Nightglow Window

Row 102

The packing is reaching a fever pace. We're heading up to Liz's at around noon for the evening flight to London.

Let's hope it's a smooth, no-hassle experience. Maybe even like that one time.

I was on the way back from Venice and the flight was oversold. The gate was awash in aggravation; sharp fingers poking the air in front of the hapless ground crew -- especially one tall, thin chap who seemed the punching bag of choice. "Not a chance," I thought as I added my name to the standby list and sat down against the wall.

I admit that I wanted to hassle, wanted to pester with the rest. Me and my important deadlines and all that. Instead I hung back and waited with a sympathetic smile and was floored when my name was called.

"Row 102," said the chap. Back of the bus it seemed, but no matter. I would have sat eleven hours on the toilet. I flashed a grin and walked down the gantry past the angry crowd with their angry, pulsing temple veins.

"You're right upstairs, Mr. O'Brien," said the steward at the door.

Upstairs? Yep, for the next eleven hours I was up in the first class dome of the 747 with seven other jetsetters who probably paid three grand for the luxury. Did keeping my head when all others were losing theirs make the difference? Was it the sympathetic smile? Or was it simply my time to hit double diamonds on the karmic wheel of life? No clue. All I know is the steak is hot and the champagne is cold up where the other half lives, and for a glorious night I lived it.

Back to the packing and list making.