So This Is How The Other Half Lives
The flight was uneventful, unless you consider the guy sitting next to me in the aisle seat. He was postulating – um, air – very smelly stuff – and I noticed it in concert with all the flight attendants it seemed, who were gathering in a twittering group just beyond our area to properly inhale and confirm its unearthly odour with each other. Could they possibly think that the stench came from me? Why wouldn’t the guy just walk to the bathroom? I felt like poor Elaine, cranky and trapped in a Seinfeld episode.
Weeks prior to this air turbulence, Ry and I were hunched over the computer, edging each other back and forth, jockeying for position to optimize our screen viewing pleasure, and groaning over the rawhide-induced flatulence that was silently seeping from the depths of our doggy's belly. “Spot! - why are you being sooo stinky?” and we paused to stare as if expecting a confession from her. “That is just disgusting!” we bellowed as we shooed her into the adjoining room with another rawhide to keep her occupied.
Our attention back to the computer screen now, eagerly engaged in routing our path from the USA to Bangalore; we were somewhat surprised to discover a substantial discrepancy of flight costs among the major potential carriers. Some would argue that we should not concern ourselves with petty nuisances such as money; after all, X was paying for the entire look-see trip and additionally, were flying us in business class!
Wait a minute - don’t be too quick to judge; this would certainly not be the first time we’ve traveled with the elite in first class, where we obligingly scorn the poor as they walk forlornly past us, heads down as they elbow their way to the scourge of the plane. No, no, we’ve flown first class many times, ok, well at least once; admittedly by upgrading with our accumulated airline points, which seemed to be insufficient in quantity for long-haul or transatlantic voyages, but nonetheless, we once sat in first class for a 1.5 hour flight and enjoyed the luxury of metal utensils, china plates and Egyptian cotton napkins with our warm cranberry muffin.
Despite the deep wallets of X, we felt a twinge of loyalty and responsibility and continued revving the search engine for alternatives. The most expensive of our top three choices seemed to be Air France with a 23 hour flight duration and a 4 hour stopover through the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Nevertheless, their business class was called L’espace affaires and it conjured up naughty images in my mind. “Oooh, mon amour", I cooed in broken French, “je désire Air France”. Ry scowled and returned his attention to the image of pixels. I poked my tongue out and pouted my lips a la Penelope Cruz.
"Look here", Ry pointed, "Lufthansa offers Business Flex". Not an exciting label but the flight path seemed comparable, with a 22 hour flight duration and 6 hour stopover through the Frankfurt airport in Germany. It appeared stoic but efficient.
In contrast, British Airways seemed reasonable in cost with a 17 hour flight duration and a 6 hour stopover through Heathrow, London airport in England. However, the final deciding factor for this arduous journey, le piece de résistance, were the flat bed-seats offered in British Airways business class “Club World Experience” particularly because we covet to unfold our legs and avoid neck cramps while we sleep.
If I were a judge, even if I was as cruel as Simon Cowell of American Idol, I would still be compelled to award extra bonus points to British Airways for their relaxing “sleeper service”, their on-flight nightcap service, and most notably for their sumptuous Lounges and Molton Brown Travel Spa. In essence, we ate 24 hours a day via menu selections, sipped Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks at 6:00 am and while waiting at Heathrow Terminal 4 for our connecting flight to Bangalore, splurged with a refreshing shower, soothing massage and professional pedicure – all for the low, all-inclusive price of a business class airfare ticket compliments of X.
Upon seating, the flight attendants provided the privileged population with a gratis, zippered toiletry bag, complete with earplugs, eye mask, socks, toothbrush, toothpaste and a myriad of lotions. I immediately and simultaneously utilized every element of its contents but I'm confident that I did not appear ridiculous. I swished champagne around my tastebuds as I pondered the thought.
While we explored our surroundings and immersed ourselves in the trappings of business class, we became almost oblivious to the pilot kindly announcing regular updates, in a lovely English lilt, about our one hour delay on the tarmac. His accented words were so pleasantly voiced, he could have been telling us that we were all idiots and we would still be agreeable, nodding our heads in unison. Not surprisingly, they blame Canada and complete reams of paperwork for approval of an alternative route that would steer our flight away from Toronto airspace and the apparent burning inferno within their control tower. We didn’t care, let them eat cake!
Like I said, the flight was otherwise uneventful and the plane was now preparing for landing in Bangalore. Ry and I sat next to each other in the plane, in the centre of a four-seated-row, facing the same direction, facing the tail of the plane; a position which creates an odd feeling during landing, and we shared a lovely enclave of space. I had begun to nest during the flight. We were flanked on either side by our fellow travelers who occupied the aisle seats and strangely, each one faced us. Fortunately, we had the option of raising a large accordion-like fan to create a privacy barrier between our domain and those strangers impeding on our precious business class space. I glared at my husband, flaring my eyelids open and wildly gesturing with my eyeballs, willing him to magically "read my eyes". Did Ry know what was happening? Surely, this would never be permitted in first class - the aisle guy, next to me, facing me, was still farting but had been detected. I wondered if he would be arrested upon landing.
