Business Classy

That's right. We flew business class. That seven-hour plane ride from Washington-Dulles to Frankfurt? Luxury. Luxury like a De Beers commercial. It was pimp my ride, Lufthansa addition, and baby, we ain't going back.

Ok, we will go back. I have a hard time envisioning a scenario when business class tickets will be in my price range. But, as Ferris Bueller once said, "if you have the means..."

Our business class tickets were generously bought with my in-law's frequent flier miles. The reason? We were moving, and we had a lot of luggage. More luggage than Paris Hilton. Plus our stroller. Plus my guitar, who in a perfect world would get her own seat and be lovingly polished by stewardesses once an hour during the flight. And if you fly business class, as we discovered, they smilingly and with much care and gentleness accommodate so much luggage that you wonder if the plane will pull a trailer behind it as it soars through the clouds.

Actually, it's probably a clever strategy. Most actual business travelers fly to their high-powered meetings like George Clooney's character in Up In The Air, no baggage except a mini-rolling carry on. These men are under so much stress and pressure, that they could do without the uncertainty and lost time that comes with checking a bag. Thus, when families travel business class, there's plenty of room for checked luggage. And to my surprise, we were not the only families in business class. I had feared, with some justification, that my babbling, crying, ever-exploring daughter would draw the ire and angry looks of haggard executives seeking solace in their in-flight martinis. In fact, the closest people to us were a beautiful Indian family who, angelic son and daughter in tow, were flying from Washington to Mumbai. I bet they had enough luggage to fill the Taj Mahal.

On top of that, we found out that the business class section on our flight wasn't even half full (or should I say half empty? I never know...). The lovely woman at ticketing informed us of this as we checked in. She gave us the kind of customer service you give to someone who saved your mother's life. "Since we will have extra seats available," she said in a voice that was both soothing and truly grateful for my families' existence," why don't we put you and your wife on either side of an empty seat. We won't actually be selling the seat for your daughter to use, but if no one needs it, feel free to put her there." You mean my daughter won't need to sit on my lap for seven hours straight? Yes, please. To my right, I looked over at the masses in the common, er... economy class, crowded in their line, angrily quarreling with Lufthansa workers about the size of their carry ons. They must have been waiting in line since President Obama's inauguration speech.

After checking in, we said our tearful goodbyes to our Scottish friend and my lovely sister who is known for Scottish poetry, both of whom were kind enough to caravan us and our possessions to Dulles (Washington area residents will know that this is a sacrifice in and of itself). Then we made our way to the plane.

There they were, three seats in the middle of our plane for our family, and enough room between any other seats for gnomes to play volleyball. As predicted, plenty of those seats were empty, including one for the baby to use. The only downside was that my beautiful wife was far away from me. Economy class is always a good excuse to snuggle with my wife, which is one of my favorite activities. She was so far away that I wondered if I would have to send the butler with a hand-written note on the family stationary every time I wanted to communicate with her. I peered towards the rear of the plane where, for a brief moment, I saw the commoners, packed together like caged chickens. Graciously, a flight attendant pulled the curtain so we couldn't see each other. I would hate for their envy to boil over into a full-fledged Marxist uprising. Plus, I didn't want to have to deal with empathizing for my fellow man, his knees pressed uncomfortably against his food tray, trying not to touch the fat man with a head cold to his right, nor the unwashed college student in pajamas and flip flops to his left.

I had so much leg room that Dwight Howard could have sat comfortably in my seat. The chair itself, by way of an assortment of buttons conveniently located at my right hand, could bend in several places into a thousand positions. It took a little time and effort to find the position of maximum comfort for my dainty, business class body. Ah, but I found it! There was even a massage function. Unfortunately, all that ever happened was some buzzing under my thighs. I was hoping that an in-flight masseur would come and work out all the knots that parade down my spine. Maybe I didn't push the button hard enough.

