Sheikh Insomnia

When I applied to study abroad in India, I had a long list of reasons for wanting to go.  Now, suspended over the Atlantic Ocean at an indeterminable hour of the night, the only reason I can remember is that it is supposed to be very warm.  Unlike this airplane.  In fact, spending my spring semester in Hyderabad, India will allow me to skip winter almost entirely.

                My poor blood circulation aside, this is really quite a big adventure for me.  I’ve never traveled outside the U.S. before, much less alone, and much less to a country most people – from the lady at the bank who opened my credit card account, to respected friends and family, to the kid who has nothing to do late at night besides chat up the barista at the Green Bean – have told me is dangerous, overwhelming, and “going to eat you alive.”  While India may be all these things, the same adjectives can apply to Los Angeles.  Needless to say, I have not let such advice dissuade me from packing up, laying aside my liberal-arts soft knit sweaters, and heading out to spend a semester in a country I’ve wanted to travel to my whole life.  The good news about this blog is, if I am eaten alive, you will know about it promptly.

                I’m well into flight number two of my 25-hour long travel saga, and so far, things are going good.  And by good, I mean that Qatar Airways, the most beautiful and magnanimous service providers on earth, has mysteriously and unexpectedly bumped me to first class.  Qatar, if you don’t know, is a small country in the Middle East that sticks out of the Arabian Peninsula like a hitchhiker’s thumb.  Beyond its claim to fame as the upcoming host of the 2022 World Cup, Qatar boasts a great international airport in Doha, its capital city.  Well, I don’t know if it’s great.  But seeing as Qatar is now and forever my favorite country, I am prone to raving.

                I’ve never flown business class, ever.  I assume that all people who fly first class also take yachts to school, and live in old English Mansions, and use “summer” as a verb, and take baths in big tubs the size of my room in Berkus House.  I also assume they are all flying to photoshoots.  But the people who fly the kind of first class I’m used to seeing in the U.S. Airways antechamber look like paupers compared to the luxury offered in this place.

                First of all, my seat itself is the size of your grandpa’s favorite Lay-Z Boy.  There is enough legroom for my seat to extend and maneuver itself into a bed, without crushing my backpack.  Sarah Mofford, if you are reading this, you will understand when I say that this is more legroom than our room in Berkus has on a normal day.  Moreover, this chair IS A MASSAGE CHAIR.  I’m not kidding.  I’ve been taking advantage of this for literally hours.

                I thought these discoveries were pretty awesome, and I was all set to enjoy my fourteen hour massage, when the stewardess came and handed me a package of pajamas for my in-flight convenience.  They are white with red piping, neatly folded, the kind of pajamas I picture an adult wearing if he is playing a child in a musical.  Creepy, yet touching.  The stewardesses are all extremely neat and pretty, each one wearing an identical uniform of a patterned blouse with a high-waisted pencil skirt.  Their clothes are pressed, their hair is pulled back into flawless buns, and all of them take orders in clean, smooth voices, remaining distant but attentive.  It’s a little weird – I don’t feel like I could make jokes with them, and being served makes me uncomfortable – but you can tell they excel at what they do.  It’s kind of a crazy task – they have to be part hostess, part waitress, part maid, part nurse, part model.  They are polished and collected as they wait on passengers who are in two-day-old travel clothes and sleeping with their mouths open.  One of them seated me and a fellow passenger – also mysteriously bumped up to business – and took our drink orders immediately.  In my seat were an individually-wrapped blanket and a pillow.  The next few hours were filled with fun and games as my seatmate and I discovered all the joys of being a rich world traveler.  We each have a personal TV, for example, with countless of American, Hindi, and Arabic movies and shows.  The TV discovery led to the complementary pair of noise cancelling headphones discovery, which led to the discovery of multiple episodes of 30 Rock and Friends, which was interrupted by the discover that oh, in first class, THEY SERVE YOU A FOUR COURSE MEAL.  Not including the bread rolls.  The stewardess returned to give me and my seatmate hot white towels on plates that looked like sushi holders, then placed a linen napkin on my lap and a white table cloth on my tray table.  She called me madam.  I am not joking.

                So, drinking champagne – and no, it was not Andre – and watching Ross and Rachel go at it as my butt was synthetically massaged a mile above Texas, I concluded that my big international adventure has thus far been a success.  It does feel weird, though, to get so lucky this early.  The flight back to the U.S. in May certainly will be a challenge compared to rolling up to the MidEast in this hotel with wings.  Also, I feel like a definite imposter.  You can tell who’s a pro at first class (the portly people next to me who immediately ordered champagne and started complaining).   I, with my Kim Possible Pants and over-eager “Wow!” at each new piece of free merch, clearly don’t belong.  Also, while first class is super swanky and comfortable, it lacks my favorite part of traveling, which is the comraderie that develops between passengers on long trips.  I love these kinds of communities based on commiseration, that feeling of “your back hurts too?! Let’s be friends!”  that so often emerges from extended periods of unwanted physical contact with strangers.  Apparently such sentiments are only reserved for the proletariat.  I’m actually starting to feel a little jealous and isolated.  I’m picturing everyone behind the rich drapery playing board games and making fun of us business men up front. 

                Whatever.  I’m going to take business class as karmic payback for that virus I got on my computer during finals week, during which I also managed to sleep through the first half of my Heidegger final.  If this is how Karma is going to work out, all I can say is, India, here I come.