I had sex the old fashioned way last night, meaning that it was not arranged on the internet. I went to a bar, met a guy who looked somewhat like Keifer Sutherland and had a sausage party in my bedroom. How very twentieth century.
I do things like this when I am restless, as I was while saying goodbye to my apartment last evening. Packing is the worst. There are only so many times you can question the number of condoms that will find you embarrassed by a foraging customs official. (Six-too few. Fifteen-too many. Nine- just right.) It was during Condompalooza that I drank the remaining contents of my liqour cabinet. Then the bar. Then sex. Then goodbye to Keifer. Then, three hours later, airport.
I am now on the 11:45pm Qantas flight from LA to Sydney. I should admit that I am in first class. Flying First domestically is a charming treat. Flying First internationally is like getting a blowjob from Ryan Reynolds whilst having your balls licked by Ryan Phillipe. It is better that the best thing that you can imagine.
I am not rich but I am a fifth class wizard in the Dark Arts Of Travel Negotiation. I booked this trip using frequent flyer points, employing severe mojo and a deep faith that I would not ride in seat 98j. For 6 months I called two airlines, six times a day. Most agents scoffed at my quest for a free ticket around New Year's, particularly the heinous women based in United's Chicago office, who offered me less empathy than african american sheetmakers observing torn fabric at a kkk rally.
Then Dusty came into my life. Based in Houston with Continental (by far the nicest office of any airline), she accepted my call with not a hint of sneering. For the first time in my life, I won the lottery. Dusty admitted that her hands were shaking as she secured the reservation, her tangerine nails audubly clanking on the cheap ibm keyboard. We talked seats, transfer times and baggage - she recognized me of the Fifth Order immediately and only offered one-word, shorthand questions. Bulkhead? Carry on? Exit row? By now I considered Dusty to be the best friend that I have met in 2008 and this was confirmed when she giggled what the retail price would have been for my trip. Twenty two thousand dollars. "I feel a bond with you after all of this!". Oh Dusty. If only Houston wasn't so foul and best known as a Continental hub to Central and South America. I would have been right down to kiss her on the lips.
Some folks dream of becoming a Subway owner when they grow up. Me, I dreamed about first class travel. I used to absentmindedly tickle the ashtrays on my Pan Am flights to Florida, imagining what it might be like UP THERE. Were there horsie rides? A chocolate fountain? Maybe at least stewardesses who didn't look like Daytona Beach strippers?
My First Class dreams have been actualized a few times but never to the degree that they have been today. Given the amount of jet fuel thirty rows behind me, I am not sure uttering "I could die right now" is the right move. But I could die right now. I am seated in 1A, which is essentially the nose of the aircraft. The pilots are above me, since this is a three class doubledecker. There are only 15 seats up here and there are three people hovering around us, making sure that everything is perfect.
Let me describe "perfect". My easychair folds into a perfect bed when I wish to sleep - Drew The Steward also lets me know that I should not sleep before they lay the pillowtop and bring me a comforter. I am quickly handed goat cheese and informed of the millenium falcon-like features of my chair, which even swivels in a position that would allow me to....never mind. I'm given piles of gifts, from flannel sleepwear to designer face cream. I get a for-real pillow too, which I bury my face into so that I can assure myeself, yes, 500 thread count. I will end my nose-rubbing right here, but be very sure that I got drunk on expensive wine, ate tuna cervice and braised beef. I enjoyed every second if the 14 hour flight. Except.
I am not used to being afraid. I will admit that I am terrified that this trip is really happening. Total Oprah bullshit but it's there. Where's my Gayle King? Not in site. I am travelling for three months by myself. It doesn't even seem possible.
I'm leaving the plane and headed for Sydney. The contents of my new life are tightly wrapped in a black Jansport. It's day one and I am a bundle of stupid emotions. Note to self; suppress. Note to you; hang on.
Now playing. Guster. "Happier".
