NEW YORK CITY

...center of the universe -- I finally made it! First flight boarded at the eye-popping hour of 5:30a.m., but (if you haven’t heard) morning departures have become tremendously trendy. Well... maybe not, but I guess I’m so used to red eyes and restless nights curled up in airports that it felt wonderful to be part of the in-group boarding at 5:30 versus the horde of zombie arrivals just crawling off.

Now, two words.

First. Class.

I don’t know how many of you anonymous internet readers have flown first class before, but it was 100% new to me. For the coach-proletariat out there, let me attempt to articulate the dream world that is ‘executive seating’.

‘Whatever,’ you’re probably thinking. ‘It’s just extra leg room. Comfier chairs. Pssh, so what?”

Nooooo no no no no. You don’t understand. First class is so much more – it’s extravagantly extraordinary, yes, but a little spooky at the same time. For example, I was looking out the window before we’d taxied out and thinking about how thirsty I was. Not a second later, I heard a voice asking, “Orange juice?”. I turned to see a flight attendant offering a glass (not one of those cheap plastic cups, but a real glass glass) with a pitcher of OJ.

First class flight attendants can read minds.

I cocked an eyebrow – you’re good – and took the glass, not betraying more than a quarter smile. Minutes later she returned (determined, I’m guessing, to gain my approval), holding out a steaming towel on the end of two tongs.

I slowly plucked the hot towel from the tongs and just held it. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Subtlety, I looked around at the other first-classers for hints. One woman was wiping her hands with it, so I wiped my hands. Felt good, I guess. Then I folded it up and the flight attendant swooped in with her tongs and took it away. Touche, Attendant. Touche.

Shortly after the towel cleansing ceremony, our plane was up in the air. And after take off, I found myself staring out the window feeling hungry. I looked over at the attendant, focusing all my brain power on sending ‘steak and eggs’ signals, and I swear I saw her roll her eyes. Defeated, I went back to staring out the window when, suddenly, a familiar voice asked “quiche or scrambled?”. I spun back around to see the flight attendant taking breakfast orders. Five minutes later, I had a full tray of sausage, scrambled eggs, yogurt, bread, and hashbrowns sizzling on the tray in front of me. They closed the separator curtains so that the lowly cabin people couldn’t so much as smell our delectable dishes, and I proceeded to wolf down the whole platter while watching two episodes of 30 Rock. First Class, how have I gone all these years without you?

The part of my trip that I was most anxious about was crossing US customs. As a person entering the US to work, the hoops one has to jump through are tiny, constantly moving, and streaking with flames. I was armed with my passport, DS-2019/J-1 Visa status, SEVIS registration receipt, and a buttload of other forms. After lengthy questioning, the officer handed me my visa, looked deep in my eyes, and said in the gruffest African American accent I’ve ever heard, “Protect this with your life.” The tone of this warning was so soul piercing that I believe not only would I be kicked out of the USA if I lost the visa, but my spirit would also be cursed for all eternity. I took the passport delicately, as if it was a shred of my being, and have since considered sleeping with it every night.

So that’s how my story starts. I’ll end this chapter with a cliff-hanger of sorts and continue when I have a few more Manhattan tales to tell. Keep an eye out for more blogs – they could be funny, they could be sad, they could be scary. Beats me. After all, this is a story where even the author doesn’t know what happens next...