The first time I flew on an airplane, back in the 1970s, my parents made me wear my Sunday best. They insisted that one must always dress appropriately for flying—preferably in an outfit that was both excruciatingly uncomfortable and pleasing to the check-in clerks. If we dressed up, there was always the chance of getting upgraded. Of course, it never happened.
First Class was a world hidden from the economy traveler. On some airlines, you boarded in the middle of the plane, ensuring you never even got a glimpse of the privileged few, already settled in with their plush blankets and newspapers spread wide enough to cover two economy seats. The secrets behind that darkened curtain remained just that—secrets. Free-flowing champagne, Chateaubriand, and the potential to meet the love of your life, who, obviously, would be seated next to you. He’d tell you his life story, which would culminate in the revelation that you were the woman of his dreams, and how lucky he was to have found you in First Class. Meanwhile, in economy, we were left in the dark—literally and figuratively.
These days, no one dresses up for air travel. And why would they? The self-service check-in kiosk doesn’t care if you’ve put on your best outfit. Even so, I still can’t bring myself to dress completely down, even for a personal trip. I just can’t do the sweats-and-sneakers look, lugging my own bed pillow through the airport. I always err on the side of being slightly more put together—and slightly more uncomfortable—than necessary for a four-hour flight in economy.
The cost of First Class is outrageous, and I’ve never been willing to pay it just for a slightly wider seat and coffee in an actual cup. These days, we’re lucky to even get a complimentary cup of coffee in economy.
But on a recent flight, my perspective shifted.
I boarded a brand-new plane, walking past six rows of casually dressed First-Class passengers on my way to my seat—one row behind them. I stared, envious, as they were offered drinks of choice: champagne poured from a Moët & Chandon bottle into real glass flutes, coats neatly hung by attractive flight attendants, warm nuts served in little crystal bowls. Then, with dramatic flair, the sheer gray curtain was yanked shut—right in my face.
Sheer was the key word. It wasn’t like I couldn’t still see everything.
I watched as filet mignon was delicately placed before them while I scrolled through the new iPad TV screen in the seatback in front of me, searching for something more appetizing than the $14 protein pack of cheese and crackers. No one in First Class seemed to be swiping their cards to watch a movie, while I was forced to pay for a TV show halfway through because my “trial run” had ended. I salivated over a dessert so decadent that I nearly ripped the sheer curtain from its hooks as I chewed my stale Orbit gum. And if the woman in front of me had met the love of her life in seat 2B, I just might have had to take her down.
By the time we landed, I was a changed woman. I immediately pooled all my frequent flyer points into a First-Class ticket home. I would experience the splendors of the front-row elite.
Or so I thought.
My return flight was…underwhelming. I had dressed up—more than necessary, as it turned out. My seat was indeed wider, and there was more legroom, but at five feet tall, how much legroom did I really need? There was no personal TV screen offering newly released movies—just one communal screen for the six-row section, playing old episodes of CSI. No champagne, just a glass of Chardonnay (which, thankfully, was refilled without request). No filet mignon—just a limp salad with tepid-looking chicken. And no dashing stranger destined to become my future husband—just business travelers glued to their laptops.
Had I dreamed the nirvana behind the sheer curtain?
What I now know is that the miles I spent on this four-hour First-Class experience could have been far better used—perhaps on a visit to a friend in another city or as part of a trip home to England. Instead, I had wasted them on indulging in a lifestyle that wasn’t mine.
Lesson learned.
