I eat slowly. Not to be pretentious, but because there is nowhere to rush. I have a lie-flat bed waiting. I have a duvet. A duvet.
I have a confession to make.
As I sink into this leather throne—heated, naturally—I catch my own reflection in the polished wood grain of the divider. I look the same as I did twenty minutes ago, when I was weaving through the gate crowd with a backpack strap digging into my shoulder. But everything else has changed.
But today, I hold my champagne glass a little tighter and look out the window.
I am not "Mr. H" anywhere else. At home, I am "Hey, can you take out the trash?" At work, I am the guy who sends the calendar invites. But up here, for the next seven hours, I am a protagonist.
I realize I am not paying for the legroom. I am paying for the silence. The permission to pause. In a world that demands you keep your elbows in and your voice down and your carry-on under 10 kilos, first class gives you three feet of air that belongs only to you.
Walking onto the plane was like stepping into a different dimension.