Spoiler alert: I did not.
What I’d actually booked was "domestic first class" (with that pesky little stopover in SFO), something I would come to understand as a very specific (but also slightly humbling) tier of luxury. Sure, you’re absolutely doing better than most… but you’re also reminded to not get carried away.
There were lie-flat seats involved. There was champagne. There were, at times, fluffy duvets. You won’t hear this economy-dweller do much complaining.
And yet, from the moment I tried (and failed) to access a lounge during my stopover in San Francisco, it dawned on me that this experience would be less “unbridled luxury” and more “a fascinating lesson in airline hierarchy.”
Don’t get me wrong—I felt incredibly lucky to be there. This isn’t a complaint-filled rant from a seasoned first class connoisseur. It was more like an economy flyer who’d slipped into the front of the plane on a technicality: wide-eyed, slightly out of place, and nervous that at any moment someone might tap me on the shoulder and gesture for me to head further back.
What followed was a mix of true comfort, subtle reality checks, and enough champagne to keep my sense of humour.
I’ll get into the details—but first, a quick look at my specific flights:
