I flew business class for the first time in my life last week. It was an overnight, 10-hour flight for a work trip.
STOP, do not click the comment button. I am not a luxurious person! I don’t own designer anything. I hail from a family of proud “Dr. Thunder” drinkers.
The thing is, going into this trip I was already exhausted. All the items on those Internet “self-care” guides—showering, going outside—had fallen right off my increasingly lengthy to-do list. I knew sitting upright with my elbow touching another human for longer than a standard workday would only wear me out further, that I would “wake up” from this flight more wrecked than possibly ever, and that I would immediately have to jump into several days of marathon interviews.
Also, I love sleep. I love it so much, in fact, that it's a wonder I’m not better at it. I can’t sleep in cars, or in most hotels, or even in my own bed whenever work is going badly, or when it’s going suspiciously well. I can’t sleep after I eat a big meal, or after I accidentally say “you too!” back to someone who wished me a happy birthday. And I definitely, without a doubt, can’t sleep on planes.
The prospect of all of these forces converging made my brain feel like it was going to liquefy and dribble out through my nostrils.
So when the one-word question—“Upgrade?”—popped up on the check-in computer at Washington Reagan, I thought I would honor the spirit of the airport’s namesake by at least looking into the best thing unfettered capitalism has ever visited on mankind: business class.
Don’t worry, my momma raised me right: When the ticket-checker told me the cost of upgrading, I played hardball.
“I dunnnooooo,” I said, “that’s a liiiiiiiiiittle pricey.”
“Let me know what you decide,” he said, turning back to his computer. I excused myself to Google Wall Street Journal stories about what constitutes a good deal when upgrading. The price he was quoting me was hundreds of dollars less.
“Okay fine I’ll take it.”
One credit-card swipe later (so easy!) the man's attitude toward me brightened considerably. “Okay, as a first-class passenger, you now have access to the Admiral lounge.”
“What’s that?”
“Just go in that little black elevator to a special room. It’s one of your perks.”
I did so. Inside the wood-paneled room are: Old people, guys who look like they could be start-up founders, and women who looked like they could be actresses. ‘Tis not an ordinary path that leads to the Admiral lounge.
People were having extremely quiet in-person conversations and extremely expletive-filled phone calls. My fellow Admirals gave me the side-eye, but I flashed my business-class boarding pass at them, Pretty Woman-style. (Except of course it looked just like a regular boarding pass so the effect was diminished somewhat.)
I spent my time sending decisive-sounding emails and chugging a free glass of wine. When they announced my flight, I got to wait in the “priority” line, rather than the clearly inferior “main cabin” line immediately to its right.
Below is a brief log from inside the aircraft:
STOP, do not click the comment button. I am not a luxurious person! I don’t own designer anything. I hail from a family of proud “Dr. Thunder” drinkers.
The thing is, going into this trip I was already exhausted. All the items on those Internet “self-care” guides—showering, going outside—had fallen right off my increasingly lengthy to-do list. I knew sitting upright with my elbow touching another human for longer than a standard workday would only wear me out further, that I would “wake up” from this flight more wrecked than possibly ever, and that I would immediately have to jump into several days of marathon interviews.
Also, I love sleep. I love it so much, in fact, that it's a wonder I’m not better at it. I can’t sleep in cars, or in most hotels, or even in my own bed whenever work is going badly, or when it’s going suspiciously well. I can’t sleep after I eat a big meal, or after I accidentally say “you too!” back to someone who wished me a happy birthday. And I definitely, without a doubt, can’t sleep on planes.The prospect of all of these forces converging made my brain feel like it was going to liquefy and dribble out through my nostrils.
So when the one-word question—“Upgrade?”—popped up on the check-in computer at Washington Reagan, I thought I would honor the spirit of the airport’s namesake by at least looking into the best thing unfettered capitalism has ever visited on mankind: business class.
Don’t worry, my momma raised me right: When the ticket-checker told me the cost of upgrading, I played hardball.
“I dunnnooooo,” I said, “that’s a liiiiiiiiiittle pricey.”
“Let me know what you decide,” he said, turning back to his computer. I excused myself to Google Wall Street Journal stories about what constitutes a good deal when upgrading. The price he was quoting me was hundreds of dollars less.
“Okay fine I’ll take it.”
One credit-card swipe later (so easy!) the man's attitude toward me brightened considerably. “Okay, as a first-class passenger, you now have access to the Admiral lounge.”
“What’s that?”
“Just go in that little black elevator to a special room. It’s one of your perks.”
I did so. Inside the wood-paneled room are: Old people, guys who look like they could be start-up founders, and women who looked like they could be actresses. ‘Tis not an ordinary path that leads to the Admiral lounge.
People were having extremely quiet in-person conversations and extremely expletive-filled phone calls. My fellow Admirals gave me the side-eye, but I flashed my business-class boarding pass at them, Pretty Woman-style. (Except of course it looked just like a regular boarding pass so the effect was diminished somewhat.)
I spent my time sending decisive-sounding emails and chugging a free glass of wine. When they announced my flight, I got to wait in the “priority” line, rather than the clearly inferior “main cabin” line immediately to its right.
Below is a brief log from inside the aircraft:
by Olga Khazan, The Atlantic | Read more:
Image Mary Altaffer / AP
