Any Chance Of Getting Downgraded?

Before I write about my trip to Greece, let me talk about my trip to New York a few months ago. And when I say trip, I mean the actual transit. Not the time I spent in New York. Put your tray-tables and your seat-backs in their full upright and locked position and read on...

There's a strange twinge of sweet arrogance and embarrassment in Business class.

My mom and I flew to JFK from SFO a few months ago and, in order to spoil my mom, I spent some airline points and upgraded us to business class. Half way though the flight the purser, the gayest man I'd ever seen, complete with a pair of pin on wings, decided we were his friends.

Early in the flight my mother began her Business Class indulgence. She was like a kid left alone with a tray of cup-cakes. Trying to be polite, a child will only help herself to one cup-cake. But restraint usually proves to be too much to handle and so she'll eat another. And then another. Soon she'll be on the floor covered in chocolate exhausted and sugar-shocked from her rabid and possessed moment alone with the cup-cakes. Panting and red in the eyes the child will eventually require some sort of first-aid or parental intervention.

My mother started her cup-cake whirlwind by simply fidgeting in her barcalounger of a seat hoping that she could get a little of what she was looking at. Wide-eyed she scanned all of the business class goings-on to figure out if she could have Champagne too- or was it just for the other more important people?

Finally a flute with bubbly magic was passed her way.

"Ya know it's my first time in Business Class." My mother would say every time the flight attendant offered her anything to make our flight more "comfortable." Which in airline speak means "more drunk."

Champagne? Hot towel? Juice? Warm nuts? Catheter? My mother's answers were "YES. YES. YES. YES AND YES!" much like the scene in When Harry Met Sally where Sally fakes the big O. Coincidentally, my mother's first name is Sally.

Pretty soon my mom looked like a recovering spine surgery patient, reclined, half stoned, covered with a blanket and surrounded by half eaten treats and plastic cups filled with various business class concoctions. Her seating area was a medicine cabinet filled with soothing substances not yet controlled by the feds.

So the wing-man came over, kneeled down and helped himself to my arm rest. "So I hear this is your first time in business class" Were we that obvious? "I'm Chad, your purser. Ohmigohd, are you just having a blast?" and so the monologue began. We heard about his apartment on the East Side, his house in Florida, the dinner he was going to have with "oh what's-her-name on that cooking show. Anyway she's really popular right now." We heard about his love of water sports and how celebs who fly his rout are "just like normal people."

At first I felt special (my mom was on the moon, she was eating it like wedding cake) but after a few minutes I felt the corners of my mouth get tired. Holding that smile while he monologued was getting exhausting. At the summon of a fellow flight attendant, he finally he left. But not for long. He had, in his mind, adopted my mom and he was going to make the rest of the flight the ride of her life.

He brought us more drinks, played some entertaining tricks on us, made back-handed sarcastic compliments to me while he attempted to elevate my mother's status. He was teasing in a hip urban gay way but it began to get annoying. My mom got extra cookies, a pat on the head when ever he walked by, a wink here and there, and soon I was checking over my shoulder to see what was going on in coach. I found myself longing for the anonymous existence of economy class.

Coach Flight Attendants are mean, wicked air police who pitch peanuts at you like they're warming up for their big league debut. If there were an Olympic event in Eye-Rolling they'd all be medaled. They're counting down the days until they can walk from "this crap job" and into pension heaven. And they're doubly PO'd because, due to airline bankruptcy, union contract changes and cutbacks, that heaven is getting smaller by the minute. They're one step above DMV clerks. They're under-worked, overpaid, impossible to fire, and they're taking it out on us.

And then there's Chad, our purser.

Chad started his airline career when he was seven years old. He got his when the gettin' was good. He was pirky, skinny and made money in the real estate market so his job "is just for fun."His skin was milky white on is boney little hands and just tan enough on his slender little face. He was tall and his eyes were grey-blue and deep in his head. He was like a combo of a male Cher and that guy who hosted the most recent version of America's Funniest Home Videos. His teeth were so white they appeared to be three-times their natural size. His svelt frame made his purser suit look great on him, not awkward and ill-fitting like the rest for the crew. He had better shoes than anyone on the plane and he loved to give you a little slap with a manicured hand and say "noimjusskiddin" after he insulted you with some kind of backward compliment. And then he'd take back his "noimjusskiddin" with an eye-roll leaving you confused at his initial intention of his compliment and curious about the next one. I think he taught the girls in steerage. They just used it to be mean, Chad used it as theatre.

And the show went on. My mother, in a total haze, continued to remain enthralled.

As she became progressively more in love with Chad, her new gay-mate, I became progressively more annoyed. Okay, we get it. You're cute and you've made my mom's day. Now go luxuriate someone else. We've seen all we can handle. The law of diminishing returns is kicking in. Really, we'll be fine without you.

The longer the extra-super-special attention went on the more embarrassed I got. I felt more like an idiot than a first class traveler. Oh Chaddy-Waddy, me need help go peepee too, can take me go potty?

I just wanted back into the anonymous clan of Travelocity patrons. Give me coach, give me dignity, give me salty peanuts and a mini can of un-branded cola. Give me peace.