Flying business class in Europe should feel like slipping into a leather armchair with champagne on tap. Instead, it’s more like spinning a roulette wheel: sometimes you land on caviar, sometimes you land on curry and a bus ride. Austrian Bus Yoga set the tone. The lounge offered soup that was surprisingly edible, which gave me hope. That hope evaporated the moment I descended not one, but two staircases into what looked like a locked greenhouse door and a reversing truck. My “premium boarding”? A bus so overcrowded it doubled as a yoga studio. Elbows everywhere, luggage swinging like wrecking balls, and one grumpy German growling, “Economy has arrived.” By the time I unfolded myself from a pose resembling Downward-Facing Pretzel and climbed the tarmac stairs, I was begging for champagne, or at least a chiropractor. Inside, I got apple juice or water and seatmates armed with duty-free bags, blasting enough cologne to asphyxiate a horse. Luxury, Austrian style. Then came BA Curry Club on the Bucharest–London hop. The legroom was about as generous as a hotel conference chair stack — you half-expected to be handed a shoe horn with your boarding pass. The flight attendants, with their warm East London accents, compensated by pouring double drinks as an apology for the hour-long delay. Dinner service was comedy gold: by row five, the pork chops had vanished, leaving only curry or vegetarian. “No worries, love, I’ll bring you another whiskey.” Somewhere in economy, an Austrian passenger erupted over personal space, prompting a Brit to bellow, “Throw another shrimp on the Barbie, mate!” The entire cabin erupted in laughter. BA may not have legroom, but they know how to stage a sitcom at 35,000 feet. Finally, LOT Rocking Chair Airways delivered the ultimate plot twist. The seat legroom was positively royal, but the chair itself swayed side to side like a boat on the Danube. Before I knew it, I was softly crooning Rod Stewart’s “I Am Sailing,” accompanied by the rhythm of the turbulence. Middle seats were treated with respect — no handbags, no jackets, just a silent pact that “this space belongs to nobody.” Service was polite but minimalist: water, apple juice, and a wistful reminder that champagne is now reserved for travel documentaries from the 1980s. The ending was pure slapstick: a minibus appeared to whisk business passengers off the tarmac like VIPs. For a fleeting moment, I felt chosen. Then I stood at the baggage carousel for 45 minutes while my so-called “priority” suitcase came out almost last. “Priority,” in LOT-speak, apparently means “when we get around to it.” The moral? Forget glamour. Flying European business class is less about champagne flutes and more about survival instincts, bus choreography, and improvisational comedy. You’ll get your drink, but you’ll also get yoga poses on the tarmac, curry lotteries in the sky, and bags that arrive on “priority delay.” And honestly? That’s the real entertainment upgrade. Author: Mitzilinka (Turning grim reality into comic relief—without losing the truth)