Carry On American Airlines International

So, you’ve booked a flight with American Airlines. Specifically, an international flight. Congratulations, you’ve just signed up for a reality show where the prize is getting to your destination before you turn fifty. Let’s call it “Survivor: Terminal D.”

The Pre-Flight Pep Talk (You’ll Need It)

First, you must accept that American Airlines has its own unique definition of “on time.” To them, an on-time departure means the plane left the gate sometime during the same calendar day you were supposed to leave. One time, I swear I saw a gate agent consult a sundial.

You’ll also notice the fleet of aging Boeing 777s. They are the airline’s grumpy, chain-smoking uncles who have seen better decades. But hey, they still fly, mostly in a straight line, which is the important part.

The Boarding Process: A Gladiator Sport

Forget everything you know about orderly queues. American’s boarding process is a Darwinian free-for-all. They call Group 1, which is for millionaires and people who once shook hands with a pilot. Then Group 2, for people who own luggage that costs more than your car.

By the time they announce Group 9—that’s you, the peasant—the overhead bins are legally considered a lost civilization. You will be forced to gate-check your carry-on, which will then take a scenic tour of a baggage handler’s trunk before meeting you in Rome three days later.

Pro tip: Never make eye contact with the gate agent. They can sense fear and will upgrade the person behind you just to spite your posture.

Onboard: The Miracle of Entropy

You finally find your seat. It is narrow. Very narrow. The seat pitch is measured in inches, but it feels like centimeters. If you are over six feet tall, your knees will become lifelong roommates with the seatback in front of you.

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The in-flight entertainment screen has the resolution of a potato and the responsiveness of a sloth on melatonin. You will spend the first twenty minutes trying to get the touchscreen to register your finger. Eventually, you will just watch the flight map, which is always wrong anyway. Did we just fly over Greenland? No? The map says yes, but my window says it’s dark and we’re over Missouri.

A surprising fact: American’s international planes often have Wi-Fi that is powered by a single hamster on a wheel. It costs $35, and it will let you send exactly one text message—to your mother—before the hamster takes a nap.

The Food: A Culinary Adventure in Beige

Let’s talk about the meal service. You will be handed a tray that looks like a sad art project from a middle school cafeteria. There will be a “chicken or pasta” choice. The correct answer is: neither. Eat a Snickers bar you smuggled from security.

The chicken is a mysterious, rubbery disc that tastes like a hotel pillow. The pasta is a pile of glue that has been warmed by the breath of a flight attendant named Brenda. And the salad—a single, wilted leaf of iceberg lettuce—will stare at you with judgment.

Interestingly, American Airlines spends more money on their Admirals Club lounges (where rich people eat real food) than they do on the actual meals for the 97% of us in economy. It’s a beautiful, infuriating metaphor for life in late-stage capitalism.

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The Lavatory Situation

You will need to use the bathroom around hour 5 of an 8-hour flight. The lavatory is smaller than a phone booth and smells like a tragic mixture of lavender air freshener and regret. The lock is a complicated origami puzzle you will never solve correctly.

A surprising fact: the flush button is usually located somewhere baffling, like behind your left knee. When you finally find it, it sounds like a jet engine taking off, which is terrifying because you are already on a plane. Do not flush while seated. You will be launched into low orbit.

The Crew: Your Paradoxical Guardians

The flight attendants are a breed apart. Some are saints who will bring you an extra bag of pretzels with a genuine smile. Others have been flying since the Carter administration and have a deep, existential contempt for your existence.

When they walk down the aisle with the beverage cart, they do so with the grace of a Formula 1 driver and the cowboy justice of a Wild West sheriff. You will be served a tiny can of soda that costs $9 if you complain. The ice will be a single, melting cube that apologizes weakly.

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And if you ask for a second glass of wine on the London flight, they will look at you as if you just asked to borrow their firstborn child. “We have to save some for the back,” they say, as if the back of the plane is a war-torn orphanage.

Arrival: The Final Boss

Congratulations, you survived the flight. Now you must land. American Airlines pilots seem to have a personal vendetta against smooth landings. They aim for the runway like a kid trying to slam a door. The touchdown will rattle every bone in your body and wake up the baby two rows back who hasn’t cried in six hours.

Then comes the wait. You will sit on the tarmac for 20 minutes because “the gate is occupied.” The pilot will say this over the intercom with the weary tone of a man who has explained the meaning of existence to a goldfish.

Finally, you are in a new country. You are jet-lagged, hungry, and your ankles are the size of cantaloupes. You will look back at the American Airlines plane and feel a strange sense of pride. You endured. You carried on. Not just your baggage—but your dignity, right through the chaos.

And then you swear you’ll never fly them again. Until next time. Because they have the best price to Madrid. And the cycle of abuse continues.