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.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, March 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The "Discount" Massage Experience
After much deliberation about what to blog and when, I decided I’d start on my flight to Amsterdam last month. After all, leaving for Europe on holiday (first class, no less), offers one a great topic – new people and places, adventure, mystery and in this case, delectable chocolate.
And it was great. I just didn’t write about it.
The challenges of travel – starting with the fact that I barely slept for two nights prior to leaving due to packing and associated preparation (never my strong suit) – proved too great, and my laptop remained untouched except for checking email and the weather. At least I didn’t blow it up like my $130 flat iron. But more on that later.
So what prompts my grand entry into the blogsphere?
In short, the craziness of life… the stupid stuff that happens that’s usually not so great but we manage to laugh or learn something… or have an excuse to go to directly to a bar and say, “I’ll have the strongest margarita you make.”
Today it was the discount massage experience.
Since I’m currently unemployed, I’m trying to be good. I clip the coupons for the places with the poorly worded ads. You know… the ones where pretty much the only English spoken among the massage staff is “OK!” Oh, and they call me “lady” a lot.
As usual, I tell the receptionist a few preferences, since he or she is my only hope for any form of information exchange between me and the therapist.
I entered the front door. The room was vacant except for the receptionist du jour, a teenage boy with a large Band-Aid on his cheek, who was sound asleep. Although the chair he was sitting on was tiny, he was slumped back like it was a Lazy Boy recliner.
Once awake, he sprang to his feet and led me to a small room toward the back. As he went to get the massage therapist, I asked him to communicate three preferences starting with “water not too hot.”
A moment later the therapist, a young, stocky woman in pink scrubs with a high-pitched voice, entered with a steamy bucket you could have made soup in. My expressions of “too hot” drew puzzled looks, but she eventually got the idea.
Trying not to let these events foreshadow what I had hoped would be a very pleasant experience, I leaned back, shut my eyes and tried to empty my mind.
She started by rubbing my temples, which was OK, then quickly proceeded to scratch my head with such vigor that it actually seemed like a technique to remove hair.
From there, she worked the muscles on the sides of my neck. I don’t know about you, but this always makes me nervous. Hello, jugular vein!!!!
Fortunately, that was quick and we were on to the feet.
As she positioned herself and took my left foot in her hand, I felt relieved. The foot portion was most of why I was there. I was looking forward to it. Besides, I’ve had a deep-tissue foot massage before. How bad could it be?
Wow.
What she lacked in finesse, she made up for in brute force compounded by rapid rhythmic precision. In my mind I visualized busy pioneer women scrubbing filthy clothing on river stones. Yeah, kinda like that.
This continued for the remainder of the massage except for a moment when I think she was attempting a few chiropractic adjustments. I seriously kept thinking how easy it would be for her to kill me.
Despite, the occasional “ouch,” I didn’t say anything. It would produce only more confused looks and take away time for the potential of a soothing massage moment. (Hey, maybe she’ll tire out!)
Like getting off a rollercoaster ride that was much more than you bargained for, I gratefully stumbled out into the waiting room when it was over.
The boy was asleep, again, but now on the waiting room sofa and covered by his jacket. I paid the bill and offered a decent tip based on sheer labor but silently vowed not to have her again.
I looked for her nametag so I could avoid her the next time. Of course, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen there without one.
However, I did notice a dragon tattoo on her arm. Guess that says it all.
When I got home I climbed the stairs in the subterranean parking lot of my apartment building and noticed an abandoned boba drink that’s been there in plain sight for at least three days. It’s become a major science project. Maybe it will blow if we have a hot spell. The maintenance around here is pretty bad despite the crew of women in gray uniforms that scrub the barbeque and more or less hang out at the pool all day. Ironically, the building owner is cracking down on the “unauthorized” placement of home décor and other personal items… like putting a tasteful doormat outside your apartment door, hanging a wind chime on your patio or locking your bike on the pole next to your car.
Whatever. C’est la vie.
I need a massage.
