Flying first class

I arrive at the departure gate of the Vancouver International airport, only to be told that the original plane is not available and we are being transferred to a smaller one, leaving about 30 people without a seat on a flight to London. Since I am not in a hurry, I volunteer to take the next flight, five hours later. A long time to wait, especially since I had already spent that morning waiting and wandering around the airport.

After making certain that I don't have any checked baggage, the departure-desk clerk thanks me and promises, that Air Canada will compensate me for my generous gesture. I hope the compensation will at least include a pass to the Air Canada first class lounge, from which I was booted out earlier and where I would like to check my email and perhaps enjoy a complementary drink. Years ago when I was bumped off another (non-Air Canada) flight, I received a credit for its value, but with Air Canada being under bankruptcy protection. I think that's too much to ask. Perhaps a free lunch?

As soon as my seat is given to someone else, I realize that this is one of those forks in the road. My life could now change drastically. As time passes with the waiting room emptying out, I become more and more anxious and think about people who changed a flight at the last moment only to have it crash later.

Well, if my flight was going to crash, then I was going to go in style, because a few moments later the desk clerk hands me a first class boarding pass, which he says will also get me into the First Class Lounge (he says it in capitals of course). He also tells me that he'll drop off a lunch voucher
later. I feel lucky enough as it is, since he didn't forget about me altogether, so I decide not to hold my breath for the lunch. I make my way to the lounge and show my new boarding pass.

But I must regress. Earlier that morning, I tried to get into the lounge using my economy boarding pass with no success. However, I was encouraged by the hostess as she handed me a Diners Club Maple Leaf Club brochure. For only $375 a year, she said, I could become a member and enjoy many exclusive privileges including access to the First Class Lounge. But until then. "we are so very sorry madam". And now, the same hostess is eyeing me suspiciously as I hand her my upgraded boarding pass.

"We don't normally allow complementary passengers into the lounge, madam," she says as she checks the validity of the pass on her computer, "but, since it's not very busy this afternoon, I suppose..."

I think it helps that I am dressed nicely, and eventually she lets me in. I'm guessing that if I had on a pair of jeans, and sneakers, the story would have had a different ending. "Oh, thank you so very, very much, that's wonderful," I gush.

And so I am inside the sanctuary of wealth and privilege. I find an unobtrusive table and chair and try to shrink myself inconspicuously, as not to offend the people who REALLY belong here. I expect the hostess to return at any moment and in a loud voice say, "I've checked with my supervisor, Madam, and you must leave as you do not belong here." But nothing like that happens for half an hour while I sit there quietly, so I start getting brave. I walk over to the business center thinking that if I am going to get thrown out, at least I'll check my email first.

Still nothing. She must have decided that I wasn't going to be an embarrassment. I guess, I might as well make myself more comfortable, I decide. I sit in another place near the bar, pour myself a glass of Jackson Triggs Cabarnet Merlot, (fabulous) and looking carefully around me for a sign of the hostess, load a plate with crackers and cheese.

Finally I relax and begin eyeing my neighbors. A family with a young girl, a man alone with a laptop. A couple wearing (oh horrors!) jeans. They all look quite normal. Braver still, I now became a snob. I notice that there are no plush carpets on the floor, the chairs are black vinyl (rather than oak and leather) made to be comfortable only for the time it takes to have one drink, the tables are metal and imitation marble. When I take a walk to the toilets, I note that the stalls are as small as those everywhere else and each has the same cut out door to see people's feet. Little things like full length doors in public toilets and china coffee cups in cafes make me long for Europe.

But worst of all, the other passengers are looking quite normal like I said before. For first class passengers, they are dressed rather shabbily. I'm not at all impressed. I suppose the real wealthy fly their own jets.

