Inspiration in Plane View

Take my photo. I guarantee, you’ll make a few bucks when you sell it to Travel+ Leisure, maybe Conde Nast Traveler, or perhaps Arthur Frommer’s Budget Travel. I’ll pose for you, maybe even smile.

Because any travel magazine will pay handsomely for a picture of the voyager who found reason to utter seven simple words that have never before escaped the lips of any globe-trotting human being; one succinct, yet stupefying sentence destined to join the renowned ranks of other deep and insightful world views, such as, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” (Robert Louis Stevenson), “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page (St. Augustine), and “Wow! Brazil is big.” (George W. Bush).

But first, in order to appreciate my momentous words, you have to understand the circumstances in which they were inspired. So sit back, Grasshopper. Prepared to be blown away.

It started with a plane ride. A mode of transportation, once considered mundane, that is now on par with other personal affronts like colonoscopies and gastric reflux. But a necessary evil that my best friend, Pam, and I had to endure if we wanted to pursue our vacation in Mexico. And so, like countless other travelers before me, when we arrived at the gate, I got on my knees, folded my hands, squeezed my eyes shut and recited the Passenger’s Prayer:

Please, dear God, Buddha, Zeus or whoever else might be on duty. Spare us crying babies, kicking rugrats in back of me, or nimrods in front who feel it their God-given right to recline their seat all the way down, even though it means my knees are imbedded in their kidneys, their head is in my lap and they’re staring straight up my nostrils. I beseech thee, no terrorists, drunks, or doctor-defying idiots who insist on traveling despite being recently diagnosed with (select the most recent episode of “House, M.D.”): a. tuberculosis, b. meningitis or c. Ebola. I pray, most Holy One, that thou wouldst see me worthy of eluding seat-hogging brethren whose claim to fame is that they once appeared on Maury Povich for no reason other than their weight exceeds that of a tractor. And my final and most fervent prayer of all: please, I beg of thee, no in-flight movies featuring Nicholas Cage. Amen.

Then, as boarding began for First Class passengers, Pam nudged me to join the line. “No,” I told her. “It’s THEM. First Class.”

“Yeah, I know,” she replied with an ear-splitting grin. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

And voila! Just like Harry Potter catching the Hogwart Express from the mythical Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station, I found myself joining THEM. Entering a magical realm that I knew existed, but had never experienced. I swear, trumpets blared and angels sang as I floated into that hallowed sanctuary known as First Class.

It was everything I ever imagined. Spacious seats that embraced me like a lover’s arms. Leg room so plentiful, I could actually cross my leg without cracking my nose with my knee. It was clean. Quiet and inviting, with a beam of sunshine gently warming each and every plush leather seat. And the flight attendants…all instant Best Friends Forever (BFF)! Would I prefer steak or chicken on my fine china plate? How about a Caesar salad and a glass of wine? When I asked about the cost for a Chardonnay, my new BFF studied my Curious George t-shirt, loopy grin and star-glazed eyes. And recognizing a First Class virgin when he saw one, he replied with a kindly smile, “Madam, trust me, if you’re sitting in First Class, you’ve already paid for the wine.”

SaWEET! But as I reveled in my luxurious surroundings, bonding with my fellow First Class peeps with a “yeah, I’m one of YOU,” simpatico-type smile, I suddenly realized that this precious flight was just three and a half hours long. Only 210 minutes in which to enjoy a world that my bank account would never again allow me to enter. Cinderella would soon leave the Ball and hereon in, future air travel would again revert to sticky floors, suspicious sulfur-like smells, and stale pretzel sticks ensconced in Kryptonite pouches.

And with this dawning awareness came forth a bubbling boil of panic that swelled in my breast and inspired the aforementioned words, thus sealing my spot in travelogue history. Seven immortal words destined to give hope and remain etched in the minds of all coach passengers who might believe, as I once did, such a concept impossible. Because in the flush of First Class passion, I cried for all the plane to hear,

“I DON'T WANT THIS FLIGHT TO END!”

Weighty words, indeed. Ripe with the potential to forever alter the perception of air travel. And words that will always be attributed to me, an aeronautic pioneer who managed to find beauty in the belly of the beast.

So go ahead, take my photo, now. Before my next coach flight wipes the smile off my face.