I’m not sure whether you’ve ever flown on an Airbus 380. It happens to be an enormous, double-decker aircraft. Lowly economy-class passengers such as myself can only peer up the stairs to the top deck as far as the bar, which is adorned with more seductively glittering bottles of alcohol than you can poke your travel toothbrush at. I can only imagine what other luxuries await the passengers lucky enough to have a first-class boarding pass in their Louis Vuitton travel wallets.
During my hiatus from this blog, gentle readers, I was alas required to fly from Munich to Sydney in a distressed state. Luckily, I had a seat (economy-class, but a seat nevertheless) on this magnificent machine, which happens to have a whole lot of room even at the front of the lower deck for wandering around, sobbing quietly and projecting existential angst out of the tiny windows and into the inky blackness beyond.
While I was wandering, sobbing and projecting, a Flight Attendant (from Queensland, as it turned out), to his credit, tapped me on the shoulder sympathetically. The following exchange ensued, which only served to confirm my equation of upper deck with a kind of aviatory nirvana:
FA: What’s wrong?
Me: relates tale of woe
FA: sympathetically aww, that’s rough.
Me: nods, slightly comforted
FA: Can I get you anything?
Me: Perhaps some water?
FA strides to curtained kitchen, emerges with water bottle in one hand.
In the other, he carries a magnificently decorated tumbler containing a delicious-looking dessert, strawberry tilted at a jaunty angle on the rim. He beams at me.
FA: here you go
Me: Oh, you shouldn’t have, that’s really lovely of you reaches for dessert
FA: Uh, that’s not for you. That’s for upstairs.