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While planning a trip to Scotland about five years ago, I decided to look into it the cost of a first class flight. My ticket cost $900.00 Canadian. In order to upgrade it to first class I’d have to pay a whopping $4300.00. Seeing that this was my entire budget for my trip it was out of the question.
I tried to research what it was like to fly first class. I wanted to read a story written by someone who had done it! I wanted to know what was behind the magic curtains. I came up empty handed. Apparently everyone who flies first class makes a secret pact never to tell the rest of us what it’s like. What I did find, however, was very interesting. I discovered numerous articles written by women who stated that as lone travelers in first class, they were ignored by flight attendants or basically put second in line for service next to the male passengers.
Well, that settled it! I wasn’t about to spend over four grand I didn’t even have to be ignored! How dare they! One specific airline received the worst reviews of all. The airline I happened to be flying with. So, as a responsible consumer I thought I’d better let them know. I printed the reviews and sent them to their customer service representative with a letter telling them that I would never spend enormous amounts of money to be treated like a second-class citizen.
A customer service representative called me a week later. She was very sweet and had said that she herself had flown first class and was always treated very well. I told her I didn’t buy it and was thinking of canceling my ticket and changing airlines.
I admit I was being a bit dramatic. I didn’t even have cancellation insurance, I was bluffing. It was that very day that I started believing in fairies and elves and leprechauns again! A miracle happened. Not only did she not call my bluff and cancel my tickets but she became determined to prove to me that women were treated as well as their male counterparts on her airline.

“I’ll prove it! I’m sending you a complimentary upgrade! You will be treated like royalty!” she exclaimed.

“Well if you think it’s necessary.” I said casually.
I was playing it as cool as possible. She told me the upgrade would be couriered to me and I’d get it the next day. I thanked her with a warm and sincere tone, calmly said goodbye and hung up the phone.
Then I tore through the house whooping at the top of my lungs and singing “I’m flying first class” over and over again. Luckily for me, no one was home except for a very concerned dog and a couple of terrified cats who hid under the couch.
I was going to finally discover what was behind those censuring, ostracizing curtains.

And so here I am, at the boarding gate, waiting for the moment I had waited for my entire flying life.
“This is a call for first class passengers. Please go to boarding gate for advance boarding.”
I’m so excited I can barely breath. It’s taking every ounce of strength to keep a huge cheesy grin from taking over my face. I must look as nonchalant as the rest of the first class passengers I’m standing with. In all honesty, I want to do a continuation of my cat scaring “happy dance”. I am restraining myself and imitating my counterpart’s bored expressions and looking blasé while waiting to casually hand my boarding pass to the attendant.
“Oh isn’t it tedious darling, all of this standing in line, I hope the champers is chilled.”

For a fleeting moment I feel like a complete fraud. But the anticipation of the wonders that await me help to get over it pretty fast. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder at the three hundred people who are waiting to be called for coach/economy/wildebeest class. Normally I’d be in amongst the herd. I almost feel bad…almost.

The first thing I notice when entering the cabin how spacious it is. A charter would have lodged another thirty seats into this small space! It’s spacious, luxurious and smells like a hamster cage. I am escorted to my seat. The flight attendant forces a smile and takes my jacket to hang it up in a cedar lined closet. That explains the smell.

A closet! A real closet! My jacket wasn’t going to be rolled into a ball and jammed into the overhead compartment! Nor was I going to sit on it for the next seven or so hours. This flying first class stuff is pretty impressive.

I’ve stowed my laptop and carry on bag (extra carry on allowed in first class darling) in the very spacious overhead compartment and I settle myself into the seat. This seat is more comfortable than my living room furniture and apparently made from a better quality leather. A warning to true vegetarians, you may want to leave first class on certain airlines to us carnivores.
After getting over the shock of how comfy my seat is I casually try to figure out what all the gadgets were around me.
Well at least I think I’m being casual. But really I look like a kid with new toys. There’s a monitor popping up from one armrest, a small table from the other, a flick of a button and my seat reclines to a full 150 degrees. While I’m playing around I noticed a few passengers sitting and watching me. I casually put away the table, the monitor and restore my seat to an upright position. I nonchalantly opened my book and pretended to read with a very blasé look about me I’m sure. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I am the country mouse surrounded by sophisticated city cousins.

The FA has just asked if I would like fresh squeezed orange juice or champagne. A drink before take off? My coat in a closet? A seat with room for my child bearing hips! No wonder they charge four times the regular price of the flight! Civilization costs money! I ask for the orange juice. I’ve never had fresh squeezed orange juice before. Oddly enough, it tastes just like the stuff I buy in the carton - hindsight - should have gone with the champagne although I don’t like the bubbles, or the taste, I’m sure I would look very elegant drinking it.

