Proletariats

A few months back my friend Eric messaged us in our Viber group, asking if anyone would be interested to go to Iceland. Unable to travel for over two years, Carinez, Oxalie, and I slobbered and said yes with exclamation points. Also, when Eric invites you to a trip, it’s hard to say no. He arranges for everything–plane bookings, hotel accommodations, transfers, itineraries, visa applications, everything. He can navigate through foreign streets as if he’s lived there all his life, and he can solve all airport-related problems. Basically, I don’t have to use my brain throughout the entire trip, which, as a brainless dependent, is what I want want want. All that would be required of us would be to pay and, most preferably, not whine. We have been traveling with Eric for over ten years, and we can attest that if he suddenly decides to stop being an oncologist, he can put up a travel agency. And that if he suddenly decides to stop inviting me to go anywhere, the farthest I would get is probably Quezon City, because I can’t even book a flight to Boracay for myself.

Even as we were waiting in the NAIA he has already worked his wonders: we got to stay in the airport lounge, and while I said in the most pabebe manner that I would probably just eat a couple of muffins and a have a cup of coffee, I ended up having rice, chicken inasal, laksa, and all kinds of juices. He was also able to get us discounted business class for our connecting flight from Qatar to Sweden. As I rolled and rolled and stretched my legs on my fully reclined seat covered in a nice blanket, I thought: I can’t go back to being a proletariat! I just can’t!!! And back to being a commoner we became, on our flight from Sweden to Iceland. And later on, really haggard commoners all throughout the return trip form Reykjavik to Manila.

Of course, my super supportive friends couldn’t let this opportunity pass for: promotion of Even Ducks Get Liver Cancer and Other Medical Misadventures! While being treated by the staff like we were important, I whispered to Oxali that we got these seats for a discount, maybe it doesn’t include the food (it certainly didn’t include the use of the Qatar lounge)! What if, upon realizing that we were actually poor people who fell through the cracks, the flight attendant yanks the menu from our hands and says “oh no no no you’re not entitled to these!” Luckily we were just being paranoid, and we got to order from the menu (which, like all airplane food, I still couldn’t eat).



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