Belly full, stack of magazines in hand, I moved over to the reading and relaxation area. I wriggled my butt against my comfy chair. This was seriously heaven. I surreptitiously checked out my fellow travelers waiting for their flights to be announced. When it came to being chosen, demon hunters had nothing on the people in this place. Those economy schmucks waiting downstairs in the airport departure areas, stuck sitting on molded plastic with second-rate food-court choices were cattle.
I'd never traveled business class before and this was a revelation. I felt like Eddy Murphy in that old Saturday Night Live sketch White Like Me, when undercover as a white man on a bus with only Caucasian passengers, the driver puts on "Life is a Cabaret," and a party breaks out complete with cocktails. This was even better because all races and religions were embraced. Cough up the dough, and you too would be welcomed into the promised land.
"Promised land, huh?" A jocular businessman smiled at me.
Too much Irish Cream. "Damn straight, the promised land." I held up my glass in cheers. "L'chaim."
The fun didn't stop there. When we boarded, there was no walk through the fancy part of the plane, eyes downcast, shuffling toward an economy seat that barely fit a child. I had my own roomy, lay-flat seat by the window and it wasn't even next to anyone. I didn't have to make eye contact with a stranger or worse, speak to them about my bladder and bowel needs.
I spent a good twenty minutes figuring out all the buttons on my console, testing everything from seat position to my media center with its plethora of movie choices. Getting the tray out took another five minutes, after which I tore in to my fleece blanket, pillow, and fuzzy slippers –which I put on before we'd even taxied. Items in the complimentary toiletries bag were sorted by fragrance and usefulness. By the time the chef –yes, chef –came around to introduce herself and give me a small printed menu, I'd spread out to the point of looking like I'd lived in my seat for about three years.
My lovely flight attendant Steve didn't judge. Nope. He took my meal order with a smile, enjoying my enthusiastic oohs and aahs when he delivered my appetizer selection via a small cart. I got to pick three different types, plated personally for me onto white china with real utensils.
Movies, food, body lotion, I glutted myself. Forget ridding the world of evil, noble causes, and destiny, I was determined to ace this assignment, if only for more overseas gigs. Despite my desire to catch up on as many Oscar contenders as possible, I fell asleep at some point, until I was gently shaken awake by Steve, asking if I was ready for breakfast. Uh, hells yeah!
But all good things must come to an end, and all too soon, we landed in Heathrow for our transfer flight to Prague. There was no time to sample the delights of the British lounge. I raced after Drio, hauling ass to make our connection.
Much to our mutual dismay, we were seated next to each other for this flight. Drio sprawled out and immediately fell asleep, leaving me to eat all his snacks and the profiterole that came with his meal. At least he smelled nice, kind of woodsy. The final perk of the voyage was our luggage being unloaded first off the carousel at the Prague airport.
Other than the briefest glance to see if I was following him, Drio didn't bother with personal contact.
The wind hit me in the chest the second we stepped outside. I hunched deeper into my coat, sitting on my large, silver, hard-sided suitcase and shivering, while Drio hailed a taxi and gave the driver the name of our hotel.
"Ah. In New Town," the cabbie informed us.
This was my first time in Prague and in the maybe half hour it took to drive into the city, it vaulted to the top of my favorite places list. Prague reminded me of a smaller, more vibrant Paris. It shared the old, fabulous architecture, except while Paris buildings tended to a monotonous cream-gray stone –one of the first things I'd noticed when my family had visited several years back –many of the ones in Prague were colored in soft butterscotch, blues, and pinks. A formidable black gothic castle loomed over the town, while bridges and spires dotted the cityscape.
I had my face pressed to the window for the entire ride.
Our chatty taxi driver was more than happy to point out various neighborhoods and landmarks, like the enormous red metronome on the hill with its swinging arm that was over seventy-five feet long and a reminder of the legacy left by Stalin and communism in the city. He noted the famous pedestrian-only Charles Bridge in the distance as we crossed the Vltava river that snaked through the city.