Queen of the airwaves

So how is it that you keep a devastated girl’s eyes from bawling at 4 a.m. when the taxi comes to pick her up in Barcelona to take her to the airport, burst her dream-world bubble and send her straight home, totally broke, to a boring reality? Well, you put her in First Class on a Delta flight, of course – especially when she needs to fly from Barcelona to Madrid, Madrid to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale for a total of 20 traveling hours.  

And this jetsetter did just that. Row 1, Seat B, baby, on all three legs of the trip. While I expected it to be good, my goodness, was I naive. It was - I am talking - feel-at-home, wait-you-hand-and-foot, “Yes, Ms. Packer, what can I do for you” good. I was a celebrity in my own right, sipping sparkling wine before take off and ordering a 5-course meal.  

My lap of luxury began in the VIP lounge of the airport, where I helped myself to a totally free self-service bar, coffee machine, snack fridge (fully stocked with croissants and sandwiches), and refreshment machine. The fluffy, velvety couches were more welcoming then the bed I had been sleeping in the past four months at Senora’s place. Needless to say, with my rolling carryon in hand, I stepped off the elevator in to the exclusive lounge and my mouth dropped. I am certain that I looked like a little child in Toys-R-Us who had been given a blank check. Who know that the other world lived so well and how had I been missing this my whole life?

The other VIPs wore the room – better yet, ballroom – well, playing on their laptops and iPhones in Ferragamo suits. Perhaps, I should mention I didn’t quite dress for the occasion. My black, velour sweatpants, green American Apparel V and straw fedora weren’t assisted by my no-makeup face, and I wouldn’t be shocked if the three-piece suits wondered who let this “child” in here. I, however, had plans of being comfy and shrugged it off. I woke up at 4 a.m. for Christ’s sake! If I am gonna pay for first class, by golly, I am gonna wear whatever I want.

I helped myself to the free goodies and delicious coffee, before snagging Spain’s version of Yoohoo from the fridge and going down to board my nine-and-a-half-hour flight. After bypassing all the common folk at the gate, I became acquaintances with 1B. He was a beauty in his leathery blueness and the full-sized pillow and comforter he was wearing fit him well. And what’s better, he brought me a present. I took my seat and immediately threw off my shoes to put on my gifted no-slip-grip socks (apparently, I am very easily impressed, but what can I say? It’s not everyday an airplane gives you a sleep mask and a toothbrush!). While all the business people were frigid, still blabbing endlessly on their phones, I was smushing my tush into my seat and electronically moving the seatback and footrest up and down and up and down, as if I had never sat in the chairs outside of Brookstone. When I got tired of that, I popped my personal reading light and mini TV in and out. I then proceeded to figure out how my big table and my small table worked.   

My mental process during all of this went like so: Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Check me out! I am living like Richie Rich or that kid from Blank Check. Woohoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the flight attendants didn’t help my ego with their “Hello, Ms. Packers.” When one came around ask for drink orders, the men and couples around me ordered wine and top-notch sparkling alcoholic beverages. I had other plans for easing my edge and asked for a bottle opener for my stolen, glass-bottle chocolate milk. In the most serious voice, but with a genuine smile, the flight attendant said, “Gladly,” and brought me a glass cup with ice so that my milk would be cold. It’s a damn good thing she didn’t bring me a straw because I may have been tempted to blow bubbles in my chocolate drink.

When the man sitting next to me asked my name, I contemplated saying Annie Warbucks and I was a heartbeat away from asking him to pinch me.

The rest of the flight was sheer bliss. When I slept, I reclined. When I ate, it was surprisingly delicious. Actually, it was scrumptious. And perhaps the best part was the expensive wine the attendants kept refilling. White, red, sparkling and port.  

And so my flight went as such: Glass of wine. Eat. Sleep. Another glass of wine. Watch Slumdog Millionair. Eat. Coffee. Wine. Watch Marley & Me. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Wine.

Come on folks, does life get any better? For the first time since my sorority presidency, I felt like a queen. A queen of the sky - up above the clouds, having people wait on me.

But since what goes up, must come down, so to did my attitude in tandem with the plane itself. I went from my mile-high high to a thudding splat by the time I exited the plan in Atlanta.

As I exited, my nostrils were filled with the nauseating, deep-fried odor of Popeye’s, McDonalds, Taco Bell and Burger King. The bright, neon lights in the airport stung my retinas. And, oh, the people. Americans. Gross. Overweight men in floral shirts. Sweatshirts galore. Flat, rubber flip-flops that should only be worn to the beach. And the worst of it all, men in shirts, ties and shorts all at once. I guess I became a European snob while I was away.

For all the missing home I did, I seemed to have forgotten that home means fat, grungy, loud Americans living on fly-over land without much history or ancient ruins of any sort. Feeling terrible for myself, I picked up a Starbucks, but it only soiled my mood more. I subjected myself to sipping on burnt-bean, coffee-flavored water that some American thought would be funny to call coffee.

Welcome home, air princess, welcome home. You should've blown chocolate milk bubbles while it lasted.