I’m sitting in the British Airways lounge at Terminal 5, waiting for my flight back to Berlin. It’s a familiar place. Too familiar, maybe. Over the years, I’ve been to many lounges: in London, Seattle, Frankfurt, San Francisco, and Houston, on different airlines, in various countries.
And yet, somehow, they all feel the same.
It’s not the design, not the food, not even the endless soft lighting that makes every lounge blur into the next.
It’s the people.
The Lounge People.
You know who they are, or perhaps, if you travel often enough, you’ve seen them too.
They move through the space with a kind of self-importance, as if the world owes them something for their business-class ticket or their frequent-flyer status. They talk too loudly on their phones, their conversations full of jargon and ego, announcing to everyone within earshot just how important they are.
It’s not a cultural thing. I’ve seen it in London, in Zurich. The same posture, the same tone. Mostly men. If I had to guess, 95 percent of those Lounge People are men. Mid-level executives, perhaps. Men under pressure, who mistake arrogance for confidence, who treat the lounge as their temporary kingdom.
Some use it as therapy.
You can tell by the way they walk in. Restless, already tense, looking for something to control. So they control the only thing they can: how loudly they speak, how they treat the staff, and how they fill their plate.
And the buffet… oh, the buffet.
Plates piled high with food, only to be left half-eaten.
A quiet little display of entitlement, because in here, everything is “included”, and therefore, nothing matters.
Then there are those who believe that access itself grants superiority. The status people. The ones who look at you twice before deciding if you belong. They are not here to rest, work, or read. They are here to be seen. To remind themselves that they’ve earned this place in the hierarchy of modern travel.
And I sit here, watching, wondering.
Do they behave the same way at home?
Do they talk to their partners, their children, their colleagues with the same lack of kindness?
Because how we treat people who serve us says more about us than any loyalty card ever could.
For me, being in a lounge is still something special.
A quiet corner before a long flight. A place to work, read, maybe even nap when schedules shift.
It’s a privilege, not a right.
And yet, every time I’m here, I’m reminded how easily privilege turns into presumption.
How quickly comfort erodes empathy.
The staff here — the ones constantly cleaning up, restocking, smiling through sighs — make travel more human. They deserve respect, not condescension.
So as I sip my coffee and wait for boarding to begin, I find myself asking:
When did some travelers stop being people and start being Lounge People?
And maybe the better question is, how do I make sure I never become one of them?
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