Culture Shock

Our first class seats are front row. Spacious leg-room. Ample seat width. Leather. I am glad I decided to wear my all-black skirt-sweater- tights combo instead of my turquoise warm-up suit.

The flight attendant hangs Marlo’s jacket in the closet, hands us pillows.

The tourist-class passengers file past. “Don’t look up,” I tell Marlo. “Pretend to be involved in something important. That’s the way it’s done. I’ve seen it.”

He reads. I keystroke.

After take-off the attendant respectfully offers us washcloths, dangling dainty and warm from a tongs. With clean hands we eat warm peanuts, drink juice, and order dinner.

We accept the offer of headsets and watch a movie. When Marlo is chilly, the attendant returns his jacket.

Waiting for the Chicago to Miami flight, I scorned the first class people enter before us with their silk suits and lifted faces. “Have to see themselves as one-up,” I thought. “Whatever for?”

As the attendant gathers our dinner plates, I wonder how much more these seats might cost, and whether we could justify the expense.

I could adjust to this first-class life.

Then, thinking ahead to Nicaragua, I realize that over the years I already have.