Let's talk about the Lufthansa flight attendants for a moment. Lufthansa has the best flight attendants I've ever come across, even before experiencing the niceties of business class. They are the best, because they are the best dressed. They still wear the wonderful flight attendant uniforms American airliners (who knows why) gave up in the seventies. Their perky yellow scarves, their dapper berets cocked perfectly to the side, their sailor outfits all tell you, if I'm willing to put this on for you to have a good flight, you will have a good flight.

Of course, they are even better when you fly business class. They fawned all over my daughter the entire flight. Not only did they set up a lovely bassinet for her (which proved ineffective and perhaps a little unsafe for a fifteen-month-old who wants to grow up to be a mountain climber - hey, it's the thought that counts), but each one on different occasions throughout the flight bought her luxurious snacks, mostly German bread, which is luxurious, and wonderful, Lufthansa-themed toys. We are now in possession of several stuffed, fluffy airplanes and a felt mobile with dangling clouds, stars and planes. More importantly, the flight attendants knew that a luxury flight was incomplete without plenty of luxury drinks. Before our flight had taken off, when I was testing the bending limits of the joints in my chair, a smiling stewardess offered me a glass, not a plastic picnic goblets you get at Target, but a glass of Champagne. The wine menu's elegant selection was available to me the duration of the flight. Oh, and the food...!

So much airline food seems like frozen stuff the supermarkets were unable to sell, so they provide them bulk rate to the major airline carriers. That, of course, is the lot of the common, I mean economy class. In Business class, I had a three course meal with real silverware and plates. We ordered off a menu. Lufthansa business class meals are the creations of German celebrity chefs, whose bios were conveniently available in our inflight magazine. The salad I ate was by far the least-rubbery grouping of vegetables I've ever experienced on a plane, but the highlight was the main course. I can't say if it was the best lamb I've ever tasted, but it was up there. You'll pardon the cliche, but the meat really did melt in my mouth. The sauce was a spectacular curry-based combination of flavors that told my taste buds, yes, this is what you've been waiting for. Heavenly. For dessert, my wife and I shared an exquisite combination of fruit and cheese, artistically arranged on a porcelain serving tray. I'm sure back in common, er... economy class, they were sticking their sporks into a half-thawed chicken thigh filled with cheese or trying to digest some uncomfortable, gas-inducing pasta sauce, wondering if a cup of table wine really is worth five Euros. Not I, feet up, belly full of contentment.

What else could I talk about? My own little TV, where I got to choose from dozens of movies or TV shows, and that I could watch on my own time? The little toiletry bag they gave us or the warm towel to wash our little faces? I didn't even mention waiting for my flight in the business class lounge with a buffet and open bar. They even came to get us so we could board before all the riff-raff.

There was, however, one aspect of intrigue. Whenever I needed to use the bathroom, a frequent event after all that bubbly, I noticed an inviting, spiral staircase to another compartment on the plane. That was the staircase to first class, something all the poor souls who sit in business class aspire to. Naturally, I wasn't allowed to go up. But what did they have up there? Did each person have a personal flight attendant who had spent a month studying their subject beforehand as to anticipate their every possible need or desire. Did they get not only a spacious seat, but an entire suite, complete with sauna and aged wine bottled before the invention of the airplane? Were they all hooked into a computer program like the Matrix, except to experience the sort of pleasures not available to the rest of us in this life?

I know one thing they did get: their own chariot to the airplane itself. I know this, because I saw it in Frankfurt while my family and I waited for our connecting flight to Stuttgart. There we were, sitting in the terminal with all the other sheep, looking expectantly at the small jet in which we would all squeeze, when suddenly, a brand new Porsche pulled up right by the plane. The driver, with the efficiency and elegance of the best-trained servant, got out of the car and opened the passenger door. Out stepped a tall, middle-aged man whose suit probably was about as expensive car, only to be matched by price of his perfectly-placed sunglasses. All eyes upon him, he strolled easily onto our plane, many, many minutes before even those carrying business class tickets, babies or both.

Now that's the way to travel.