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• June 29, 2016. I CONTINUE to be astounded by the sheer number of people traveling around the world with babies, toddlers, and other preschool-age children.
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Should Kids Be Banned From First and Business Class? Two Experiences Rekindle the Debate. Fancy digs on the A3. What could possibly ruin this? Even more astounding is how many of these kids are traveling in first or business class. These tickets cost thousands of dollars, yet it seems there’s no shortage of travelers well- heeled enough to be jetting around in the forward rows with two, three, even a half- dozen small children. How the demographics of air travel have changed, indeed.

Kids are kids. They cry, they run around, they yell, they misbehave. I understand this completely. It’s nobody’s fault, and I accept it. To a point. Experience 1: I was in Bangkok, looking for a way home. Poking around on Kayak. I found an excellent last- minute fare on Asiana, one- way to JFK via Seoul- Incheon, for a little over $2.

Asiana is a five- time Sky. Trax winner and is considered by many to be a top- tier carrier. I bought my ticket, picked out my window seats, and couldn’t wait to get to the airport. And it was downhill from there. It starts at Bangkok’s Suvarnubhumi airport. My ticket gives me access to Thai Airways’ Royal Orchid Lounge, shared by the various Star Alliance members, of which Asiana is one. Getting access to the lounge is of course part of the whole premium class experience, and I left the hotel extra early to enjoy it.

But when I get there, I discover the lounge isn’t simply overcrowded (as so many premium class lounges tend to be these days). It’s overcrowded with kids. I cannot find a quiet place to sit.

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The kids are everywhere and they won’t shut up: yelling and crying and running around like it’s recess on the school playground. The centerpiece of this chaos is an obnoxious guy in a Russian soccer shirt and his belligerent offspring. He’s something of a Vladimir Putin lookalike, sprawled sockless on a sofa with his naked feet hanging over the rail, playing a game on his phone. Around him is a spray of plastic toys deposited by his five — count ’em, five — preschool- age children, who when they aren’t tossing toys around are shrieking and throwing food at each other. They’re unbearably loud. Every so often Vlad claps his hands and scolds them in lazily indignant Russian. They ignore him and carry on.

The waitstaff, for their part, couldn’t care less. When I complain to the woman at the desk, she simply smiles and says “Oh so sorry sir.” Absolutely no effort is made to actually quiet the kids down. And if the Putin clan isn’t annoying enough, elsewhere in the room at least three infants are crying. I try not to let it get to me.

I distract myself with the buffet, helping myself to a gin and tonic, a miniature pastry- pillow labeled “chicken roll,” and some finger sandwiches made with institutional- looking white bread. I close my eyes and imagine myself on the plane, only minutes from now, sitting back in my business class seat, surrounded by peaceful luxury. When boarding is announced, I practically run onto the plane. I stow my things and settle in for the five- hour ride to Incheon. I’m relaxed and happy. And then I hear the sound. It starts as a crackle.

Then a whinny. Then a staccato series of gasps and yelps and piercing cries. These are the noises that only a baby makes, and that baby is in business class, three seats over from me. And as babies are wont to do, the little darling treats the rest of us to a five- hour long, blood- curdling repertoire of periodic yelping and screaming fits.

It’s the unpredictability of these fits that’s the worst part: It’s quiet, quiet, quiet; then suddenly there’s screaming. It’s quiet, quiet, quiet again; then suddenly there’s more screaming. This repeats over and over, at erratic intervals of varying duration and loudness. But it’s all right, you see. It’s okay, because the best and most important parts of this journey is yet to come: I’ll have two hours to kill at Asiana’s lounge at the amazing Incheon airport, followed by the 1. JFK in my state- of- the- art “Smartium” business class seat on the 7. Fine, kid, go ahead and cry.

The rest of this trip will be great. Asiana has separate lounges at ICN for first and business class. The business lounge is a sumptuous room of dark wood- tones, plush chairs, a piano and rows of bookshelves. The shelves give it an almost library aesthetic, and I like that. Libraries are quiet.

I help myself to a triple espresso and set up my computer at a table near the back. There’s nobody around and I have the whole rear corner to myself. Asiana lounge at ICN. It’s a creak- creak- creak- creak — the sound of a wheeled apparatus approaching. Somebody’s roll- aboard bag? It’s a baby carriage. Actually, it’s a baby carriage flanked by a mom and two toddlers, one on either side of a strapped- in infant.

And this foursome of noisemakers is aimed directly at the table next to mine. As the carriage wheels in alongside, there’s a great and sudden clattering of toys, food containers and juice cartons. Things spill to the floor as the mom yells orders in Korean at the two toddlers, who answer back in barks and squeals and a chorus of hollering.

I gather up my stuff and bolt for another table. This is only marginally helpful, however, because by now the place has filled up, and no shortage of the visitors are kids, most of whom are carrying on. A man comes out of the restroom with his two tiny sons, maybe three or four years old. The kids burst into a run, and as they pass me one of them lets out a scream so shrill that I think my coffee cup is going to crack. Cult Classics Movies My Italian Secret (2015) here.

And now, finally, it’s time for the Big Flight. I made sure to choose one of the window seats with the console facing outward, toward the aisle — this creates a cubicle effect, as if you’re sitting there in your own little private jet. This is going to be awesome! I’m going to put on my Asiana slippers, drink some wine, watch some movies, and dine on gourmet food before stretching out to rest in my full- flat sleeper. Asiana business class. Until. Until I look up from my complimentary newspaper and there — there! My skin goes prickly hot and and my pulse starts racing.

There’s just. No! Yes! And I would love to tell you that this time I got lucky, and this was one of those quiet and well- behaved babies who whines for a minute and then, miracle of miracles, utters nary a peep for the rest of the flight. Don’t you love when that happens?

Those are the flights that restore our faith in both air travel and humanity at large. Look at that adorable child napping peacefully like that. But this is not one of those times. This is not one of those babies. This kid is neither napping nor quiet.

He’s as loud and angry as a lawnmower. Nothing shuts him up. And he’s of that certain age — that age between infant and toddler, when a voice begins to gain the sonic traction that allows it to really carry.

At the height of his discomfort this tiniest of humans is pushing ninety decibels. It’s a wailing, electric, claxon- like sound, like a nuclear attack alert, loud enough to rattle my tableware.

The racket comes and goes, comes and goes. Reading is impossible; sleeping is out of the question. The only escape is watching movies with the volume cranked up (unfortunately Asiana’s entertainment system is terrible and offers only a few boring choices). The last hour of the flight is the worst. The kid cries nonstop.

It is so loud you cannot hear the public address announcements from the crew. When we touch down at JFK in September sunshine just before 1. I don’t feel the least bit sated, refreshed or relaxed. On the contrary I am exhausted and stressed- out. Experience two: There’s a lot to like in Emirates business class on the Airbus A3. The sleeper seats are spacious and comfortable.

The carrier’s “ICE” entertainment system is second to none. The menu is eclectic and the food is tasty. Amenities are all around you, from the duvet and mattress to the luxurious lounge and bar in the back of the upper deck.

What could possibly ruin this?