Monday, September 17, 2007

Classy

My parents are in Europe (again), so I've been house-sitting for them. At night the house makes weird noises. Random pops, etc. No wonder people in the 19th century believed in ghosts and haunted mansions. Their houses must have made the craziest sounds at night.

I say my parents are in Europe "again" because they go 3-4 times a year now. It's reached a point where my mother is electing NOT to go. My Dad is going back in November to speak at some conference in Stockholm and my mother has decided not to join him this time. "Going to Europe can be really exhausting," she says. You know you go to Europe way too often when you start describing it as "exhausting."

Don't feel too bad for her, though. Not only do my parents go to Europe 3-4 times a year, they go FIRST CLASS. My mother loves it. Oh, she'll bitch about it a little bit. "Northwest needs to figure out that the seats should go ALL THE WAY BACK." But she really loves it. When I dropped them off at the airport, I've never seen a woman so anxious to get on an airplane for eight hours. All she kept talking about was getting her mouth around some of that complementary champagne. Sure, we could just buy champagne and drink it at our house, but that wouldn't really be the same, would it?

I've ridden First Class a couple of times. Back in college Northwest had this glitch where if my dad made my flight reservation, I would get assigned his Platinum Elite status, so I got free First Class upgrades and all-around general aura of feeling very (undeservedly) busy and important. Wait in line at the security checkpoint? I do not think so! You want to randomly search my bag? That's outrageous! Do you know who I am? I'm Platinum. Platinum Elite!

But whenever I got a First Class bump, the flight attendants could totally tell I didn't belong. Sort of like when I walk into an Abercrombie store: all the sales people are totally judging me. They know I'm out of place. Same with First Class. They wouldn't offer to take my coat, they'd hand me the snack basket last. They saw through the facade. One way or another, 20-year-olds don't deserve to sit up front with the Important People.

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