My brother-in-law often gripes about how his children are so spoiled that upon entering an aircraft, they always turn left. Gee whiz, I think to myself, every parent should have that complaint. (My children turn to the kitchen for food or to my wallet for money). As for himself, he has dispensed totally with that small predicament and just walks straight into his private plane, the ‘turning left’ bit being a little too ignoble for his fancy.
He belongs to the PJ set – or the Private Jet set of people. I still have no clue what he does for a living. I think it has something to do with oil (but of course!). An inquisitive friend once asked me as to his profession, and the best I could come up with, was that he lays oil pipe lines. The look of commiseration had me puzzled for a minute, till it dawned on me that he was envisioning my brother-in-law in a helmet, pick-axe in hand, under a blistering hot sun, in the excessive heat of some Middle East country. He got the sun and the Middle East part right at least…and if he did wear a helmet, it would be custom-made by Prada.
We, on the other hand, of the proletariat class, turn right in the airplane and stay contorted in our little pillbox-sized seats, until we land and they extricate us from our seat-belt shackled misery.
My brother-in-law is generous to a fault. On a recent occasion, he was gracious enough to spread the wealth and offer me a first-class ticket on Emirates Airlines to Dubai – a sixteen-hour flight. The difference between first and economy was considerably noticeable...the same, for example, if you walked barefoot on bed of rose petals or on a bed of burning coals. (For the purposes of my article, we will ignore the bourgeoisie of the Business Class.) Sixteen hours in first class seems like sixteen minutes. Sixteen hours in steerage feels like a life sentence.
In First Class, it was “Can I get you this?” and “Can I get you that?”, or even “Can I scratch your back with this aromatic cedar scratcher, made by pygmy twins from Borneo and give you a lava shell massage, the shells having been picked by green-eyed Tahitian virgins?”
In Junta Class: Sorry, asshole! Comfort not included in price. Can I give you a colonic irrigation or lupus vulgaris?
First Class: Can I get you some Osetra caviar culled from the Caspian Sea and stripped from sturgeon fed on a kosher diet, together with a glass of Roederer Cristal served in Baccarat crystal?
Junta Class: Excuse me, peabrain! Food not included in price. Can I get you some peanuts to go with your water…for $40?
First Class: Can I make your bed now? 1000-count sheet, Scandia duvet made from the finest European goose down and hypoallergenic pillow alright with you?
Junta Class: Apologies, bonehead! Blankets not included in price. Can’t you just freeze to death like the other passengers?
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It was a wonderful, sixteen-hour dream while it lasted. The chances of me flying again in First are about as slim as finding those green-eyed virgin-picked Tahitian shells on a beach in California.
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Update: I got a call today from my brother-in-law, in a tizzy about a really tragic event. His private jet was unavailable and there being no seats left in First or Business on his way to Bahrain, he had no alternative, but to fly (gasp!) economy!! Oh, the indignity of sharing cabin space with people other than the captain and the flight attendant! On the phone, he recounted in wondrous tones, about getting his lunch in a cardboard box and his water in a plastic cup. And, for shame! how he had to suffer the indignity of holding his (hand-stitched, cashmere, made-by-Brioni) suit in his lap, because (quelle horreur!) economy class did not have cupboards.
Well, someone wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
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