First Class Ticket to Nowhere

I promise to limit the travel-related gripes, but there is one in particular I need to get off my chest. First-class flying. Now don't get me wrong; this is usually not a gripe in my book. Sistah Ette has been fortunate enough to forgo zoo-class in favor of a cushy numero uno class ticket on many occasions thanks to her Elite-ness on one particular airline and her occupational luck on others. British Airways? Now those tarts know how to do it up major. Virgin Airlines? Yes, thank you, I would LOVE another appletini and a feather-pillow. Continental? I particularly liked my amuse buche of crabmeat and caviar salad. But Northwest? Not. So. Much.

The honna and I had the good fortune of traveling first class on our honnamoon. En route to Honolulu Continental graciously filled our wine glasses to the brim over and over again. More of anything? More of everything!

And then something terrible happened. Continental partnered with Northwest.

On our return, our Continental red-eye flight was "operated" by Northwest. We were flying first class; what difference would it make, we thought? We'd be in comfy reclining seats with footrests and movies galore, and we'd get some peaceful slumber to boot before arriving in LA bright and early for our long drive up the coast. More anything, right?

Not so much. Instead we were greeted by the oldest plane still flying the friendly skies. This plane was so old it needed orthopedics on it's wheels. This plane was so antiquated its bathrooms had chain-flushers hanging down from the ceiling. This plane was so awful that its first-class seats came with afghans; not airline blankets.

No foot rests. No recline. No individual movie screens. Not even the old school phones on the back of the seats. Not like anyone ever uses those things anyway, but they're sort of comforting to have; you never know when you might need to make an emergency phone call. And to top it all off, the headrests didn't even fold in to give your noggin a little side-to-side resting nook. There was no menu, no amuse buche, not even an option between two choices of dinner. No, there was only a deli meat plate. Yes, you heard me correctly; first class and they plopped down a small plate of stinky deli meat.

Now honna and I didn't actually pay money for these tickets; we cashed in some hard-flown miles to upgrade for these extravagances. And the round trip first class flying emptied our accounts! However, there were members of our first-class brigade who had actually PAID good money for these seats, and on a red-eye flight, no less! On a flight when an upgrade should at least guarantee a better night's sleep. Not a wink was slept, not even a mouse.

I want my miles back. In fact, I want extra miles back. I would have certainly sat back in zoo class with the common-folk if I had known that I would be served yellowed salami and wouldn't be given a head nook.

What is the moral of my rant, you ask? When flying, ask about the kind of plane you will be transported on. And make sure they have those phones so if they try to serve you junk you can call someone and kvetch about it.