The Price of Air

 

Photo not of the airline in the post

It’s not that I haven’t traveled by budget airlines before. I remember the good old days when we flew from Kuwait City to Bahrain many years ago. A new low-cost carrier had just launched, and — as unbelievable as it sounds — the taxi fare to the airport cost more than the air ticket itself.

But that was another time.

Recently, I booked a ticket with a well-known full-service carrier. For the first leg, I accepted a connection operated by their budget subsidiary. I felt rather pleased with myself — a comfortable trip, minimal layover, and the convenience of starting right after office hours. What could go wrong?

I didn’t expect the flight to be eventful — and thankfully, it wasn’t. But it was certainly entertaining in its own way. The in-flight announcements were where the real show began. It was almost like sitting in a marketplace, with hawkers enthusiastically pushing their merchandise.

They started innocently enough: an offer to upgrade to seats with extra legroom, followed by the familiar spiel about snacks and drinks for purchase. Fair enough — short flight, low expectations — although these were supposedly included, given that I’d booked with a full-service airline. I even declined my snack, generously giving the airline a chance to resell it at a premium.

Then came the twist. The crew cheerfully announced that, yes, the aircraft did have an onboard entertainment system. And yes, we could absolutely enjoy it — provided we were willing to rent a pair of headphones.

I sat back, amused. It wasn’t just the absence of a free service that caught my attention, but the brilliance of the commercial logic behind it. The infrastructure for entertainment was all there — screens, movies, the works — but the means to listen was an upcharge. A masterclass in microtransactions.
A reminder that when it comes to creativity — the sky is the limit, quite literally.

A few savvy passengers came prepared with their own headphones, outsmarting the system — or maybe they were frequent travelers. Meanwhile, the toilets weren’t exactly “pay and use” that day, but they remained mysteriously locked for most of the 50-minute flight, “due to takeoff and landing procedures.”

When we finally landed, I expected a smooth connection through an aerobridge. Instead, the announcement came: we’d be taking a bus to the terminal.

It was at that moment — waiting to disembark, clutching my carry-on — that a thought crossed my mind. Given the airline’s strict commercial ethos, I instinctively reached for my wallet. Just in case.

After all, having charged for the seat, the snacks, and the headphones, who’s to say they wouldn’t monetize the 15-minute bus ride?

It turns out the bus ride — like the toilet, and the life jacket, I suppose — was free of charge.

This time.

---

🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice

The AI and Washing My Clothes

 

Photo Courtesy

Recently, our washing machine broke down — a minor domestic setback, but one that demanded immediate attention. So, I went to a large electronics store — the kind that sells everything from toasters to 90-inch TVs. It says something about our economy, but that’s not the point here.

The salesman appeared promptly — well-trained, eager — and began my guided tour through what I can only describe as the washing machine district. After a few minutes of polite nodding, I narrowed my choices down to two models — both of suitable capacity, both from brands I trusted.

One, however, was about 20% more expensive.

“That one has AI,” the salesman said, tapping the sticker as if revealing a divine truth.

Not being entirely naïve about AI, I was both suspicious and curious about this supposedly groundbreaking feature I’d somehow missed.

“What exactly does the AI do?” I asked.

He brightened. “Sir, it checks the weight of your clothes…” — I nodded — “then it analyzes how dirty they are, and decides how much detergent is needed.”

I paused. “Wait a minute. It checks how dirty the clothes are?”

He nodded earnestly. “Yes, sir. It has sensors.”

I couldn’t help picturing a boardroom of tiny robots inside the drum, holding a meeting:
“Gentlemen, we have a stubborn curry stain on the sleeve — increase detergent by 7%.”

AI and sensors have become the modern salesperson’s magic words — covering any gap between imagination and reality.

I asked to see the brochure. Unsurprisingly, there was no mention of this revolutionary dirt-detection technology. The salesman quickly added, “Not everything is written in the brochure, sir,” and suggested I check the online specifications.

I didn’t.

Instead, I chose the simpler model — the one without AI, without self-awareness, and without ambitions to optimize my laundry experience.

On the way home, I thought about how easily the word AI now slips into every sales pitch — as if intelligence, artificial or otherwise, can be sprinkled on anything to make it desirable.
Maybe the real test isn’t whether machines can think — but whether we still can, before we swipe our cards.

Thank you for taking a moment to read my reflection today. If this piece brought a smile or a thought worth keeping, I hope you’ll return for more.
Until next time — think gently, live simply, and keep your mind switched on. ✨

---

#readreflectrejoice

🎾 Come On, Get Off My Back!

Leave me alone as I get along with the day!

Lately, I’m getting intimidated by the demanding and commanding nature of almost everything I use.

I agree, I asked for a wake-up call in the morning — but once I open my eyes and pat the screen, that task should be done. There’s no need to keep buzzing like a nagging child. That’s one time I feel like throwing the phone away, but even in half-sleep, the price tag flashes before my eyes.

Score: Love-All.

Next up, breakfast. I put my food in the microwave, and it insists I take it out immediately when it’s done. If I’m late, it starts protesting, beeping — just like the better half!

Love–15.

I get into the car. The moment I turn the key, it starts beeping for the seat belt. I politely say, “Thank you very much,” but it keeps raising its voice until I give in.

Love–30.

Like most men, I too suffer from the “I’ll find my way” syndrome — if there’s one by that name — and would rather circle the city than ask a stranger for directions. Yet, I have no qualms taking orders from Siri, Google, or Cortana. Trouble starts when I miss a turn and we both lose our cool, yelling at each other. Eventually, I surrender, follow her lead, and make it to the office — only to be scolded by the elevator lady: “Please press the button for your desired floor.”

Love–40.

At work, I log into my email. The server insists I change my password. I choose something simple, but no — it wants special characters, numerals, and uppercase letters. I twist my simple mind into a complex password I’ll soon forget. Then it demands my mobile number for “extra safety,” sends me a code, and makes me prove I’m not a robot.

Game Over.

Finally, I open my inbox.
As I start writing, my word processor joins the match. It constantly finds fault — grammar, spelling, even my choice of words. Now it wants me to write shorter and shorter sentences.

Being an introvert, I hardly speak in public; now my word processor seems determined to make me write less too.

I ignore it for the time being and override it.

The score stands: 15–Love.
Set 2: Game paused due to serious workload. 🎾 

---

Read Reflect Rejoice

In Defence of Ten

 

Photo Courtesy

Ever since I heard the story of crabs in a bucket — that no crab can escape because the others pull it back — I’ve been intrigued by how much we humans resemble them. Why do we do the same? Why pull others down when they try to climb up?

For years, I couldn’t find a satisfying answer. Not until today. Now I know that both crabs and humans are tied by the same number — the less of magic and more of tragic number — Ten. Crabs have ten claws, and humans have ten fingers, both occasionally used for bringing others down.

If you’re sympathetic to today’s school kids and agree they have justifiable reasons to hold a grudge against Ten, think about the early Romans! Their punishment for mutiny or cowardice was called decimation — where one in every ten soldiers was executed. Talk about giving a number a bad reputation.

Yet, paradoxically, Ten also represents perfection — the first double-digit number, a flawless score. The complete set of fingers that help us build, create, and type out complaints about the unfairness of life.

Maybe that’s the real irony — Ten gives us everything we need to lift each other up… and everything we use to pull each other down.

And fittingly, here we are in the tenth month of the year, with this little musing on Ten written in response to a prompt by Poets and Storytellers United.

---

Read Reflect Rejoice