The plane is off the ground and the flight attendants have re-appeared into cabin. They are attending to passengers and look very busy although I can’t actually tell what services they are providing. It’s cold in here and I’m shivering. Everyone else has a blanket but me and I’m too intimidated to ask for one. Sure my coat is hung up but I am bloody freezing!

I’ve flown enough to realize that FA’s don’t have a glamorous job. They have to deal with all kinds of personalities and weirdo’s in a confined space 30,000 feet above ground and just to be interesting let’s add alcohol to the equation. I don’t expect them to be like Julie from The Love Boat! They are here to look after us to a point, but they are onboard mainly for our safety. Which, if you think about it is position of high responsibility…now make him or her serve you coffee. Talk about mixed messages. Regardless, during all other flights when I needed the attention of one of the overworked FA’s they always acted as though my few and infrequent requests were never a problem.

This being said, first class is different. Although it’s impossible to be ignored while being attended to, the first class attendants are managing to do it and not just to a particular sex or to me, the country mouse who should be at the back of the plane, but to everyone.

The flight attendants are so stone faced I feel like writing the airline and insist they stop hiring flight attendants from Madam Trousseau's wax museum.
The oddest part is the fact that through their deadpan expressions they still managed to smile. Mind you, they wear smiles so prickly the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. There is one exception however, one flight attendant isn’t smiling at all. She looks so pinched and tight that my very posh English seatmate has just made a very rude joke about her having a mouth like a cats "bottom".

Dinner is about to be served so I had better look at the menu. The fact that I have a menu to look at is impressive enough but the wine list insert is incredible or it must be, I don’t know an awful lot about wine but it’s written on a separate list so it’s got to be good! Or am I being snowed here?
The whole experience is starting to smack of “Emperors New Clothes Syndrome”. I’ve got to think straight. A wine list means nothing. Even I could make a wine list and present it to my guests, that is, if I ever had wine in the house, or guests.

I put the wine list down and concentrate on the dinner menu. My first choice is the Champagne Supper which consists of Prawns, scallops and sliced smokehouse-roasted duck breast served on a marinated Portobello mushroom, accompanied by poached asparagus tips and served with fruit, cheese and desert.
Yes, that’s what I’ll order! After all, it does come with a Portobello mushroom and I’ve seen those in grocery stores but would never spend five dollars on fungus.
There seems to be a Flight Attendant for every six people. Excellent service. As luck would have it, Cat woman is serving my section. She asks my seatmate at the window what he would like as she lays a small tablecloth on his tray. He responds with his very proper and posh British accent.
“I’ll have a quickie.”
“Pardon me?”
“The quickie, I’d like a quickie.”
The flight attendant is getting perturbed and I’m doing my best not to laugh. I manage to contain myself and translate, “He would like the champagne supper.”
She does a poor job of hiding a scowl and I could see her physically restrain herself from dumping his duck on his lap.
She then sighs impatiently and pulls out my tray from the armrest (as I have forgotten to do so) and lays a tablecloth down for me.
“I’ll have the champagne supper as well please.”
She checks the cart.
“I’m sorry, we’re all out.”

They’re out? Wait a second, I thought this was first class. You don’t run out of stuff in first class do you? What if I had paid $4300.00 for my seat? I’d be right upset if I couldn’t have the meal I wanted. She probably knows I have a free upgraded seat. They haven’t run out! They have a little sticky note in the galley that reads:
“Marie – seat B1 – free upgrade – no Portobello mushroom for her.”

She’s being quite cranky about it and about the fact that I’m looking dumbly at her. I really wanted that meal and now I don’t know what I want. She looks at me again. Her mouth, if it’s possible, is getting more pinched. She blinks at me and gives me a look of utter annoyance. After all, she has another four people to serve before her break.
“Sorry, I’ll just have the chicken thank you.”
Why am I apologizing?
She places my meal on my tray. Oven roasted Chicken with wild mushroom sauce and blue cheese tortellini. They’re really big on fancy fungus apparently.
Cat woman asks what kind of wine I would like. I say that I’d like the Chardonnay. She suggests another wine.
“No thank you, I’d really like the Chardonnay.”
She’s really insisting I have the other wine. Maybe it goes with chicken and the Chardonnay goes with Duck. I don’t know but I know what I like and it’s the bloody Chardonnay. Why won’t she give it to me? It’s that note in the galley.
“Marie – seat B1 – free upgrade – no Portobello no Chardonnay....”
She gives up and pours me a glass of wine. What the heck was that all about? I haven’t a clue.
It’s good wine and goes straight to my head, most likely because I’ve just chugged it, trying to get the blue cheese taste out of my mouth. I think blue cheese is an acquired taste…like glue or boogers.
Regardless I eat my meal. My unsophisticated palate wishes I was in economy eating food without mold and fungus covering it.
Mid way through my meal I decided to explain to the Brit what a “quickie” is in North America.
“I know.” He says with a big grin on his face.
Dinner is now finished, the flight attendants have cleaned up and are getting ready to go drinking in the cockpit with the pilots. That’s not true. But my anti-anxiety meds are begining to wear off.

