Welcome to the Spa. Kindly Fasten Your Seat Belt.

As Musings of Tron readers know, my near lifelong membership in a frequent flyer program culminated in my fulfilling a dream to fly first class to Europe (http://janetherin.blogspot.com/2010/08/how-to-fly-first-class-when-youre.html) last year. It was either collecting miles for decades or selling a kidney.

The first thing I noticed, other than the spacious and deluxe seating, was the zen-like atmosphere. The first-class stewards were relaxed and happy. While I’ve been greeted by many positive, helpful and energetic flight attendants over the years in coach, I’ve never seen ones like this. It was like being welcomed into the home of a doting family friend.

While the process of everyone finding their seats and stowing their carry-ons is often like a kindergarten fire drill in coach, first class was like going to a spa. You’re greeted and personally guided to your seat, introduced to your surroundings and options and immediately offered delightful snacks and beverages of your choice. Since it was morning, I opted for both coffee and a vodka cranberry – a, um, party version of breakfast. Something to put a smile on my face and something to make sure I’m awake to enjoy it.

The attendant came around and offered additional movie selections contained in an attaché of sorts. Each first-class seat comes with its own, I’d say, “DVD” player, but the movie looked more like an 8-track. Weird technology, but a nice perk.

As I sat there enjoying my treat before takeoff, I watched the flight attendants interacting with other first-class passengers and had my second, and more profound, realization: They don’t treat you like a kid here. No one is freaking out about anything. No one is looking at you like “If you don’t put your *&#@%! seatback in the full and upright position right now, I’m going to start the Heimlich Maneuver.”

I must digress here and say that this was the first of five flight segments on our roundtrip journey, and it differed slightly from the other international flights and quite a bit from the domestic portions. My recollection of this first flight is that the attendants did not insist that our beverages were removed prior to takeoff, and this added to my wonderful first impression: passengers are actually trusted to hold a drink not contained in a “sippy cup” as the aircraft ascends! However, this could be the result of the vodka and fact that I had little sleep the night before. Regardless, it’s what I remember and I’m sticking to it.

Maybe coach is so different because passengers are crammed in there and an episode as small as dropping a Tic Tac could wreak havoc.

Think about it. He fumbles a Tic Tac and reaches to catch it as it falls, knocking her elbow, causing her soda to fall, drenching the shoes of the man next to her, causing him to leap into the aisle, sending the skinny kid returning from the lavatory into the beverage cart, causing the attendant behind it to fall into the lap of the guy who’s been giving her the eye since he sat down, and so on. The next thing you know, the beverage cart has crashed into the lavatory door, both exposing and trapping some poor guy with his pants down and the cabin is in an uproar.

Everyone is moving around to escape the domino effect and the plane starts rocking from side to side. Toilet paper rolls down the aisle. Soda cans are exploding.

We could die!

The zen-like atmosphere in first class could be compromised!

The horror!

Seriously. Has a fire marshall ever flown on a commercial aircraft?

OK, back to first class.

Let us assume the lotus position.

Deep breath.

(Sigh)

I reclined my seat and raised the foot rest. The seating consoles are quite complicated and extremely wonderful. I covered my lap with the down-type mini comforter provided. Sleep came quickly.

Waking to the sound and smell of lunch preparations, I took my first good look around at my fellow travelers. Most of them were older males in business attire and focused on laptops or newspapers. No Adam Sandler or Billy Idol like in The Wedding Singer, unfortunately. The most interesting interaction was when a thin, hip-looking guy walked by and, noticing me applying some pikake-scented perfume concentrate, said excitedly, “I have the same one!”

Now why he uses women’s perfume, I don’t know. But he definitely gets the award for most interesting first-class passenger.

We selected entrées from a fancy menu and dined with stainless steel silverware and linen. The food was good and the experience surreal – don’t think I’ve been served real food on an airplane since the late 80s. Shortly after lunch and dessert, our attendant came around with a fresh box of dark Belgium chocolates. How could I refuse?

