Well, hello, Blog. It's me ... your muse, your creator, and now ... your long-time neglector. Without going into the sob story of where I've been (sometimes it's best to simply let the past be the past), I'll dive back in with what is possibly the most obnoxious, self-indulgent, shallow, beastly, and meaningless blog post I've ever formulated. I'll apologize now, rather than later (the content of this post speaks for itself).
I bring you: Some photos from my journey to the Middle East ... the 'flying First Class' part. Yes, I did manage to eat all of the food depicted herein.
(I should mention that I'm currently in Doha, Qatar, working on an evaluation project)
Anyway, back to the seminal part of my current trip ... First Class. I thought Business Class was spectacular. HA! Such amateurs. Never again will I be able to journey on an international flight (particularly a 19-hour flight. Dear God) without recalling what the past 48 hours were like in First Class. The worst part: Now that I know how the "other side" lives, I know that every time I board a plane--only to make my way to my typical seat amongst the other flunkies--I'll involuntarily scowl at each passenger in First Class.
I'll start with the multitude of "Fast Track" lines. Upon first glance, these may not seem like a big deal; but somewhere around the 5th security check/immigration/customs/plane boarding/luggage screening etc., that oh-so-pompous "Fast Track" sign becomes pretty darn choice. And the lounges? Yeah, I could get used to 'em.
I could go on. And on. But I won't. It'd be ridiculously gross. I mean, I'm somewhat ashamed of my new-found love affair with First Class. What's worse is that prior to my trip, I made the mistake of watching a John Lennon tribute video, set to the tune Imagine. More than once, whilst luxuriating in First Class, the words, "Imagine no possessions; I wonder if you can ...." popped into to my mind--as if Lennon was taunting me from the grave. Needless to say, I quickly swatted those silly thoughts away, emphatically telling John to get out of my head. After all, I had warm, wet cloths, designer lip balms, and cottony airline PJs and slippers to which to attend.
In closing, I'd like to thank darling Mark, the cheeky yet oh-so professional flight attendant on British Airways (the Houston to London leg, anyway): Thank you for making both my "pre-departure" and "just after take-off" cocktails so blissfully strong. I know that whenever I think of Glasgow, I'll think of you and the way you so artistically made-up my 500-thread Egyptian cotton sheet-covered bed.
I told you. It's gross. I'm out of control.
(I'll share more of my actual trip to Qatar in the coming days/weeks ....)