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.