The Sky’s the Limit

I’m just your average, everyday, born-and-bred Midwesterner. Meaning, when you look up “mainstream” in the dictionary, there’s a picture of me. To top it off, my Dutch heritage seems to have imparted a genetic tendency toward thriftiness. As Curt so elegantly puts it, I “squeeze a nickel until the buffalo farts.” (I apologize for my crudeness, but that’s a direct quote.)

So when it comes time to plan a trip, I look for deals. Usually our destinations are chosen on the basis of how good a deal I can get. And it generally goes without saying that we’ll be flying economy class. Until our recent trip to Europe, that is. At Curt’s insistence we cashed in some of his frequent flyer miles to go business class for each nine-hour flight (plus one connection) from Chicago to Budapest, Hungary, and then back from Nuremberg, Germany.

Having scant experience traveling in this exalted fashion, I can’t say whether Lufthansa’s accommodations exceed industry standards, but baby, I can tell you it’s sa-weeeet. 

Tasting the good life in the business-
class lounge in Munich (yes, that's
a bloody Mary, not a beer)



Waiting in the special spacious, quiet, comfy-seated lounges before boarding, we were plied with wine, espresso drinks and extensive snack options (including sausage, beer and pretzels in Munich). Upon boarding the plane through our separate jetways, we were directed to our 150-degree-reclining seats with lumbar massage at the press of a button, full-size blankets and pillows at each seat. The German-accented, perfectly made up, elegantly bunned flight attendants brought us champagne to sip as we waited for takeoff. Once in the air, steaming towels were distributed that we might cleanse ourselves of the filth encountered rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi in the airport. (I was reminded of the only time previously that we were upgraded to first class when all three of our girls were young. When asked “Would you like a hot towel?” by the attendant, daughter Kim asked her “What for?”) After the white tablecloths were draped over our tray tables, chef-inspired meals such as sesame-crusted tuna pastrami with glass noodles, accompanied by a choice of fine wines, were delivered from carts bedecked with vases of gerbera daisies. 

The return flight west was daylight all the way, since we left at 4:00 p.m. and arrived in Chicago about 6:00 p.m. (seven-hour time difference). In our own little business-class restroom, decorated with its own gerbera daisy, I mooned Iceland through the window positioned directly over the toilet.

That we might not suffer boredom, each seat featured its own screen with a wide choice of on-demand movies, TV shows, and even video games. (I tried Tetris but couldn’t really get the hang of the remote.) On the trip east I mostly slept, but coming home I watched part of Eclipse (decided it wasn’t doing it for me), Zoolander (very funny), Sex in the City II (great clothes), Toy Story 3 (grandson Will had warned me it was very scary), and a documentary on Bora Bora.

Having embarrassed myself with my wide-eyed wonder over flying business class, can you imagine what I’d be like if we’d been in first class? As far as I could tell by craning my neck trying to look past the curtains dividing the cabins, the main difference was that first class got red roses instead of daisies. But for all I know, they may have been served rock lobster tail by George Clooney and entertained with a live performance by Paul McCartney.

So … where to next? I think I’ll check out deals for Bora Bora. Though, Honey, if you’re reading this: you’ll have to work extra hard to accumulate the miles we’re going to need now that I’ve tasted the ways of the privileged.