Trip across the Pond

 

Another adventure.  Diane and I, winging our way across the Atlantic to the UK. I have already been thoroughly and properly chastised for referring to our destination as simply "England" or "Great Britain." To set the record straight, our itinerary is to land in London and connect immediately to Edinburg, Scotland (Edin-bra, apparently, if you want to sound like a local).

For the first time in our traveling history, we will be staying with friends. Aaron and Nicol are transplants from San Diego, California, and Nicol happens to be a former coworker from Diane’s days at the District Attorney’s Office.

Diane and I are transplants too, of course, but the universe loves a twist. By pure coincidence, Nicol grew up in The Colony, Texas—just a stone’s throw from our current home in Aubrey. Her parents still live there.

We rekindled our connection when Nicol mentioned that she and Aaron spend their Christmas vacations back in Texas. Naturally, we started meeting them for holiday breakfasts at Barney's Brunch House in Frisco, Texas. Over hot coffee and high stacks of pancakes, this wild, wonderful plan to visit Scotland was hatched.

Of course, with any great plan comes great responsibility. I was tasked with securing the airline reservations, accompanied by one terrifyingly non-negotiable caveat from my wife: it had to be Business Class, or no go.

Let me explain.

A while back, our very good friend Sara organized a “girls’ trip” to the UK. Neither her husband, Chad, nor I were even invited. Sara and Chad are world travelers who possess roughly a billion American Airlines miles. Sara booked the reservations, and off the ladies went into the wild blue yonder.

Luxury Monster Maker

Now, as American OneWorld members (yeah, OneWorld, one word), Chad and Sara belong to the hoi polloi—the elite high society of the skies. They receive the kind of airline treatment usually reserved for royalty. They are those enviable souls you see boarding first while you hover with the unwashed masses back in Group 10. They are already tucked into their private pods, sipping Champagne, while you are still back in row 42 negotiating armrest property rights with a Sumo wrestler.

But I digress.

During that fateful trip, Diane went totally goo-goo eyed over her comfortable digs up front. She pelted my phone with snapshots of her little slice of aviation heaven. Right then, I realized Sara had inadvertently created a luxury-loving monster (I think she's actually a First Class Recruiter for American). I could see the handwriting on the cubicle wall: we would be revisiting this high life soon enough.

Sure enough, as I gathered dates and times for our Scottish excursion, the second shoe dropped. “We” needed to secure Business Class seating for the eight-and-a-half-hour flight.

Now, I am neither a Luddite nor a Killjoy when it comes to my wife’s comfort. However, I like to think of myself as "thrifty"—a fiercely protective steward of our finances. I am a solid, proud Economy Class traveler. I am a man who willingly covets the modest lottery win of an expansive exit row.

Hey, I was a dedicated Spirit Airlines flyer back when they still had non-reclining plastic seats and no tray tables. (As of this writing, I was sad to hear Spirit filed for bankruptcy, proving that the world just isn't ready for such pure, unadulterated thriftiness).

My wife, however, is not a JetBlue flyer.

Add to this the immense pressure of the trip coinciding with our sixth wedding anniversary, and the financial stars were aligned against my wallet. To give you the Reader’s Digest version: when all the digital ink had dried, I had spent the equivalent of a new car down payment (maybe two) on airline tickets.

But oh, the magic that followed.

Suddenly, with our newfound notoriety, we were the elite. We marched into DFW airport to join our fellow "Priority Members" at the American Desk. No self-check-in kiosks for us. No sir. We bypassed the Commoner queues and strode straight to the front of the line at Priority Check-In.

A delightful agent checked our passports. A gentleman hoisted our heavy luggage onto the scale, tagged them with neon "Priority" tape, and gently laid them on the conveyor belt as if they were fragile glass. We were ushered into the TSA Priority Screening line, bypassing the endless sea of humanity, and pointed directly toward the American Airlines Admirals Club.

Because we were flying International Business Class, we were wined and dined at a well-stocked buffet brimming with finger sandwiches, hot soups, and fresh sushi.

At the appointed time, we reached our gate just as "Priority Boarding" echoed over the loudspeaker. Group One! Listen, if you’ve ever stood in a chaotic, cattle-call line for Southwest, you know how massive that feels. We boarded right on the heels of the first-class flyers and those needing extra assistance—the people I have spent a lifetime secretly envying from afar.

We walked down the winding jet bridge, stepped into the vast expanse of our Boeing 787, and turned left into Business Class.

It was a wonderland. The cabin featured cute little private cubicles arranged four across, squeezed in right next to three—count 'em, three—restrooms dedicated just to our exclusive domain. A flight attendant immediately set upon us, passing out glasses of real Champagne (I could tell...there were real bubbles) while we stowed our bags.

The window DIMMED, no pull down

The cubicles were slightly larger than a vintage phone booth (I know, I'm dating myself, but it's an apt description). Waiting for us was a set of quilted sheets to lay over our convertible seat-bed, a plush pillow, a designer amenity kit, and even a pair of cozy socks and slippers we actually got to keep. We had flat-screen TVs to watch movies and noise-canceling Bang & Olufsen headphones. And I must say, the food was exceptional. Simply amazing.

And now, the epilogue.

In the midst of all that excess and exceptionalism, lying flat at 35,000 feet, I felt a little off. We are not wealthy by any means. In our retirement, we are blessed with a decent standard of living and are very comfortable. But we both came from humble beginnings.

To this day, I suffer from a sort of financial PTSD from my childhood. My dad worked incredibly hard to bring home the bacon, and my mom was a dedicated homemaker who cared for us the best she could. You got a present or two under the tree at Christmas, and that was it—A Christmas Story (1983) was practically a documentary of my childhood home.

I thoroughly enjoyed the luxury and the pampered surroundings for those nine hours in the air. Yet, as I lay perfectly flat on my sky-bed, sipping bubbles above the clouds, I couldn’t help but wonder what better, more practical use we could have found for all that money.

I know, I know... what a Killjoy. But hey, at least I looked stylish doing it.