So now I am on a snobbish roll. I notice that there are only two kinds of cheese: cheddar and jalapeno flavored with packaged crackers. There is no service; you have to get your own drinks. However, there is a large assortment of alcohol of all kinds including Pipers beer on tap. There are also cookies, apples, cold drinks, juices, coffee and tea. For entertainment there is a TV, several magazines including one advertising Jaguars, and newspapers.

As I sit there drinking my wine, the hostess comes up to me and I freeze for a moment. But no, she is not there to throw me out after all, but instead delivers a lunch voucher AND another one, a 500 dollar one towards a future flight with Air Canada. Wow! I am so elated that I pour myself a Courvoisier to celebrate and top up my crackers and cheese.

But I decide not to use my lunch voucher right away. How can I leave this place for some economy class bistro? I wonder if I can use the voucher in London. It says on it that it's valid in all the airports that Air Canada serves. Might as well take my chance, since I'm not hungry anymore anyways.
Finally the wait is over and I board my plane (ahead of the "mob"). I am ushered to my seat and offered champagne. By now I know my place in complementary society and nod politely. Of course, how can I refuse especially since it is the Piper-Heidsieck Brut? Meanwhile I wonder what I am going to do with all this legroom? And where is the fold down table?

When the economy passengers start boarding, I have a flashback (from long ago of course) when I was poor and how I felt in their place. I often wondered who these lucky and rich people were and what they did to rate while I didn't. Now I know at least who one of them is. I do feel rich, different somehow. Special. Spoiled, and like I have a secret. Which I suppose I do. My neighbors once again seem normal, except for one couple that looks more polished with their expensive haircuts and manicures. Maybe some of the 30 passengers have been moved to this flight just like me. I like this life, but I feel guilty because I know just how badly the economy passengers are being squeezed in their seats while I have room for two. But I quickly forget my guilt as the steward hands me another glass of champagne.

My seat mate shows up and of course he is handsome and intelligent looking. Dressed in a North Face fleece he doesn't look rich, but then who knows. Maybe he is a young Sir Edmund Hillary. We do not speak. Meanwhile, the service goes on as we are given a travel kit that includes a pair of socks, toothpaste and a toothbrush and some lotions and creams. The seats have footrests, and I play with the controls to see how far mine will recline. I am nervous and excited like a child, but then I love flying, especially takeoffs and landings. We are finally in the air and as usual I get teary eyed, amazed at the magic of flight. My seat mate however is callous and unromantic enough to pull down the window shades. I resolve not to speak to him for the rest of the flight.

Soon after the seatbelt sign light goes off, the stewards offer us before dinner drinks. I resist and ask for mineral water. For an appetizer, I choose Smoked Duck Terrine with Cumberland Sauce served with Mache, Orange and Red Wine poached Pear (with all the capitals in the right places). Then comes the diner wine, which I do not resist and choose Torres, Atrium, Merlot, Spain (colorful, full of fruit and flavor) with my dinner of Salmon Pinwheel with Oyster Mushrooms served over Fingerling Potatoes accompanied by Lobster Succotash. I do not choke on the Capitals and enjoy it immensely. For desert I choose fresh fruit while my seat mate has the fancier sounding Pistachio Cassata with Chocolate Sauce or lower case for ice cream.

I try to watch the movie, but the quality of entertainment has not been upgraded for First Class passengers, at least not to my now refined taste, so I attempt to sleep instead. In what seems like a couple of hours, the cabin lights are back on and it is time for breakfast. I begin with a fruit energy drink, then follow up with a yogurt, a croissant, orange juice and coffee. I also give in and have an intellectual conversation with my seatmate on the topic of architecture of proteins and the future of the human race. With my brain reeling, we descend into clouds (the shades are up now) and land in gray, dreary London.

As first class passengers, we are processed through immigration ahead of the others. My First Class flight ends and my life goes back to normal. Or so it seems. The plane didn't crash and I didn't meet my soul mate but perhaps I'm not as satisfied with my place in society and plan on becoming more ambitious as a result.

However, I do get a free lunch at Heathrow.