenance (50% Smirnoff Vodka and 1.5kg of Amber Leaf) for their young.
Unfortunately, the occasional commoner does get through, which makes you question the effectiveness of the entry fee (as in, perhaps it should be higher so even their Klarna can’t cover it), but at least it’s only the odd one, rather than a swarm. You can tell a commoner from a mile away, because they’ll be decked head to toe in designer clothes & accessories, all of which I’m sure are 100% genuine, and haven’t been procured from a Turkish market somewhere. If the woman I’m looking at right now could genuinely afford that Chloé bag she is carrying, I will eat my own hat. What you’re really looking for is a white man in his mid 50’s, in white chino shorts and a linen shirt, with a wife that looks as though she’s hated him for so long she can no longer look at him without scowling – that’s when you know you’re in the epicentre of the Middle Class.
The gate has just been announced for the British Airways flight to London Heathrow, and the rapidity with which the lounge has emptied tells you everything you need to know about the vice-like grip BA retains on the British Middle Class. You might assume I’m being slightly racist in assuming that most people in the lounge are British, but the next eight flights to depart the airport are London Gatwick, Moscow, Aberdeen, Manchester, London Heathrow, London Gatwick, Manchester and Edinburgh, so I think that tells you all you need to know about this corner of Southwestern Turkey. The British Empire may have ceased to exist several decades ago, but no one seems to have told British tourists, who continue to conquer foreign lands (specifically, foreign lands with cheap booze and constant sunshine) with a brutality not seen since the days of Genghis Khan.
Another thing I like about the lounge is the unlimited access to sparkling water. Admittedly, it’s a Turkish brand, not San Pelligrino, but it’s still better than a diet coke from McDonalds, which now seems to have a presence in every single airport in the entire world. Mother enjoys the lounge because it’s a good spot to people-watch, but people-watching isn’t quite as fun when they’re respectful and quiet – I think Mother would prefer to people-watch outside of the McDonalds, but unfortunately we can’t have everything in life, and one must sometimes make sacrifices for the greater good.
Now the BA people have departed, it seems like a good opportunity to go and get some lunch from the buffet. A very good day to you indeed.
