Let me get this off my chest at the outset. I’m not big fan of RyanAir. I don’t hate it per se, but I’d be perfectly happy if it didn’t exist or if I never had to fly it.

But I did. Very close to our villa, about a 20 minute drive in fact, is the airport of Perugia. Until recently it was called Sant’Egidio, after the town in which it is located. Last year, they renamed the airport Perugia-Umbria Airport San Francesco d’Assisi, after the area’s more popular and well known saint, St. Francis of Assisi. When I asked a friend why they were renaming the airport he asked me “have you ever heard of Saint Egidio?” I guess the answer had been staring me in the face.

In any case, St. Francis Airport is uber convenient for travel to or from the villa. Unfortunately, it is a small airport, with only a few flights in and out daily, although locals have high hopes of making it a bustling place some day. As a result, we have only used it a handful of times. Yesterday, however, we were heading to London for a few days to visit our daughter who is studying there this semester and fortunately there is a (nearly) daily non-stop flight from Perugia to London. On RyanAir.

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Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for low cost carriers and we have had great success flying in Europe on smaller, cheaper carriers such as EasyJet, Merdiana, Blu-Express/Blu-Panorama. But these LCCs deliver on the promise of low cost carriage and give the concept a good (or at least not tarnished) name. RyanAir, on the other hand, is a low cost carrier in the same sense Typhoid Mary was.

First, the boarding stampede. Umbria is known for its pork, not its cattle, but the boarding gate at St. Francis International truly resembles a stockyard. It has been designed to appeal to the Italian’s innate sense of not standing in lines by creating two lines – the prepaid, upcharge, priority early boarding super premium, super short line, which abuts the serpentine crowded regular boarding line. Tell me that an Italian, a person who since birth has honed and perfected the art of slicing through queues, whose elbows can at once be soft and supple, allowing him to use it as the thin edge of the wedge to pierce a human phalanx, and then be hard as porphyry in advancing forward through this mass of people, tell me that he will orderly stand in the long line when the short one is adjacent and designed for easy access. Tell me that and I will call you a liar.

Because overhead space onboard is limited, upgrading with the early boarding option is a good idea, even if you do have to hold the Italian interlopers at bay. But when you actually get on board is when the true unpleasantness begins. First, the color scheme of this airplane must surely have been designed by someone in the midst of a great coke high, with its bright blues and yellows. Fortunately for us we were sitting in the bulkhead row and didn’t have to stare at any seats in front of us.

But it is when you sit down, or rather attempt to fit your width into the smaller width between the seat’s armrests that the real fun begins. Tight doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling. It’s like childbirth in reverse. But at least the seat reclines comfortably. Not. The seats don’t recline at all. They weren’t designed to recline. And RyanAir doesn’t even bother to put a button on the armrest like other airlines with lousy reclines. For two reasons: (i) they’re RyanAir and (ii) the button would further reduce your seat width.

After the hordes of seathunters, those who snaked their way through regular boarding process finish searching for the perfect seat, being yelled at all they while by the “friendly” cabin crew, we’re ready to take off. The captain then comes over the PA system in a mellifluous British accent that reassures us that he is competent and that RyanAir has actually hired a pilot. In all likelihood he is non-flying bit actor who simply speaks over the intercom for a few pounds a week to give the appearance of professionalism. “I’m not a pilot, but I play one in community theatre.”

Then the safety demonstration begins, which is probably a very good idea for this airline. So good, in fact, that our cabin crew interrupts the audio presentation and tells everyone to shut up and listen. The stewardess in the front of the plane, who has had her back to us to point out the forward exits continues to stand with her back to us until the chattering stops. It’s like being admonished by your third grade teacher. But on the upside, I finally learned how to operate a seatbelt (“place the flat metal end into the buckle and pull the strap until it is low and tight around your hips.”). Unfortunately there is no room between my hips and the armrest, so I just hold onto the back of the seat real tight.

Throughout the flight our “flight attendants” – they must be called flight attendants and not passenger attendants because they certainly are not attending to the needs of the passengers – alternately yell at people for getting out of their seats and then sweet talk them into spending money on such things as microwaved ham and cheese sandwiches. Wave after wave of commerce washes through the cabin as the attendants, who look as though Bob Barker must be the head of hiring here, push carts and collect money. At one point, and I’m not making this up, they announce that they will be coming through the cabin to sell scratch off lottery tickets with a chance to win one million something – pounds, euro, dollars, who knows? – sir, sit down. Now!

I succumb to the constant commercial hawking and order a beer, in part just to make this ordeal end faster. As our bright blue and yellow Stepford Stewardess glares at me for payment I take – again this is no joke – two minutes to remove the wallet from my front pocket, which is pressed so hard against my armrest and my thigh that when I finally open it I’m entertaining the possibility that I may be able to pay for my drink in diamonds. The beer is warm and bland, but maybe it’s RyanAir’s way of getting me ready for our short visit to London.

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But in the end we arrive safe and sound in London. Or, more precisely in London’s Stanstead Airport which, technically is so far from London it’s in Scotland. We walk for ten minutes from the plane to passport control and over the next hour and half, making our way to central London by EasyBus (that, my friend is another story for another day), I keep my passport at the ready, convinced that we must cross several other borders before arriving at our final destination.

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In the end, despite the commercialism, the blod clots in the hips, the public humiliation, it is probably worth it. Perugia to London is a short two hour flight, about the same amount of time it would take to drive to Rome to begin your flight to London. And even with all the incredible RyanAir upcharges (checked baggage, reserved seats, priority boarding, extra pilot, unleaded fuel) it is cheaper than flying on the big airlines. But the travelling public is crying out for some happy medium – a cross between an airline with seats that recline and are comfortable, a professional staff that focuses on safety, comfort and service and does so with a smile, at a reasonable price. But such a world exists only in the past and, possibly in the distant future. I guess the only way we’ll ever get to that promised land is with a time machine. I just hope it isn’t operated by RyanAir.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy