飞机座位还分星级？(中英文)

mimihuhu

最近预订到纽约的机票时，好心的旅行代理建议我上网登记，给自己弄一个好座位。“我给你推荐一些座位，好吗？”他问道。   


“你说什么？”   

“嗯，这个航班有些座位非常、非常好，有些不那么好，差很多。我有一本指南。”   

“纽约指南？”   

“不，不，是座位指南。”   

我想象有一本厚厚的册子，讲述扶手材料的历史——那是座椅的“剧院区”，一篇短文介绍座椅倾斜到什么角度对人体最有利，一张罗列有哪些名人坐过某张座椅的名单，以及他们后来的人生浮沉，还有论述污渍含义的文章，就像有一位家伙论述我们对墨渍的反应的心理分析文章。我想不起那个人的名字。   

旅行代理告诉我一个数字和一个字母。“嗯，说真的，那座位非常棒：隐蔽，不在厕所边上，安静，比别的座位宽敞。设计得非常周到。指南上说它是五星级的，真的称得上‘特等座’。是顶级的！现在听好了：如果你在出发前一天的上午10点半准时登录网站，你就能得到这个最好的座位。你可能不走运，可能有人比你抢先一步，但八九不离十，它就是你的。这是你能够得到的最好的座位。”   

这真是让人激动！   

他又提到另外三个座位，如果“梦之座”被人捷足先登，这三个座位也差不多一样好。他告诉我，不要理会人们认为很好的一个座位，那个座位其实没那么好，然后他祝我好运。   

在启程的前一天上午，我登录BA.com，心提到了嗓子眼上。   

其实，我向来不关心这种事情。说真的，坐在靠走廊还是靠窗的座位，对我来说都无所谓。各有各的优点。   

我立刻发现，“梦之座”已经没了，真是不可思议，才过了17秒。但次佳座位还在。它得到的评价很高，也许它不是那么称心如意，但我也不是非要把自己隐藏起来。（我确实喜欢喝上5毫升的Benylin，以帮助放松情绪，这不太好，我知道，但我们都听过更糟糕的事情。）我订好这个确实很不错的座位，不再去想它。上了飞机后，我坐进这个位子，把自己裹在毛毯里，喝了一杯饮料，准备度过7个小时无人打扰的时间。我要想一些事情，看看书，做做白日梦——这将是多么愉快的事情呀，我几乎无法相信这是合法的。   

几分钟后，一声细微、带着歉意的咳嗽，把我从幻想中拉了回来。我面前站着一位空姐，弯着腰，身穿红色和藏青色的制服。她问到：“可以打扰一下吗？坐在您旁边的先生想知道，您愿意跟他的妻子换一下座位吗？他们坐在不同的一侧。”她指给我看那位女士，我看向她的座位——是那种肯定会让人不安的座位，一点都不隐蔽，还靠近卫生间，而且也不宽敞，老实说，一点都不吸引人。勉强算是一星级的吧。   

我心里犹豫起来。日常生活中，当有人请我帮忙时，我总是尽量说好。我觉得这是好的起点。然而……然而，我为我的“特等座”自豪。我没给它取个呢称或什么的，但这里面有一种情结。瞬间，我想起那年夏天我去当陪审员的事情。我相当肯定，那位被告有罪，但他的三个孩子怎么办？还有那可怜的妻子呢？我问了法官一个问题，帮助澄清了事情。她按我的意见宣读了判决，当时，从她的假发下隐约露出的马尾辫轻轻颤动。被告无罪。万岁！   

我看向那位好空姐。我的嘴边有三个问题。我问道：“他们在度蜜月吗？”不是！   

“你是认为他们中有谁害怕坐飞机吗？”不是！   

“有谁生病了吗？”应该没有！   

上帝会怎么做呢？ （这个问题没必要问了。）   

我应该把舒适的座位让给一位陌生人，自己去坐在比较不舒适的座位上吗？参加童子军时许下的诺言涌上脑海。我曾经说过，要日行一善。我今天还没有做过好事，但现在才中午，等到了纽约后，我还有5个小时去完成这个小小的目标。   

在余下的旅程中，我浑身不自在地坐在我的“特等座”上，觉得自己差劲透了。   

译者/岱嵩   

Would you give up a super seat?

