I wish I’d had time enough to take a picture of this asshole and his companions. Three (two males, one female. The younger man may have been their servant) boorish travellers, botoxed to an inch of their lives. Wearing the type of travel duds you find in magazines targeting (insecure?) people who identify as sophisticated travellers. You know, the yacht club set.
I first heard, then noticed, the trio when they marched past me in the United Lounge at San Francisco airport. The lounge isn’t opulent, but has comfortable seating and snacks. Staff keeps it tidy and the refreshments replenished – always available to help the spoiled and clueless work the cappuccino machine.
But none of this mattered to the trio. They were looking for a VIP section of the lounge. Where, I guess, they could ogle and be ogled by their kind. Where, I suppose, they could mingle with superior human specimens, without being contaminated by the bottom feeders in the rest of the lounge.
“Is this it?”, the woman barked at the employee busy emptying a trash can. “Is there another section?”
Unhappy with the response, the three turned on their heels and sprinted to the exit.
“This place is for peasants,” the older guy remarked on his way out.
Raised by wolves.