I love to travel. Sometimes I torment myself by dreamily creating summer-long holidays that cover entire continents (South and Central America, Africa, and South East Asia not included; void where prohibited by war, political unrest, abject poverty, and diseases that make projectile vomiting seem like a day at the park). I long to fly first class and stay in posh hotels. I fantasize about culinary delights at the most delectable dining establishments.
Unfortunately—and to my intense bewilderment—the airlines, hotels, and restaurants routinely demand payment in exchange for services. Bourgeois capitalists!
I try and reason my way out of the luxury of first class. “Even if I were wealthy,” I think to myself as I try to dislodge my neighbor’s foot from my ear, “I’d never fly first class. I don’t want to be treated better simply because I have more money. No! I crave solidarity with my fellow cattle. Moo!”
I am, of course, a liar.
I would much rather enjoy seats that tilt 180° than the company of my fellow travelers. In fact, one of the nice things about first class is that I don’t have to put up with others. Cocooned in my seat, I can enjoy the bliss that only money is able to buy.
Emirates Airlines now has first class cabin suites. You get your own little room with a massaging seat/flat bed (I guess it’s like a transformer?), giant TV, mini-bar, talking dog, your own personal slave (a coach passenger), they name a newly formed East European country after you, and—get this!—you get a coat closet. Do you know what I got the last time I flew on an airplane? I got to go from Point A to Point B without dying.
The last hotel I stayed at after arriving at Point B was the Croydon Hilton. It was nice enough, I suppose. There was a bed and a bathroom and a floor and a ceiling. It even had walls. Unfortunately, the toilet took about ten tries to flush, the air conditioner didn’t work, our key cards often failed to open the door, and we had to share the room with an angry hobo. I’m still waiting for an apology from Paris; for a hundred bucks per night, you’d think she would offer better services.
Despite the drawbacks of Croydon’s premier hotel (which, if you’ve never been to Croydon, isn’t saying much), it was about as posh a hotel as I’ve ever been to. Growing up, I thought a hotel was amazing if it had a swimming pool. Clearly, my standards have since dropped; if a hotel has clean sheets, it deserves five stars.
But I’ve heard of mythical hotels that have four-poster beds, gigantic marble bathtubs, fireplaces, something called “spas,” onsite prostitutes (only available in Thailand, Cambodia, and The Netherlands), clean sheets, and swimming pools. Much like the Loch Ness monster and your girlfriend’s virginity, however, these claims cannot be verified (although I’ve seen pictures—of the hotel rooms, not your girlfriend—and they make the bedrooms in Versailles look Spartan by comparison). I would love to stay in these hotels, but I don’t have an extra $37,200 lying around (per night, Hotel Martinez, Cannes, France).
Let’s say, though, for the sake of argument and the preservation of my fantasy world, that I had $260,400 to blow (seven nights in Cannes or the cost of my house with an extra $153,400). What would I do? How would I spend my time?
Well, I could look at the sea or watch movies on cable or play online poker (free WiFi; your gambling debt to Tommy “The Tourniquet” Ghirardelli not covered). If I get hungry, I can eat at any of the five gourmet restaurants. Their premier eatery, La Palme D’Or (The Palm of Or?), is pleased to serve la passeuse et la chandelle—leg of rabbit, accompanied by baby squid and egg plant.
Really, Hotel Martinez does have some fine facilities. They have a “Kid’s Club,” where parents can get rid of their children for a few hours. There’s a private beach, fitness center, and heated outdoor pool (in case the Mediterranean Sea isn’t enough). But the place where I’d spend all of my time and money has to be the Givenchy Spa.
Are you tired? Achy? Does your life as a globetrotting A-list mega star leave you needing your lymph nodes drained and your skin oxygenated? Then come to the Givenchy Spa, where they will cover you in oils, rub hot stones into your flesh, and wrap you up in seaweed. Do be careful, though; this was their same method for preparing the passeuse. Or the chandelle. I studied German.
I doubt I’ll ever enjoy Emirates first class “suites” or the Hotel Martinez’s luxurious spa. I darn well won’t be eating any rabbit’s legs or baby squid (freakin’ weirdo French). But it isn’t the trip, right? It’s the destination. Actually, the destination—especially if it’s a hotel in Croydon—kinda sucks, too.
Maybe I’ll just stay home and rent a video about Europe. I understand The Seventh Seal and Das Boot are both good examples of life on the continent.
Note to all airlines, hoteliers, and restaurateurs: I would be pleased to sacrifice my literary integrity as a way of thanking you for whatever gifts you might bestow on this humble writer.
Tags: first class, fly, hotel, travel