We arrived in Amsterdam feeling relaxed and contented, the opposite of my last flight to Europe (Rome) where I sat on the aisle in the row in front of the rear lavatories! I have two words for that experience: NEVER AGAIN.

Ten days later, we arrived back at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport and boarded our plane for the U.S.

A little more rested this time, I got out my camera and took some pictures. The first-class steward offered to take some of us and then – to my great surprise – asked if I’d like a picture in the cockpit.

“Really?” I said. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head and smiled wide.

I couldn’t believe this was even possible in a post-9/11 universe.

She led me to the cockpit entrance where I was welcomed in. I took a photo of the captain and co-pilot, who were extremely friendly, by the way, and then the captain got out of his chair and invited me to sit in it! I did and he took my photo! Wow!

It’s going to be hard to go back to coach. Really… really hard.

NOTE: Hugs and kisses to my friend Dianne who is a new flight attendant serving coach passengers. I haven’t flown with her yet but know she’s doing her best to make everyone feel like they’re in first class.

Return of the Dragon Lady

I dialed the number with some hesitation.

Was I actually thinking of going back?

I paused and looked out the window. My head was pounding, my neck stiff and my bank account lean.

The answer was, “yes.”

A moment later the call connected. I took a breath and said I’d like to book a massage.

“I’d like anyone but the woman with the dragon tattoo on her arm,” I stammered, somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t remember her name, but… well…she’s was, um… a little rough.”

“OK,” he said. “We have Cindy today.”

“OK… she isn’t the one with the dragon tattoo, is she?”

“No, that’s Mary. Massage with Cindy OK?”

Assured that I wouldn’t be in for the experience that prompted my first blog entry (http://janetherin.blogspot.com/2010/08/discount-massage-experience.html), I agreed to the appointment and ended the call.

Looking forward to escaping the pain I’d endured the past two days, I smiled as I entered the office and asked the receptionist – a different boy from my earlier visit – to communicate a couple of preferences to the masseuse. With these discount shops, this is typically the only opportunity you’ll have for any information exchange within the next 60 minutes.

He nodded, showed me to one of the massage rooms and proceeded down the hall to the therapists’ preparation area.

As I heard them talking in another language, I removed my shoes and leaned back in the oversized pink chair, rested my feet on the matching ottoman, closed my eyes and smiled. In a few minutes I’d be feeling good!

Hearing the curtain door part, I opened them and saw it. THE DRAGON TATTOO!

It was one of those moments when things seem to go into slow motion and the sound of your heart is pounding in your ears.

I sat bolt upright. My lower lip dropped and my eyes opened wide.

How could this be happening???

(Wish I had it on video. Visualize Mr. Bill.)

While I sat there stunned, she pushed the ottoman away and placed my feet in the water. I don’t even remember how hot it was. I was in fight-or-flight mode.

Realizing I needed to make a decision, I took a deep breath and considered my options. Stick it out with the dragon lady or wait and put up with the pain.

I opted to stay but silently pledged to – in the immortal words of the Beastie Boys – “fight… for my right…to…” enjoy this massage.

Resigned to my fate, I leaned back… half forcing myself to relax and accept the situation and half wondering what form fighting for my right could possibly take given the language barrier and fact that my painful outbursts and pantomimes had failed completely last time. D’oh!

Don’t know if it was the panicked look in my eyes or the possibility that the boy confessed he had lied to me about her identity and told her she needed to save face, but she was very different this time – less Olympic shot-putter and more the healthcare practitioner I needed to see.

While I had no episodes of wincing pain or associated fears for my personal safety, I did have a few moments that mimicked the angst of my previous visit. When she draped a cloth over my eyes before rubbing my temples, I instantly thought of being blindfolded before a firing squad. Would one of the hands stop its therapeutic action and suddenly force a cigarette into my mouth?

Relieved that I wasn’t in mortal danger, I relaxed and was able to focus on the music piped into the room. Strange stuff – first like a cheap techno version of 70s elevator music, then there was a harp with bird songs interspersed with what sounded like cell phone ringtones. Guess this is what you get for only $26/hour.

