When the cart comes, it is not a cart. It is a tablecloth. Sylvie sets a miniature salt cellar and a pepper grinder next to my plate. The salmon is not dry. The salad is not warm. There is an actual fork, heavy and cold, not a spork made of biodegradable sadness.
But today, an upgrade fairy waved her wand. Or maybe the algorithm finally pitied me. Either way, I am sitting in 2A. first class pov
As the lights dim and I recline into the horizontal position— horizontal , while moving at 575 miles per hour—I stare at the starry ceiling of the cabin. They project fake stars up here. It should be tacky. It is not. It is hopeful. When the cart comes, it is not a cart
The Quiet Upstairs (A First-Class Confession) The salmon is not dry