Flying Singapore Airlines in First Class for an Hour Ruined My Life
In August I had a super awesome, amazingly bright idea: I was going to do a video inside the first-class suites on Singapore Airlines.
I’d heard about the airline’s first-class suites from a fellow (way wealthier) traveler a year before. His name was “Big Dave,” and he and his wife, “Carla” (who looked like Snooki), were sitting at a table next to me in a restaurant in Danang. They had just flown to Vietnam from London in one of those suites.
“It’s like your own damn room!” he’d bragged. “I mean — look at me — I’m a big guy. I hate flying … and I never wanted to leave that plane!” (Big Dave was indeed a big guy. In fact, he was bordering on morbidly obese. I could understand how a normal seat would be confining for a man of his size.)
At first I was only semi-interested. But two hours and many bottles of wine later, I was full-on jealous — and nauseated (he’d started to brag about the “real” Mile High Club).
But I was determined. One day, I would take that mystical, magical flight and sleep in that bed and have the caviar service, Ferragamo amenity kits, and Givenchy sleep suits.
Flying Singapore Airlines in First Class for an Hour Ruined My Life
The first-class suite is just like heaven. (Andrew Rothschild)
So in August, after I cemented plans to go to Myanmar, I called the Singapore Airlines press guy, “J,” and did some wheedling.
Me: I’d like to film inside the suites…
J: I don’t know about that.
Me: Oh, come on. It’ll be awesome, really amazing. People have read about the suites, but have they really experienced them? No! You can only really do that with video…
It was a hell of a negotiation. He just wasn’t having it. After all, a first-class flight from New York City’s JFK to Frankfurt ranges from $9,000 to $14,000 (depending on whether you get a single or double bed and how full the flight is). Or, according to J, I could blow through at least 220,000 miles (which I don’t have).
It took a while (and a few drinks) for J to get on board. He eventually succumbed to a compromise. I would fly from JFK in business and have an hour or so to film in the suites. During the filming, I would have a blind Champagne taste test — am I a Krug girl or a Dom Girl? Apparently, I’m #TeamKrug. — take a nap in a full-on bed, have some caviar, and then be booted. Whatever. I was down. I JUST WANTED IN.
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Champagne dreams anyone? (Andrew Rothschild)
And so I went. I boarded and plopped my butt down in coach. And then Stephanie, the hostess with the hostess, grabbed me from my seat and ushered me into … heaven. See the video above.
There were several problems with this idea.
Due to it being an overnight flight, we had to wait until morning to film — leaving me not an hour to play around in the Elysium of airline seats, but 45 minutes (read: no time for caviar or a nap, and no time to squirrel away those Ferragamo bags for the family — instant Christmas presents).
I started to freak out when I realized the bathroom was larger than my apartment. Seriously, I could have done jumping jacks in there.
The people were so nice — as in, fembot-I-don’t-actually-think-you-are-human nice. I mean I get it: They are probably nicely compensated for catering to really, really rich (and therefore must be, in my fantasy mind, obnoxious) people, and they probably rode to work on unicorn ponies, but what the hell? Now, this might not seem like a “problem,” but those of you who have experienced the rough trade in coach can imagine how difficult it was to leave Stephanie and her crew and go back to Bertha slinging Cokes in 97F.
I am now left with the problem that now I know. I know how the 1 percent travels. Like really know. I am on a plane on average three times a week, and this experience has ruined flying for me. It was that good.