END NOTE: Many thanks to fellow blogger Sarah (age 12) who has been blogging on behalf of her dog Miles for some time and offered invaluable support in overcoming the technical challenges of launching this thing. Big shoes to fill in the days to come.
And it was great. I just didn’t write about it.
The challenges of travel – starting with the fact that I barely slept for two nights prior to leaving due to packing and associated preparation (never my strong suit) – proved too great, and my laptop remained untouched except for checking email and the weather. At least I didn’t blow it up like my $130 flat iron. But more on that later.
So what prompts my grand entry into the blogsphere?
In short, the craziness of life… the stupid stuff that happens that’s usually not so great but we manage to laugh or learn something… or have an excuse to go to directly to a bar and say, “I’ll have the strongest margarita you make.”
Today it was the discount massage experience.
Since I’m currently unemployed, I’m trying to be good. I clip the coupons for the places with the poorly worded ads. You know… the ones where pretty much the only English spoken among the massage staff is “OK!” Oh, and they call me “lady” a lot.
As usual, I tell the receptionist a few preferences, since he or she is my only hope for any form of information exchange between me and the therapist.
I entered the front door. The room was vacant except for the receptionist du jour, a teenage boy with a large Band-Aid on his cheek, who was sound asleep. Although the chair he was sitting on was tiny, he was slumped back like it was a Lazy Boy recliner.
Once awake, he sprang to his feet and led me to a small room toward the back. As he went to get the massage therapist, I asked him to communicate three preferences starting with “water not too hot.”
A moment later the therapist, a young, stocky woman in pink scrubs with a high-pitched voice, entered with a steamy bucket you could have made soup in. My expressions of “too hot” drew puzzled looks, but she eventually got the idea.
Trying not to let these events foreshadow what I had hoped would be a very pleasant experience, I leaned back, shut my eyes and tried to empty my mind.
She started by rubbing my temples, which was OK, then quickly proceeded to scratch my head with such vigor that it actually seemed like a technique to remove hair.
From there, she worked the muscles on the sides of my neck. I don’t know about you, but this always makes me nervous. Hello, jugular vein!!!!
Fortunately, that was quick and we were on to the feet.
As she positioned herself and took my left foot in her hand, I felt relieved. The foot portion was most of why I was there. I was looking forward to it. Besides, I’ve had a deep-tissue foot massage before. How bad could it be?
Wow.
What she lacked in finesse, she made up for in brute force compounded by rapid rhythmic precision. In my mind I visualized busy pioneer women scrubbing filthy clothing on river stones. Yeah, kinda like that.
This continued for the remainder of the massage except for a moment when I think she was attempting a few chiropractic adjustments. I seriously kept thinking how easy it would be for her to kill me.
Despite, the occasional “ouch,” I didn’t say anything. It would produce only more confused looks and take away time for the potential of a soothing massage moment. (Hey, maybe she’ll tire out!)
Like getting off a rollercoaster ride that was much more than you bargained for, I gratefully stumbled out into the waiting room when it was over.
The boy was asleep, again, but now on the waiting room sofa and covered by his jacket. I paid the bill and offered a decent tip based on sheer labor but silently vowed not to have her again.
I looked for her nametag so I could avoid her the next time. Of course, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen there without one.
However, I did notice a dragon tattoo on her arm. Guess that says it all.
When I got home I climbed the stairs in the subterranean parking lot of my apartment building and noticed an abandoned boba drink that’s been there in plain sight for at least three days. It’s become a major science project. Maybe it will blow if we have a hot spell. The maintenance around here is pretty bad despite the crew of women in gray uniforms that scrub the barbeque and more or less hang out at the pool all day. Ironically, the building owner is cracking down on the “unauthorized” placement of home décor and other personal items… like putting a tasteful doormat outside your apartment door, hanging a wind chime on your patio or locking your bike on the pole next to your car.
Whatever. C’est la vie.
I need a massage.
END NOTE: Many thanks to fellow blogger Sarah (age 12) who has been blogging on behalf of her dog Miles for some time and offered invaluable support in overcoming the technical challenges of launching this thing. Big shoes to fill in the days to come.
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