The music ended when the session was over. She gently patted my arm in acknowledgement and, to my surprise, her tough demeanor had given way to a sweet smile. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I don’t think I’d believe this was the same person.

As I sat up and started putting on my shoes, I realized I actually felt better and would consider having her again.

The boy didn’t make eye contact when I paid and left the reception area.

At least this one was worth it.

In Praise of Elves

It’s December 24, and I find myself thinking about Santa’s Elves, the unsung heroes of Christmas.

No offense to the big guy, but the Elves really get short-changed on credit for Christmas morning bounty and a solid year of hard work.

Ask kids where they got their favorite presents and they’ll always say, “From Santa!”

It’s never, “Santa brought it, but look at the Elves’ handiwork!!” Nope, the Elves don’t even get an assist. Not being tall enough to play regulation basketball, they may not even know what that is.

Even worse, others actually take credit for what the Elves have done. Somehow, representatives of major corporations slip in after Santa has delivered toys and stick labels on them that say things like “Mattel,” “Hasbro,” “Tonka” and “Hanky Panky Toys Thailand.” Because Elves are humble by nature, they’d never think of branding or advertising their work. However, it’s rumored that a few moonlight as paper bag inspectors. I hear inspectors “37” and “Bill” are actually Elves. Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone.

They’re also incredibly clever and go to great lengths to delight you. Whenever you see them depicted, they’re always doing things like hammering pieces of wood or dressing a simple rag doll. This is just for show. They’re actually making high-tech robots, graphite skateboards and dolls with artificial intelligence that can have a conversation with you AND use the bathroom by themselves! The Elves do this because they don’t want you to know what you’re getting. It’s a surprise.

So, when you leave milk and cookies out for Santa tonight, don’t forget about the Elves. They love celery sticks with peanut butter and mini quiches.

Note: None of Santa’s Elves were harmed in the creation of this blog entry, and any likeness to any other elf, real or imaginary, including Will Farrell, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. Patents pending.

Miracle on Hawthorne Boulevard

When I left the bagel shop after breakfast this morning, I thought only of climbing back into bed for a blissful nap.

The past four days have been filled with non-stop birthday fun. Normally, I wouldn’t pack so much into such a short time span, but I wanted to avoid feeling sad about losing LG, my cat and dear companion of the past 18+ years, just a week ago.

I pulled out of the restaurant parking lot and headed down Hawthorne Boulevard toward home. Suddenly, cars were stopping and people were getting out. What’s happening?

A second later, I saw it. A tiny gray kitten running across the busy street, dodging cars. Half a dozen desperate people were chasing it.

The little thing froze in the street in front of my stopped car then darted under it. I shut off the engine, rolled down the windows and strategized with the volunteers surrounding the vehicle while waving traffic around. The kitten had climbed into a wheel well and disappeared into the lower portion of the car.

A Russian woman named Irina offered to go under and search. She did but said she couldn’t get very far and didn’t see the kitten. We talked about me slowly pulling off the road, but I felt it would spook the animal. Knowing the clearance space beneath my SUV, I got out, lowered myself to the street and maneuvered underneath.

I saw the fluffy ball of fur almost immediately. It was nestled in the framing near the spare tire and meowing pathetically. It looked to be only about five weeks old, and its blue-green eyes were filled with fear.

From my position, I was eventually able to guide Ellis, Irina’s husband, and others to corner and eventually capture the animal. This wasn’t without incident; the kitten moved quickly across the frame and attempted to escape our grasping hands several times.

Finally, Ellis had it firmly in his arms and passed it to Irina.

By the time I pulled off the road and grabbed a blanket from my car, Irina was covered in scratches and breaking out in hives on her neck.

I wrapped the kitten in the blanket and put it in an animal carrier I just happened to still have in my car from use two months ago.

Once the cat was secure, we had a joyful group hug and tended to our scratches and scrapes on the small grass area outside some business offices. I scrounged a Band Aid from my purse for Irina and passed around a bottle of antibiotic hand sanitizer.

