Son of a Bischoff
You never forget your first first-class upgrade
I was nervous sitting in the departure lounge at Heathrow. I always got a bit nervous before flights, especially long-haul transatlantics. I glanced at the board behind the gate agent and I felt my blood pressure surge. “Evans, C. and Evans, Dr.” glowed under recheck. Well, crap. Maybe they found some forgotten contraband in our checked luggage. Old Swiss Army knives? Did they stumble onto the chopsticks I took from Yank Sing in San Francisco years ago? (I was naïve and thought they were a cute souvenir. After I found out I stole the silverware, I left them in my suitcase indefinitely as penance.)
“I’ll go to the counter. You stay with the luggage,” I said to my husband.
We were headed to the United States for a two-week house-hunting trip. As an anglophile, I’d had the good fortune to meet and marry a Brit in the United States. Three years of living in the UK were coming to an end for us, and we had two weeks to find somewhere to live in the States. My nerves were fried from hours spent surfing the web for houses. They’d better not tell me my lumbar long john donut pillow pushed me over the personal items limit.
“I’m Claire Evans,” I said to the gate agent. “My husband and I are listed under recheck.” The agent was tall and thin with an undertaker vibe.
“You’ll both need to come to the counter.” He was expressionless. I knew the gig must be up with Yank Sing. I whipped around, looking for security officers closing. Frantically, I waved my husband to the counter. He dutifully gathered up all the wheelie carryons, pillows, purses and what was left of his pride as he struggled over. He looked pissed, or was it just the stiff upper lip? A million years passed. He arrived at the counter.
“May I see your tickets?” the agent asked. We produced them, and he slid them away from us with one finger like they were fake id’s pried from a contaminated bar floor. “Just a moment.” He turned away and ducked under the counter. My husband gave me a withering look. The agent reemerged and pushed pristine tickets toward us. “These are your new seats.” He smirked and I recoiled.
Fully expecting to be relegated to the last row, separated by many screaming babies, I read our new seat assignments. We had been in seats 34C and 34D before. The new tickets said 4A and 4B.
“But…” I sputtered. “These seats are in…”
“First class.” The gate agent finished my sentence as his long, bony finger caressed those words on the golden tickets. He gave me a Mona Lisa smile. I could feel my knees buckle so I grabbed the counter. My eyes welled with tears. I turned to my husband and whispered, “We’ve been upgraded,” as if he needed an interpreter. I gathered my composure and carry ons, nodded my thanks, and took a seat.
“How could this happen?” I asked aloud. We were of modest means. We didn’t have frequent flyer miles to the moon and back. We never bought drinks onboard or ordered from the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog.
“Maybe my title finally paid off,” my husband said. What magical thinking. He couldn’t use his PhD to get a better table at Denny’s. Later research revealed we had probably paid top dollar for our coach tickets. Or should I say my husband’s company had paid it. The relocation services department was a cog in a molasses machine and had purchased our transatlantic home-finding tickets only days before.
We were dressed in jeans and fleece with athletic shoes. Compared to our fellow first-classers, we were scruffy. An enthusiastic cabin steward welcomed us. Our massive reclining seats were adorned with a blanket, slippers, and a cosmetics kit with miniature designer toiletries. The steward approached with a bar. “May I offer you a welcome aboard drink?”
My mind was blown. I panicked. “No, thank you,” I replied, thinking I didn’t want the bill.
He looked at me in shock. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll have a Guinness,” my husband said, with the air of a man whose spouse did not speak for him.
“May I take your coats?”
He hung them in a little coat closet. Amazing.
I put on my slippers and stretched myself out in the fully reclining seat. This was bliss. I played with the controls like a five-year-old. I could feel jets of adrenaline hitting my bloodstream. I went to retrieve my book, but to my horror, I remembered I was reading “Sh*t My Dad Says” by Justin Halperin. While hilarious, it wasn’t in keeping with my temporary station. I grabbed the “American Way” magazine and wrapped it around the book’s spine in shame.
Dinner was an entire menu of choices. I picked a cajun shrimp salad, which was excellent. Who knew airborne seafood could be that delicious? I was a bit disappointed I didn’t get a Bischoff cookie to dunk in my tea. I looked up after dinner and saw the steward pushing a cart with a large organizer perched on top, aimed straight at us.
“Ben and Jerry’s build-your-own sundae bar?” he offered brightly. Seriously? Airplanes were hiding sundae carts in first class all this time? A thousand times yes.
After the barrage of drinks and refreshments, I wondered if the steward would come around and tuck us in individually. Between the hot fudge, caffeinated after-dinner tea and adrenaline, I couldn’t sleep at all. It was tragic. I thought of all the poor sods in coach, contorted into shoebox-sized spaces, losing feeling in their lower extremities. And here I was, lying flat in a cozy blanket, complimentary slippers in place, unable to relax. The lemon-scented warm face cloth before landing took the edge off. It was still a long flight.
But not near as long as the flight home in 39B.