I just got up enough courage to bother cat woman and ask for a blanket. I am still freezing. Cat woman snaps at me.
“You’re probably sitting on it.”
Which I was, but what’s with that reaction? Oh yes, the sticky note “Marie – seat B1 – free upgrade - treat with utter disdain”

So now the lights are dimmed and everyone has reclined 150 degrees in their seats. It is time for sleep. But I don’t want to sleep! I am too excited to sleep! And I have a perfectly good stranger sitting next to me who is NOT reading a book, which means I might try and make conversation with him.
He’s telling me about his first experience on a snow mobile. He seems a friendly sort although we kind of ignored each other up until now. It is, you know, proper airline etiquette to ignore your seatmate just in case they hate people and don’t want to chat. But since he started it…
Andrew was born in Scotland and spent the first years of his life before moving to London. I didn’t’ think he was Scottish, his accent is very BBC and posh. He explains that his Scottish accent was beaten out of him in an English school at a very young age.
He’s telling me he runs a computer company but I’m not listening anymore as the plane is making a funny noise like the engines are about to quit and the seatbelt sign has come on. That combined with the fact that my anti-fear of flying pill has worn off is not a good combination. The drugs are wearing off. I really hate flying so in order to fly anxiety free my doc gives me these great little pills that melt under your tongue and make everything all better.
“Now don’t have a drink with these pills Marie.”
So, following doctors orders, I didn’t have a drink, I had two. Oh, and wine with supper.
But that was last night – or hours ago – and now the booze and drugs are wearing off and “You’re not afraid of flying are you?”
He’s enjoying this.
Normally I’d puff up and put on a front and respond with some kind of bravado statement, however, he’s a stranger so I can be honest. I’m terrified out of my mind.
“I fly about 4 times a month. There’s nothing to be frightened of. It’s very safe you know.”
I’m not buying it but I feel a bit better knowing that he flies about 48 times a year and hasn’t died yet.
We chat for a bit and he yawns and like everyone else goes to sleep. I’m staring at the seat in front of me saying prayers, mantras and anything else I can think of while dying a thousand deaths with every little noise I hear.

At last sun is coming up and the map on my monitor shows our little cartoon plane heading towards Edinburgh. I’m so excited it’s almost overshadowing how exhausted I from my fearful sleepless night. The pilot has come on the intercom.

“We should be on the ground in under 20 minutes…”
He’s muttering or mumbling something else but I can’t make out what he’s saying. And what does “should be on the ground” mean? He’s not certain? I wish he’d be more specific. What does he mean on the ground? Splattered all over the ground?
I’m listening to the sounds of the engines and I’m pretty sure they are not working properly. Also, I’ve just looked out the window, if I crane my neck enough I can just barely see the wing and it’s moving up and down quite a bit and at any moment it will probably get ripped off by turbulence disguised as a gentle white fluffy cloud and we’ll spiral into the ocean.
The plane has just plummeted a thousand feet. It felt like a giant hand just grabbed it and pushed it straight down. My heart is in my throat. My seatmate looks at me, “Wheeee!”
Jerk.
We’re told to fill out our customs forms. The customs form asks for the address of where I’m staying. I have no idea. I think I have the address in my purse which is safely stowed under the seat in front of me. I wanted to keep my purse on my lap but the attendant, as usual, forced me to kick it under the seat just in case we suddenly hit turbulence. That makes perfect sense. We wouldn’t want debris flying around knocking people unconscious during a terrifying decent to certain death. It would ruin the experience I’m sure.

We land in Edinburgh. It feels so good to be on the ground even if we’re still going two hundred miles an hour on the tarmac. I don’t care. I am on the ground and happy.
First class passengers get to disembark first so even before the seat belt signs are off the flight attendants are handing out jackets. As I walk away from my first class seat, probably my one and only first class seat, I look wistfully back trying to capture the moment in my minds eye. I then trip over my own luggage and collide with Cat Woman, mashing her tiny body into the galley wall. Instead of an embarrassed reaction filled with far too many apologies, I giggle. Well at least I didn’t break her little wax arms off.

I have finally discovered what was behind those prohibitive curtains. It was elegance and leg room. It was good wine (I think) and wide aisles. It was a flying country club.
What an amazing flight. I can’t get rid of the goofy smile that’s spread all over my face.

Note:
Well that was a few years ago now...I haven't flown first class, business class, or anything but cattle class since...I'm thankful for the experience however, sometimes ignorance really is bliss.