Flying Low
How I lost my dignity in seat 25C
There was a point in my life when I sincerely believed I was done flying coach forever.
I thought that once you graduated to business class, that was it. You had crossed over. The rope closed behind you forever.
It was the era of America. Magazine editorials, front rows, absurdly expensive facials with famous plastic surgeons, vapid boyfriends, and high-heeled sneakers—which I will never forgive myself for, but that’s another story.
I had more airline status than a Dubai influencer. I was living in New York, flying long haul constantly, gliding through airports with my pretentious collector Rimowa suitcases, and every kind of priority pass the modern world has invented for the rich and famous.
I wasn’t rich or famous, but, who cares? I had it all—
Fast track.
VIP line.
Private lounges.
Drivers.
In-flight caviar.
Clear, that thing that scans your retina and lets you through security in one second and with the smile of the agents.
Global entry, the flex of all flexes.
Someone to carry my carry-on.
And even if I remained, deep down, a good Corsican peasant girl—and your trusted servant—this kind of lifestyle has a way of becoming baseline. Human beings adjust to luxury with terrifying speed.
Then I stopped working, moved back to Europe, and lost all airline status, real and imagined. And that, my dear reader, is when your humble servant got humbled.
