Skip to content
Join our Newsletter

A glimpse at life on the other side of the curtain

You never know the truth about another person until you walk a mile in their shoes. Of course, most of us have only a passing interest in the truth about others and given the choice, would prefer all of them keep their shoes on around us.

You never know the truth about another person until you walk a mile in their shoes. Of course, most of us have only a passing interest in the truth about others and given the choice, would prefer all of them keep their shoes on around us. The universal aversion to wearing shoes worn by others may well explain why bowling remains a marginal sport.

But I had a rare opportunity to slide my tootsies into the silken slippers of the more economically fortunate recently and I’m back to tell you it has changed my life. Well, maybe not my life, but my whole outlook on flying.

I have explained my aversion to flying as a mode of mass travel but in case I wasn’t clear, I’d rather fly an ultralight aircraft through a flock of migrating Canada geese during an End of the World lightning storm than step foot on most commercial airlines.

As a general rule, that still holds true. But if some benevolent booking agent takes pity on my poor soul and upgrades me to first class, that, as it turns out, is another story altogether.

Delta Airlines recently did just that on my flight from Atlanta to Buenos Aires and back. It wasn’t a completely benevolent gesture on their part. By upgrading a herd of writers they probably hoped to avoid running out of alcohol in Economy and most definitely expected some ink of the PR persuasion. This is my quo for their quid.

Any dread I felt about a long layover in Atlanta vanished when I stepped into Delta’s Business Elite lounge. My flight, not surprisingly, was delayed by a couple of hours. The Elites of Bidniz, after all, arrive at their destination the same time as the lost and tortured souls in Economy and since delays are unavoidable in Economy, it is a cross also borne by the more privileged.

Oh the humanity. Forced to while away the time in comfy leather armchairs, distracted by complimentary bar service, nourished from a groaning board of meats and cheeses, fresh fruit and delicate desserts, tempted toward productivity by convenient computer workstations and entertained by late night television, we suffered the delay with equanimity.

Meanwhile, back at the gate, the 218 passengers bound for Steerage played Musical Chairs for the 198 available seats, searched unsuccessfully for vending machines and threatened the well-being of a sleepy clerk from the Duty Free kiosk nervously guarding the purchases destined for our again delayed flight.

Thoroughly lubricated and well-fed, we had already established the theme for both the flight and the remainder of our press junket to Argentina by the time we boarded the plane: More of Everything! Hey, it worked for Seinfeld and being writers we weren’t shy about borrowing from the best.

Now, other than ticket lineups, flight delays and waiting around for luggage that may or may not show up, most airline complaints centre around tiny, uncomfortable seats, cramped aisles, summer camp food and indifferent if not downright caustic service people. I am fairly certain if the vast majority of the flying public knew what life was like on the other side of the curtains, whatever piddling air rage such slights now engender would swell to revolutionary proportions.

No sooner had I settled into a wide, comfy, leather Barcalounger of a seat than a smiling flight attendant verily forced a glass of champagne into my hand. I sipped the bubbly graciously and distracted myself learning the intricacies of my new station in life.

On the wide console between me and my seatmate, there we no fewer than 12 buttons to adjust nearly every aspect of the seat I was melting into. It reclined, of course, the leg rest and calf support adjusted almost infinitely, I could firm or soften the lumbar area at will and the platform upon which my unshod feet rested in complimentary fresh socks could be raised and lowered to keep those nasty bloodclots at bay during the long flight. By the time I’d played out all the buttons – well into the second or third glass of champagne – I was so fully in character I gave passing thought to gently recommending they add heat and massage to the seat. Tsk, tsk.

That thought was sidetracked when I noticed the control module tucked into the side of the seat’s armrest. "What’s this?" I thought. Fumbling to release it from its docked position, I inadvertently hit the lever releasing my personal video screen from its hidden position at the console’s front. Being a guy, I started randomly pushing buttons and the screen came to life with a menu of offerings.

Selecting "video" I found nothing; the tapes would only start running once we were airborne. While momentarily unavailable, it was comforting to know I’d be able to choose from a couple of movies – Traffic, Finding Forrester, Chocolat – or a handful of television shows if insomnia plagued me. In the meantime, eight or nine channels of music would keep me occupied until I figured out the control buttons for the video games I could play until either the movies started or dinner was served.

And make no mistake, dinner was "served." There were no overworked flight attendants muscling aisle-blocking carts of all-the-same meals in biz class. There were menus and choices and gracious individual service. There was table linen, crystal salt and pepper shakers and more cutlery than I was certain what to do with. There was salad tossed at my side and beef tenderloin in a delicate mustard-caper sauce. Or did I opt for the herbed chicken breast in the creamy Riesling sauce? Oh dear, I can’t remember.

I do remember it was paired with an outstanding Château Phélan-Ségur Bordeaux and all washed down nicely by a generous dram of Courvoisier.

Given the level of individual service, I was half expecting the whole dinner thing to be slow and cumbersome. That was before I realized there were six or seven flight attendants for the 42 of us on the right side of the curtain. I was snuggling beneath my nice soft blanky, snoozing to the soothing sounds of Dvorák’s violin concerto in A minor and blocking out all light with the nice sleep mask they gave me while the stewardesses in the back of the plane were still dealing dinner to the rowdy soccer team from Buenos Aires’ Our Lady of the Virgin’s middle school.

I don’t know how to thank Delta enough for their hospitality. I do know they’ve created a monster. Now I just have to figure out how to strongarm them into giving me upgrades in the future. Maybe if I threaten to tell the little people in the back of the plane what’s going on up front.