Today We All Hate Flying! Seven Hours in Coach

I really used to like to fly. I flew all the time, and went about every where I could. I had packing down to ten minute science and could be about anywhere in a day or two.
Into the late 1980's I still wore a coat and tie when I flew. I can still remember my girlfriend answering her door, after I came straight from the airport one weekend. She saw I was wearing a tie and said sweetly with smile, "you are so old-fashioned." 
Commercial traveling, from it's inception, seemed to have certain rules of formality, much as some "better," or at least very expensive, restaurants put up some pretense of adherence for the characterless, clueless, nouveau snooty. When commercial airline travel became more commonplace in the first decades following World War II, people still dressed well to do most things in public, unless otherwise required by their job or school. Even certain cites had a minimal dress code. In America most Southern, Mid-Western cities, New York (Manhattan) and San Francisco seemed to have held out the longest. But dress codes have all but vanished with seats a man and most women can sit in with some comfort along with eatable meals.
Now it takes as long to go through, the mostly needless and bureaucratic, TSA as it, not all that long ago took me to fly half way across the county.
Alas, not all is progress, especially when the government insinuates itself. m/r

Seven Hours in Coach - Taki's Magazine
by John Derbyshire  November 14, 2013

I note with interest that January 1, 2014 marks the centenary of scheduled commercial passenger airplane flights. I note with further interest, although the interest now has some dark tones, that my own experience as a plane passenger will cover nearly half of those hundred years. On August 25, 1965, I took wing from London for a vacation in Barcelona, transported thither by British European Airways, now long defunct. That’s a lot of years ago. Hence the dark tones. Eheu, fugaces labuntur anni!

No memory remains of that flight, though the date is stamped in one of my old UK passports. Most likely my thoughts were fully occupied with anticipation of a month in the company of my female companion on sun-struck beaches far from parental authority. Our affections eventually proved to be as mortal as British European Airlines, but it was a pretty nice vacation in what was then a remote, unspoiled village of whitewashed houses where everyone slept for three hours at midday, men squirted wine into their mouths from a bota de vino, the grocer slapped the hanging meat so you could see it without the flies, and the benign gaze of Generalissimo Francisco Franco radiated Counter-Reformation assurance over all. Nowadays the place looks like Miami. Eheu! Eheu! etc.

“This is the source of all metaphysics: extreme boredom.”

Er, where was I going with this? Oh, right: Yesterday I flew in from London on British Airways, under whose wing (as it were) BEA found its final resting place. The flight was horrible. I hate flying. I need a week at least to recover.

How horrible was it? Let me number the ways.

Mainly, the people—my fellow passengers.

Please go to this article by using the link http://takimag.com/article/seven_hours_in_coach_john_derbyshire/print#ixzz2l1N6AL6Q