Someone told Irina she may need shots, but she wasn’t the slightest bit alarmed and gestured that it was no big deal if necessary. Everyone was elated to have just pulled this off. We saved a life!

The kitten snuggled into the blue fleece blanket in the carrier, but shook terribly. After taking a quick photo on my cell phone, I lifted a corner of the blanket to cover the animal and help calm its nerves.

The volunteers weren’t content to have achieved the rescue. They talked about who would take care of the little one. Irina and Ellis said they’d like to add it to their pet family. We all exchanged information and, smiling, parted.

As I drove away down the street, I realized I was shaking, too, and my favorite Jason Mraz T-shirt was filthy. I mentally replayed getting out of my car and lying on the street – probably THE major artery in the area – without a thought as to my clothes or hair and traffic passing by only feet away. Irina had done the same. I also realized that, despite all the cars stopped askew, and mid-day traffic slowed for reasons some must not have known, no one honked or complained.

While I do believe that often the right people are there at the right time (with the right supplies), I also think the human heart, at its core, is so much bigger and more capable of unselfish action than we realize. Crises arise and people with no previous outward display of altruism or connection with the circumstance spring into action. That’s a miracle in itself.

What a beautiful thing.

Notice

I've been hearing that followers didn't receive notice of the third blog, The Ladies' Room. Rather than repost, I'm just issuing this notice. Still not sure of all the technical ins and outs of this system! Hopefully, it won't happen again. Thanks for reading! -- janet

The Ladies' Room

Since I promised this would be random, I’m deviating from my plan (to continue talking about Europe) and am broaching this topic. It came in a flash (flush?) of inspiration, so, hey, why not?

I first thought about this when I recalled how my last office at work shared a wall with a brand-new handicap-accessible ladies’ room.

Fully tiled, the room was an echo chamber. I could hear just about everything (fortunately, not EVERYTHING)… The door slamming and locking. The flushing. Most of all, the squeaky toilet paper dispenser.

Co-workers would come into my office and start laughing. Here's the scenario: [noises], [co-worker puts hand over his or her mouth and eyes pop open wide]. “Oh my gosh, that IS loud!” Even the most conservative, “bathroom humor is not funny” types, would at least smile or suppress a laugh.

I had to be careful with conference calls and kept myself on mute as much as possible. However, some of my colleagues on the east coast had heard about the situation and teased me during meetings… “Hey, did I just hear a flush?” or “Sounds like it’s time to replace the toilet paper!”

Now that we’ve covered a microcosm of ladies’ room experiences, let’s move on to the macro.

In terms of the average work restroom, I’ve noticed that women you don’t know either smile, say hello and get to know you over time, or don’t make eye contact, don’t speak to you and remain strangers for the many years you encounter one another on a near daily basis.

They’re polarized in other ways, too. There are those who obsessively pull towels to dab up any water that splashes outside the sink, and those who would never think to do this in a public restroom. The ones that champion the cause of keeping the counter surface spot free give those who don’t dirty looks. In case you’re wondering, yes, I have been the recipient of a dirty look.

Now if you’re a guy, you’re probably thinking, “This is fascinating information, but I want to know why women go to the ladies’ room in pairs.”

Great question and I have some good news.

We’re not talking about you.

Well, sometimes we are. BUT, there are completely separate, compelling reasons for this phenomenon:

1.) Long lines. Most lines for women’s restrooms are long. I have personally stood in a line that lasted more than 30 minutes. Since some of the women are the type who neither make eye contact nor talk (and this percentage is higher in public places where you are a complete unknown), the likelihood of boredom is high. Do the math: line length x average number of daily visits = significant waiting = significant boredom.

2.) Nowhere to put your purse and other possessions. Most restroom stalls were originally outfitted with a hook to hold purses, coats, umbrellas, etc. Over time, the hook falls off or otherwise disappears and is NEVER, EVER replaced. If there’s nowhere to put your stuff, what do you do with it? The floor is rarely an option. Many women spend several minutes trying to figure out this dilemma. Can I shove the purse handle between the door and the frame? What if I put the purse around my neck? Hey, I’ll hand it to my friend! Good thing she’s here! Can I get an “AMEN!” from those of you who have had the entire contents of your purse spill on a public restroom floor? (Is there anyone this has not happened to?)

