November 14, 2013
The F seat in the row ahead of me”which is to say, at half-past one from me”was occupied by a colossal Negress with a terrifying man-jaw and hair worked in a multitude of braids as if deliberately striving to bring to mind the Medusa myth. She watched movies the whole flight”movies about black people, of course”and responded to their comedic highlights with a throaty huck-huck-huck that cut through the drone of the engines, the sinusal evacuations at D, and the Mancunian F-G guitar patter like a flash mob in a drugstore. Along with the sound effects, Shamu also managed to rock her seat, a thing you don’t often see on planes. I would have made some remonstrance with her too, but frankly I find huge man-jawed Negresses scary.
My fellow passengers aside, seven hours in coach is more than humanity should have to bear. You can’t read, you can’t sleep, and the entertainment isn’t entertaining. I ended up watching the teeny plane on the seatback screen creeping across the Atlantic. Reykjavik…GodthÃ¥b…and all those Canadian outposts that nobody you ever knew had come from or been to: Gander, Halifax, the Bay of Fundy. Do they really exist? This is the source of all metaphysics: extreme boredom.
Mind you, I’ve been spoiled: Two years ago I flew First Class with Air France. First Class I’d already sampled: The firm I worked for in the nineties flew us First Class at weekends. Air France is something else, though: a rest lounge inspired by the Palace of Versailles, exquisite food, and people to meet you everywhere. First Class squared.
Mrs. Derbyshire and I flew thusly to Moscow. First Class only goes as far as Paris: Paris-Moscow-Paris is Business Class. Coming back from Moscow we landed in Paris, stood up, gathered our bags, and jammed into the aisle resignedly with all the other business folk, belly buttons and arseholes waiting for the slow shuffle to the exit…when suddenly came a melodious call: “Madame et Monsieur Derbyshire?” It was our Air France greeter. She even pronounced our name correctly! We elbowed our way contemptuously past the awestruck peasants and sashayed off down the ramp with mademoiselle, throwing small-denomination coins over our shoulders to appease the mob. The wife still talks about it.
Coach, feugh. I was intended for better things. There’s been a terrible mistake somewhere.
