The unexpected downside of finally experiencing business class

As a general rule, I try to avoid eating food that is geographically out of context. For example, if I’m seven hours inland, I have serious questions about how fresh your Fresh Sushi might be. The same hesitation applies to restaurants that serve too many cuisines. Mexican, Thai and Italian on the one menu? I appreciate the ambition, but not as much as I detest the inevitable food poisoning.

And yet last week, while flying overseas on a work trip, I had absolutely no issue ordering a lobster mornay to enjoy alongside my third glass of (free!) champagne. We may have been cruising 36,000 feet above the lobster’s natural habitat, but I had no concern about its freshness.

My first Business Class experience was delightful - but it ruined me forever. Credit: Michael Howard

In what world can one enjoy lobster on a plane while watching Snakes on a Plane? Two words, my friends: business class.

For as long as I can remember, flying business class has been a life goal of mine. Normal children daydream about curing cancer or, I don’t know, becoming sports stars, but I spent my youth imagining a time when I could lie flat on a plane wearing complimentary airline pyjamas.

As with most people, this dream has remained sadly out of reach. All of my airline travel has been an exercise in surviving economy, hours spent jostling with seat neighbours for an extra inch of armrest real estate while beyond the curtain lay a promised land — a land of free amenity kits and warm towelettes.

I had all but given up experiencing how the other half flies until I was invited on a media junket to New York – exciting! And told we would be flown business class – even more exciting!

Almost immediately, it was everything I had imagined it would be, right down to the overly polite staff exclusively referring to me as Mr Mitchell. “Mr Mitchell, welcome to the business class. Might I interest you in a breakfast cocktail?” Absolutely.

“Another omelette, Mr Mitchell?” Rude not to.

Admittedly, there was a hot minute where my imposter syndrome dampened my sense of enjoyment. No one else in the business class seemed to be taking thousands of photos or constantly asking if things were free (are these slippers really free?).

But by the time we were coasting at a comfortable altitude, I embraced the business class pig I had long suspected existed inside me.

How quickly you can convince yourself that you belong when the entire system is designed to encourage entitlement and constantly remind you of your place atop the social hierarchy. You board first, eat better, and sleep longer—a feeling so addictive that before long, you can scarcely remember a time when you willingly packed yourself into a tiny economy seat for 18 agonising hours.

That’s not to say my economy-sized mind wasn’t consistently blown, especially when offered a real-life food menu with multiple options, an actual glass to drink from, plane toilets with air freshener and hand cream!

Unfortunately, my fellow businessmen and women did not share my enthusiasm for being trusted with proper cutlery (sadly, this is not free), nor did they appreciate my constant commentary on how incredible the flatbed was. “It’s just a bed,” explained the man in front of me, who seemed oblivious to the 200 people stuffed into the back of the plane.

Typically, when you arrive in a new city having flown economy, you hate yourself and have no idea what day it is, but touching down in New York, I was a new man: refreshed, well fed and moisturised. Disembarking, the smiley flight attendants reminded me they would see me soon, to which I cheerily replied: “Not soon enough!”

I could regale you with tales of my adventures in New York, but let’s be honest, we’ve all had a bagel, but we’ve not all flown business class. So, a few days later, the same smiley attendants greeted me for the return flight, promising I would be back home “before you know it.”

Hello, old friend.

Little did they know this was precisely my fear. Returning home meant no more tiny wines for Mr Mitchell, no more lobster on a plane, no one asking if I needed another pillow. I had been a Business Class Guy for only a few days, but the effects would last a lifetime.

Watching those economy passengers shuffle onto the plane, I recognised their despair all too well. Between mouthfuls of brie, I wanted to scream, “I see you, I am you!” but it felt wrong, and frankly, I wanted to pretend for just a little longer.

After 20 hours of pampering, we arrived home in Sydney, the punishment of going through Customs acting as the great leveller: Anything to declare?

Yes, I thought, how am I supposed to go from proper cutlery and a flatbed to arguing over an armrest? Oh, and I have several glasses from the plane in my carry-on.

Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at [e-mail] or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.

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