Airports Are Purgatory: A Hiker’s Perspective

Airport Anxiety

I recently flew to Cape Town. Sounds thrilling, right? Airports are painted to feel like “gateways to adventure.”—hyped as playgrounds of freedom, luxury, and overpriced coffees, that make you feel fancy.

The Myth of the Jet-Set Life

Once upon a time, I actually believed the hype. So when people bragged about their "amazing jet-set lifestyles" (incessantly I might add), I used to feel like I was missing out.

But now, I am living a peaceful, blissful, nature-filled life, and I’ve finally cracked the code. Airports? They’re not glamorous. They’re purgatory. I’ve never felt so trapped, herded, or claustrophobic in my life.

And let’s not forget: somehow, they just feel… dirty. Trays at security are germ pit stops, seats are sticky with who knows what, and the recycled air ensures you leave coated in mystery grime, even if you’ve done nothing but sit for hours.

Airport Security

Let’s talk about that moment—when my laptop, packed snugly in my bag, had to be yanked out at security. There was me, kneeling on the cold (and dirty) airport floor, rummaging through socks and tangled charging cables while strangers streamed past, silently judging me.

And, just when I thought I was free, I got the full body search. Never happened before, and honestly, I hope never again. Apparently I was radiating either “drug smuggler vibes” or "dark energy chic". Either way, not my best runway look..

Airline Meals

Then… the meals. And yes, this is probably indicative of both my age and the lack of flights I’ve taken in the last 30 years—but wow. Now I wasn’t expecting the “good old days” when your overpriced ticket came with a full meal and a free glass of wine. I mean, I’m not that delusional.

But after all my pre-boarding drama, a coffee was non-negotiable. So there I was: credit card in hand, tray down, trolley rolling down the aisle like a chariot of salvation. My taste buds were practically doing back flips. The promise of caffeine was so close I could smell it.

I waited in anticipation. I watched my downloaded Netflix movie. And then I looked up again. Nothing.

Trolley? Gone.

My chances of coffee? Vanished.

I launched into a full silent rant about how women—maybe men too—become practically invisible past a certain age (If this wasn't primarily a hiking blog, the tangent I could go on...... Oh, I could write paragraphs. Dammit) Actually, I will… if you lot twist my arm hard enough. Trust me, you want that rant—it’s sitting in my head, simmering like strong black coffee I never got served.)

Was I invisible? Dead? A ghost haunting Row 23B? Apparently not—because the same thing happened on the return flight.

So tell me, frequent flyers—what’s the story here? Do I need to place my order at the boarding gate? Send a carrier pigeon? Bribe the flight attendant with frequent flyer miles?

The Middle Seat: A Sardine’s Worst Nightmare

Then, on the flight home, there I was sandwiched like a sardine between two strangers—one snoring, the other oozing Eau de Armpit At that point, the “joy of flying” was dead to me. This was the cherry on top of my sardine-can suffering.

So no—I haven’t missed anything all these years. There is zero glamour in being treated like cattle, crammed between strangers, waiting endlessly to move three centimeters.

The thrill? None.

The excitement? Please.

And all that envy I used to feel toward frequent flyers? Hilariously misplaced.

My New Travel Philosophy

From now on, you’ll only catch me in an airport if it’s the absolute last resort. And even then, the destination better come with at least one epic hike.

In fact…who’s with me? Let’s skip the sardine-can seating and the sweaty strangers. How about a multi-day hike to Cape Town and back? No queues, no middle seats designed by sadists—just fresh air, freedom, and maybe a blister or two.

The problem? A few months off work would be required, which, apparently, is frowned upon.

Time to start drafting that leave request form ASAP—complete with pie charts, medical notes, and maybe a tear-stained plea about “long-term productivity.” Because we all know, this isn’t a holiday. It’s therapy. It’s soul repair.

But will HR buy it? Probably not. They’ll smile, hand me three stingy days of annual leave, and remind me that “Cape Town is only a two-hour flight.” As if I haven’t just spent 1,200 words proving why that’s a crime against humanity.