Similarly, if you’re at a busy place like at a concert or sporting event, the counter will be so wet that you couldn’t think of putting your purse there to wash your hands or touch up your makeup. Of course, there aren’t any uptight ladies who maintain restroom counters at such fun, “let loose” events. They’re home dusting and cleaning ovens. Hand your stuff to your friend!

3.) Poor lighting. Last, and most important, most restrooms have such poor lighting that a majority of women have a mini nervous breakdown when they look in the mirror. Typical inner voice dialog: “Oh my gosh, I look terrible!” “Look at those dark circles.” “When did I age 10 years?” “No amount of makeup is going to fix this!” The trusted friend reassures you that you’re just as awesome as when you came in or, at least, drags you out of there and helps you forget about it.

Now that I’ve addressed the basics and what men want to know about the ladies’ room, I’ll focus on the #1 issue for women: Why the hell are men’s and women’s restrooms the same size when the women’s are 10x busier?

Well, ladies, I don’t have the answer, but I do have something to tell you that will make you very happy. When I was at the Hollywood Bowl recently, the restrooms by the back stage entrance were packed. Very long lines for both men and women. Interestingly, the women’s line moved faster! So much faster that everyone was talking about it. The men were shaking their heads in confusion while the women celebrated like we’d just got the right to vote.

It was monumental, and while I think there must have been some practical reason for this anomaly in the space/time continuum, it gave me hope that we, as a people, could conquer other seemingly unanswerable things… conflict in the Middle East, global warming… maybe even the proliferation of reality TV.

How to Fly First Class When You're Unemployed

Some of you noticed in the first blog that I mentioned flying first class to Amsterdam AND that I’m unemployed.

It’s true and actually easier than you’d think.

All you have to do is go back in time about 20 years and sign up for a major airline’s frequent flier program. Pick a leader (one that terrorists believe important enough to mess with). Pay the annual fee (just a small $60 hit to the gut once every 365 days) then charge like the wind!

Put everything you can think of on that card. If the ink has long been etched off the raised numbers and the thing routinely fails to scan due to extensive use by the time they send you your new one, you’ve done your job.

One advantage I have is that I’m a live music freak. I love to go to concerts and usually arrange for friends to come along. This necessitates hundreds of dollars in purchases from Ticketmaster every year. By the way, I fully expect to win some sort of lifetime achievement award from Ticketmaster or Live Nation or whatever the single behemoth ticket provider will be at that time.

After a while you’ll notice your frequent flier balance climbing, which is great. However, if you’re like me, you’ll realize that you’re way too busy to take that nice vacation.

This is where getting laid off comes in!

Let’s see… time on my hands and enough frequent flier miles for two first class tickets… Bingo!

Before you get too excited, keep in mind that these programs have changed quite a bit since the 1980s or 90s or whenever it was you signed up. Back in those days, all you had to do was avoid a few “black out” travel days.

Today it’s much more complicated. Rather than designating restricted days, they now assign only a certain ambiguous number of seats per flight, and there are formulas for how many miles you need to get what you want. Add to this the fact that most flights from LA to cities in Europe are not non-stop and you have to deal with availability on multiple flights.

So what did that mean for me?

I spent an hour and 20 minutes on the phone with a ticket agent. Despite the fact that I was extremely flexible on departure dates and destination (Amsterdam or Brussels), we had to try a seemingly endless array of options before agreeing on the final itinerary. I also had to endure the agent complaining several times that booking calls should, according to her management, take less than 15 minutes. I’m like, “In what alternative universe?!”

We ended the call, and when I got the sound of her complaining voice out of my head, I sat back and smiled. Europe, here we come!

And there you have it. Simple, huh?

If you have any questions, let me know. But wait a little bit. I need to book some concert tickets first.

Hopefully I’ll see you on my next first class flight. I’m thinking around 2028. Bon voyage!