- Joined
- Feb 10, 2009
- Messages
- 8,543
- Reaction score
- 30,080
Styleforum in Paris: Day 0 and Thoughts Upon Arrival
Brought to you by Travalet
No one says please or thank you in the first class cabin. A side effect, perhaps, of watching anonymous faces stream past you, behind you, to the unwashed rear of the aircraft. Never mind that the armrest may be falling out of its socket, never mind that the veneer is peeling off the scuffed seat-back in front of you. We are the chosen few, by virtue of our dollars, and our matching Vuitton sets are proof that our blood runs blue.
But it’s hard not to get caught up in it. I never fly first class, this most recent outing having been sponsored by our friends at Travalet, who somehow - I assume via dark magic - find you business-class travel for economy fares.
It is an improvement.
So who am I to say no to a mimosa or two? Asceticism has no place in Business class, where the needs of the flesh are assuaged with mass-produced cheddar and crackers that come unwrapped for your convenience.
Oh, and the meals are...real food. We start with a mushroom salad, and the main course is a filet de boeuf with mashed red potatoes and oven-roasted vegetables. My girlfriend told me before I left that three drinks, as she understood it, was the maximum. I decided to test her theory - and it is incorrect. I don't know how many drinks they brought me, but it was definitely a lot more than three. Anyway, I finish my boeuf and sit there drinking Disaronno and playing with the adjustable seat while reading tween fantasy novels, feeling pretty good about everything.
At least until I spill the Disaronno all over myself, and learn that there's some sort of business-class kangaroo pocket under my seat where all of the liquid has puddled. I sacrifice several hot towelettes to the cause, but they are not equal to the task. The kindly old flight attendant chooses this moment to walk past. She asks if she can take my glass.
'Thanks,' I stutter, 'And if you have a paper towel or two that would be great, because I just spilled all over myself.'
'Of course,' says her mouth.
'You ******* idiot,' say her eyes.
Stay tuned for the rest of our coverage from Paris! We've got much more to come, including showroom visits, coverage from the tradeshows, and plenty of hot waywt fiya.
Scooting upon arrival
Airplane food!
Proof that we did in fact go to Paris.
Brought to you by Travalet
No one says please or thank you in the first class cabin. A side effect, perhaps, of watching anonymous faces stream past you, behind you, to the unwashed rear of the aircraft. Never mind that the armrest may be falling out of its socket, never mind that the veneer is peeling off the scuffed seat-back in front of you. We are the chosen few, by virtue of our dollars, and our matching Vuitton sets are proof that our blood runs blue.
But it’s hard not to get caught up in it. I never fly first class, this most recent outing having been sponsored by our friends at Travalet, who somehow - I assume via dark magic - find you business-class travel for economy fares.
It is an improvement.
So who am I to say no to a mimosa or two? Asceticism has no place in Business class, where the needs of the flesh are assuaged with mass-produced cheddar and crackers that come unwrapped for your convenience.
Oh, and the meals are...real food. We start with a mushroom salad, and the main course is a filet de boeuf with mashed red potatoes and oven-roasted vegetables. My girlfriend told me before I left that three drinks, as she understood it, was the maximum. I decided to test her theory - and it is incorrect. I don't know how many drinks they brought me, but it was definitely a lot more than three. Anyway, I finish my boeuf and sit there drinking Disaronno and playing with the adjustable seat while reading tween fantasy novels, feeling pretty good about everything.
At least until I spill the Disaronno all over myself, and learn that there's some sort of business-class kangaroo pocket under my seat where all of the liquid has puddled. I sacrifice several hot towelettes to the cause, but they are not equal to the task. The kindly old flight attendant chooses this moment to walk past. She asks if she can take my glass.
'Thanks,' I stutter, 'And if you have a paper towel or two that would be great, because I just spilled all over myself.'
'Of course,' says her mouth.
'You ******* idiot,' say her eyes.
Stay tuned for the rest of our coverage from Paris! We've got much more to come, including showroom visits, coverage from the tradeshows, and plenty of hot waywt fiya.
Scooting upon arrival
Airplane food!
Proof that we did in fact go to Paris.
Last edited:
