For those of us relegated to the economy section of planes, the romance of flight ends these days as soon as we take our seats, if not sooner. I offer these thoughts after spending a lot of time in the air the last couple of weeks.

In reviewing an otherwise idyllic vacation, my mind keeps returning to the anger and subtle ignominy associated with being wedged into a seat too small for my body, and for eight or nine hours in a row.

I probably ought to offer several disclaimers at the outset, foremost among them that I'm 6-feet-2. That's above average, though by no means freakishly tall, I'd like to think. But there's no way I can any longer fit into the average economy seat without my legs pressing against the seat in front of me. And that's before the captain turns off the seat belt sign and the passenger in the row ahead cavalierly hits the recline button, kneecapping me.

A second cause of my upset is that my ticket isn't complimentary. Round-trip airfare to Europe cost me more than $1,800—approximately double what I paid only a few years ago. And then the airlines have the temerity to exact a surcharge if you want a seat with "extra" legroom.

Rob Shepperson

Just out of morbid curiosity, I asked a passing flight attendant whether, if one of the more spacious seats remained unoccupied after takeoff, a passenger could claim it—without, of course, first producing a credit card. It was really a theoretical question, because the flight appeared sold out, and I was so far to the rear of the plane and so firmly wedged into my seat that I'd never have been able to beat my fellow passengers to it in any case.

She pleasantly but firmly explained that such seats rarely go unsold. However, they'd remain unoccupied even if unsold, she said, citing the Economy Passenger Shame/No Airline Lobbyist Left Behind Safety Act, or something like that.

Some of my seat-selection problems were probably self-inflicted. I'd guilelessly hit the "Select seat" prompt when I bought my ticket online, approximately three weeks before I planned to travel. I can't help but believe it's a scam to get you to upgrade, because there appeared approximately four seats remaining that didn't require additional expenditure, all of them mid-row or in the back of the plane bordering the lavatory.

My wife, with whom I returned from Europe, but who traveled there separately with my daughters, shrewdly called our airline, spoke with a live person and got our return seats together, or almost so; one of them even a window seat, though over the wing, so you couldn't really see anything. (This isn't a criticism of the airlines but of human nature: Why should travelers meekly acquiesce when crew request they lower their shades, so that their fellow passengers can better enjoy the movie or game of Angry Birds they're playing? We live on an amazing planet, all the more so from 35,000 feet. Lowering your shades for most of the voyage, unless you're afraid of flying, to me qualifies as sacrilege.)

The final reason for my pique is that I'm old enough to remember when air travel represented something almost magical, when even a tourist-class ticket came with a complimentary Pan Am or TWA flight bag. And each airline had its distinct identity. Swissair flight attendants passed through the cabin offering small, complimentary bars of Lindt chocolate. Air France had Parisian bon bons. Alitalia flight attendants resembled Sophia Loren.

The lavatories were clean and fresh-smelling and contained bottles of cologne and individually wrapped bars of soap. Come to think of it, my family and I may be partially responsible for the degradation in service that has culminated in the current unpleasant state of air travel. I'm not proud of it, but my father was a small-time thief. And what he coveted above all else was airplane cologne, enlisting his children (or at least not discouraging them) to steal a bottle or two on his behalf. Before the airlines eliminated fragrance completely in economy, they had wised up enough that they started removing the bottle caps. That's because of my family.

I recall one vivid episode when, at around age 9 or 10 and eager to branch out beyond soap and cologne, I discovered a dispenser in the lavatory that produced these mysterious cushiony things that resembled tiny pillows. They turned out to be sanitary napkins. I also remember running down the aisle, holding my prize aloft in the fluttering breeze, and shouting, "Mommy, Daddy, look what I found!" to the mortified gasps of my parents, baby sitter and fellow passengers.

That may have marked the last time I raided the lavatory.

But for the good old days! On my most recent flight, the seat into which I was belted was on the aisle. Which was a good thing, because I didn't have to climb over anybody when I had to use the bathroom. And because trips to the lavatory constituted my only form of entertainment, stripped down though the facility was.

However, the overhead reading lights didn't work for the entire center section of the cabin, so I couldn't read. And I had trouble enjoying the films because the monitor closest to my seat was projecting them upside down.

However, there was a benefit to this state of sensory deprivation. It wasn't that I was better able to sleep—you try sleeping while wedged into a space no larger than a prisoner-of-war sweatbox. I also, probably foolishly, decided to forswear sleeping pills, fearing an inability to make my 7 a.m. connecting flight in Amsterdam if I were in a stupor.

Hard liquor is usually an answer. But it's no longer free, though beer and wine were. However, even if I'd been willing to pay for it, extracting myself from my seat to gain access to my credit card would have constituted a challenge.

But that dark cloud of limited entertainment options had something of a silver lining: I didn't have to stare at the screen saver as I did on my way back—an apparently more modern plane, it came with a touch screen set into the seatback in front of me—showing a business-class passenger happily stretched out in a bed with 800-thread-count sheets.

And also on the return flight, after the safety instructions had been offered, an ad came booming over the intercom for Esurance. If you think it can't get any worse, it can. In the same way that ballparks and sports arenas now blast ads between innings or quarters, it's only a matter of time until we're bombarded with commercials all the way from JFK or LAX to Paris or Singapore. Silence will come with a surcharge.