By Susie Boyt

Booking a flight to New York recently, I was advised by the friendly travel agent that I should check in online to secure myself a good seat. “Would you like me to recommend some seats to you?” he asked.  

“How do you mean?”  

“Well some of the seats on this flight are very, very good and some less, much less, so. I have a guide book.”  


“A guide book to New York?”  

“No, no, no, no. A seat guide book.”  

I imagined a fat volume telling me the history of the armrest fabric, which part of the chair qualified as the theatre district, an essay on the best osteopathic angles of incline, a list of all the seat’s previous famous incumbents and the ups and downs of their subsequent careers, and a treatise on the meaning of stains such as the psychoanalytic one devised by that fellow to gauge our responses to ink blots. I can’t remember his name.  

The travel agent mentioned a number and a letter. “Oh, yes, indeed, that’s a very good seat: private, not close to the loos, quiet, extra room. It’s very discreet. Yes, it says here that it’s a five star, what actually qualifies in this guide as a ‘superseat’. That’s the highest category! Listen carefully now: if you log on to the website at exactly 10.30 the day before you leave, this is the best there is. You may be unlucky, someone may get in before you but, basically, this is the seat for you. The best you can get.”  

It was quite thrilling.  

He then mentioned three other seats that he considered almost as good, if our dream seat was taken, told me to ignore another that was commonly considered excellent but that was to his mind much over-rated, and wished me luck.  

The morning before the flight I logged on to BA.com, my heart in my mouth.  

These aren’t the things that usually concern me, I must add. I don’t even, if I’m honest, have a real preference for aisle or window. There are good things to be said for both.  

It was instantly clear that the dream seat had gone – how could this happen in 17 seconds? – but the second choice was there. It had a high rating; maybe it wasn’t terrifically discreet but I’ve not much to hide. (I do like a 5ml spoonful of Benylin to aid relaxation, which isn’t ideal I know, but we’ve all heard worse). I reserved this really very good seat and thought no more about it until I boarded the plane, when I settled in, wrapped myself in cashmere, drank a glass of wine and prepared for seven uninterrupted hours of thinking, reading, and day-dreaming, an anticipated pleasure so wondrous I could scarcely believe it was legal.  

After a few minutes I was disturbed from my reverie by a small apologetic cough. An air hostess hovered before me, a vision in red and navy. “May I ask you something?” she said. “The gentleman next to you wonders if you would care to swap seats with his wife, as they have been seated on different sides of the plane.” She indicated the woman in question and I cast my eyes over to her seat. It was the sort of seat that ought to suffer from status anxiety for it had no privacy, was close to the – ah – amenities, had no extra space and, frankly, little appeal at all. It was a one-star seat on a good day.  

I was torn. In life, generally, I try to say ‘Yes’ when people ask me things. I feel it’s a good place to start. And yet ... and yet? I was proud of my superseat. I hadn’t given it a pet name or anything but there was a certain degree of attachment. I was reminded for a moment of the summer I spent doing jury service. I was fairly sure the defendant was guilty but what would happen to his three children? What about his poor wife? On that occasion I had asked a question of the judge that had helped clarify things. She directed my verdict with an elegant little shake of the ponytail that peeped out from beneath her wig. He went free. Hooray!  

I addressed the nice stewardess. Three questions hovered on my lips. “Are they on their honeymoon?” I asked. They were not.  

“Do you have any reason to believe either of them are frightened of flying?” No again.  

“Is anyone ill?” Not to anyone’s knowledge.  

What would Jesus do? (No need to ask that.)  

Should I make myself less comfortable so a stranger could be more comfortable? An oath I took as a Brownie came back to me. I’d said in front of five elves and three pixies and Mrs Godley of Highbury Grange that I would do a good turn every day. I hadn’t as yet performed one but it was only noon and in New York there would be an extra five hours of day in which to meet this modest goal.  

I sat uncomfortably in my superseat for the rest of the journey feeling like a rotten heel.