The Washington Post

Flying First Class

I’m on my way to Vancouver and some nice person upgraded me to First Class for the leg out to SeaTac. Why did they upgrade me to First Class? No doubt because they know that that’s how I roll. And this should now be applied more broadly to my existence to include upgrades to the dreadful cubicle and upgrades to the 135K mileage Honda, and perhaps even a new hairstyle that doesn’t scream 1973. The whole time during the flight I kept telling myself, “Keep it classy.” I wanted to behave, use my utensils correctly, not mismanage the shade, not make a cluttery mess of newspapers at my feet, not accidentally press the flight attendant call button, not get befuddled by the portable electronic video/TV doohickey they handed out.

Because I didn’t want to act like someone who doesn’t usually fly First Class. I feared the flight attendant would make me for Coach material. I feared she would say: “Dude, you haven’t flown First Class since they invented the jet engine, have you?”

FYI, I’m on my way to the AAAS meeting, where there’s going to be lots of science being advanced. Will report dutifully from there.

[more to come...must jump on plane...this time may be riding in steerage...]

Joel Achenbach writes on science and politics for the Post's national desk and on the "Achenblog."


Success! Check your inbox for details. You might also like:

Please enter a valid email address

See all newsletters

Show Comments
Most Read


Success! Check your inbox for details.

See all newsletters

Your Three. Videos curated for you.
Play Videos
How to make Sean Brock's 'Heritage' cornbread
New limbs for Pakistani soldiers
The signature dish of Charleston, S.C.
Play Videos
Why seasonal allergies make you miserable
John Lewis, 'Marv the Barb' and the politics of barber shops
What you need to know about filming the police
Play Videos
The Post taste tests Pizza Hut's new hot dog pizza
5 tips for using your thermostat
Michael Bolton's cinematic serenade to Detroit
Play Videos
Full disclosure: 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, 1 ghoul
Pandas, from birth to milk to mom
The signature drink of New Orleans