In which our correspondent finds the airport lounge besieged by a new breed of business traveller
As befalls even the best of us, I am finding that more and more things make me feel old. My safe haven from this sinking feeling in my gut has always been the soothing routines of my travelling life.
Zipping through fast-track check-in and security, reading my emails over a drink in the lounge, and catching up with the latest blockbusters – erm, I mean spreadsheets – in my business class seat, I feel busy, important and at the top of my game.
And as I look around the cabin and spy people of a similar age to myself, doing similar things, I feel heartened – and yes, I’ll admit it, a little smug – to be part of this club in the sky.
Sure, it might take me a little longer to shrug off the jet lag these days – and don’t get me started on the state of my back after a long-haul flight – but this is where I belong, and it’s what I know best.
Well, it now appears that even my working routine isn’t safe from the threat of youth. I have witnessed a shift of late – the make-up of the priority lane and the clientele in the lounge is looking fresher-faced by the day, and do they ever irritate the hell out of me.
You will have seen them on your travels, dressed either in pastel chinos and slim-fit shirts (not a beer gut in sight) or, even worse, T-shirt and hoodie à la Mark Zuckerberg and his “start-up” disciples. They will be attached to a device of some kind, be it tapping at an iPhone, Blackberry or Macbook.
The electronic gadget has become a safety blanket, the technological bubble that just screams of self-importance and popularity. I hate to be the guy that laments the death of conversation but, trust me, one dinner with the kids is more than enough to convince me that we can all start mourning.
Illustration by Ben Southan
They are cultured, well travelled, with a stock of pithy tips and stories. They open sentences with, “Oh, you must visit Cartagena at this time of year…” without even a hint of irony. They read magazines that are far too large, on paper that is far too glossy, all carried in their smart satchels or leather man bags.
Back in the day, I could rely on finding myself seated next to a person – okay, man, more often than not – roughly my age and wearing my own travelling uniform of beige chinos and a blazer. We would brag about our latest miles coup or complain about BA’s lack of new seats. But now that sense of belonging is being eroded by the day.
I didn’t set foot in my first airport lounge until I was pushing 40 – now you see gold cardholders without even a wrinkle around the eye. Lounges from Stockholm to Singapore chime with twenty-somethings discussing their latest software fix or app launch over the phone while sipping a green tea, with not a well earned lager or Scotch in sight. I just don’t know how to interact with these people.
Last week, I was sitting in the BA Galleries First lounge at T5, minding my own business with my laptop open so I could watch my emails steadily stream in.
As you may know, this is a particularly large and open lounge, good for people-watching if you are that way inclined. To my left was a case in point – crisp white shirt, smart tan brogues, no jacket or tie and watching his iPhone screen with a level of intensity normally reserved for the middle pages of a lads’ mag.
I paid him little attention, and he me, until my laptop screen flashed up blue, and not just any blue but that one well known to Apple users as the “blue screen of death”. (Okay, I’ve got a Macbook now myself, the result of some whippersnapper joining our IT department and decreeing we would swap over from PCs en masse to enhance our “creative symmetry”. Kill me now.)
I sighed as I contemplated the inevitable emasculating conversation I would have with technical support. The young man next to me took immediate pity over my predicament. “This happened to me last week, mind if I take a look?”
“Please do, I was just dreading having to call Apple.”
“Well, if your flight leaves in less than an hour you’d best start considering the roaming charges.” We both grinned.
Within five minutes he had somehow dispelled the ominous wall of blue and got the machine to reboot. Two minutes of dazzling keyboard skills later and I was looking at my inbox again, with the top email entitled: “Colin’s retirement do.”
I quickly shut the lid and thanked him profusely, offering to get up and grab a couple of beers, but he turned the offer down: “No thanks, but I’ll have a green tea if you’re getting up.” And just as I was starting to soften to these new kids on the block…
