Flying First.

As a child, there was an old song that my father used to sing every time I wanted to spread my wings and fly the familial coop. It asked:

“How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm, now that they’ve seen Paree?”

Now that I’ve flown – not the coop – but first class, I understand the sentiment.

What’s more, it was Emirates first class: a multi-award winning airline.

Nice surprises

I flew (first class) into Dubai twice – from different destination on both a Boeing 777 and an Airbus A380.

The experience has spoilt me for anything less – it’s going to take a team of wild horses to get me down the back again.

At the airport

Normally, I hate flying. And it all starts with the airport, doesn’t it?

Queues, queues and more queues. You need to arrive two hours early for your flight (mandatory) in order to stand in queues for most of that time. ‘Hurry up and wait!’

Ah yes, but when you have the badge of privilege (a First-Class ticket) you don’t queue, you have your very own check-in counter (although you sometimes have to share it with the lesser mortals on business class).

And then there’s the ‘express’ ticket to get you through security.

It’s a godsend: the usual queues to the passport check and then security are devilishly long – it’s as if they are trying to break you as early as possible so that they have no trouble in the herding process later on – lambs to the slaughter.

It’s a little better at Sydney airport now that they have the automated passport-check machines but I always get stuck behind the Luddite who can’t work out which way to put his/her passport in the machine slot. It’s Sod’s Law.

Still, my inherent egalitarian sensibilities told me that this just wasn’t fair as I sailed past the queue of mothers with crying babies, screaming toddlers, grumpy husbands and sullen teenagers who had clearly been there longer than me and looked like they had a long wait ahead of them. Nevertheless, I didn’t fall on my sword and resort to joining them, did I?

No, but, in fairness, I had the decency to feel guilty as I was shown to the passport-reader machine kept vacant awaiting my arrival.

The great leveller came at the security check, where, although I was ushered to the head of the considerably long queue, there was no special consideration for my elevated, first-class status.

Here, with every other passenger, I totally deconstructed all my luggage, took off half of my clothes before being scanned (where the X-ray machine completed the disrobing) and where I had yet another nail-care set confiscated because it contained dangerous weapons like emery boards, nail scissors and eyebrow tweezers.

It’s why, in all my holiday snaps, you can see there’s something not quite right with my face – it’s my wild eyebrows giving me that edgy, unkempt look beloved of madwomen and sex maniacs.

And then there’s the body scan – when the scanner starts beeping somewhere in the vicinity of your nether regions and the scanning person (is there a term for the people who do this?) says, “Do you have something in your crotch?” What do they expect you to answer?

Anyway, providing they find nothing untoward there, and after you repack all your belongings and get dressed again, things start getting a little easier for everyone… until it’s time to queue again to board the plane.

In the lounge

In Sydney, the lounge is large, spacious and meals are served, restaurant style, with waitpersons, a menu and cloth napkins. The wine is premium stuff (none of yer plonk, here) and the meals are good too, especially considering that they need to get the dishes out quickly – because even in first class it takes a decent chunk of the two hours to clear security and customs.

So, relaxed and satisfied, you saunter up to the gate to board – you pass all the mothers with screaming kids, crying babies… the same ones that you passed in the security/passport check line – and they’re still waiting, poor things! (There’s my empathetic self emerging again – my therapist will be so pleased)

On the other hand, you have no need to wait. You have the ticket of privilege marked ‘first class.’

On board

IMPRESSIVE – is the word I’d use!

I couldn’t help myself, could I? I took pictures and did a quick mass mail out.

“Look at me, I’ve made it,”

is what the photograph on Facebook screamed – I didn’t even need to say it.

One friend messaged me back,

“Is that really on a plane? Unbelievable!”

He had taken stock of the picture of my own little room with a closing door and an armchair that converted to a bed and enough room to store all my considerable carry-on luggage without encroaching into my personal space.

Clearly in view was also my own mini bar with soft drinks and basket of snacks, peanuts, chips, etc. And he couldn’t have helped but notice the large TV screen or the lighted mirror with a range of cosmetics in the space beneath.

Not plainly in view was the stationery draw with a bound notebook and writing implements to satisfy your inner Hemingway, or in my case, to write out a list of items to be purchased duty free in the Liquor Shop (we don’t say ‘grog’ up here in first class). But he surely couldn’t help noticing the iPod beside my seat, which was in reach when I was sitting with a seat belt on. How thoughtful!

If my intentions were to promote envy by sharing my bragging photo, I knew I’d found my mark when yet another friend (?) wrote back just one word,

“B***h.”

I didn’t bother to mention to them that I was also given a pair of pyjamas, slippers, an eye mask and ear plugs as well as a cosmetic bag with things like toothpaste, comb and more cosmetics. I knew they’d retort, pithily, that business class also gets these – and they sometimes do. Nevertheless, for those who don’t know, the cosmetic bags are by Bulgari… oh, the quality!

First-class passengers are so special that they cannot be expected to wait until the plane is airborne to have their thirsts slaked. Drinks are offered the moment you walk onto the plane – and although, I know, that it’s the same in business class, in business class they don’t get Dom Perignon champagne, Vintage 2009 now, do they? No, the non-vintage rubbish is good enough for them. (What am I saying!!??)

And the food… could there be a better accompaniment to Dom Perignon champagne than beluga caviar? (‘No’, is the correct answer here.)

And although I’d vowed to eat little in order to give my easily upset stomach a rest during this flight, what could I do when I needed something to accompany the red wines that I’d heard people speak of in hushed, reverent tones but never had the chance to taste?

So I had a little cheese – consisting of five premium cheeses from Ireland, Spain, France and Holland to accompany the 2007 Chateau Léoville-Poyferré (St Julien) and the Chateau Mouton Rothschild 2001 (Paulliac) – second and first growth (respectively) Medoc red wines from the famous Bordeaux region in southeast France.

Now anyone with any restraint would have quit while they were ahead – but also on the wine menu was a Saint Emillion – it is an area not far outside Bordeaux where (arguably) the most expensive red wine in the world is produced – Petrus. And while it wasn’t a Petrus that was on offer, it was a Chateau de Ferrand whose 300-year-old vineyards had attained ‘Grand Cru Classé’ classification in 2012. So, I had a glass of that too. Well you would, wouldn’t you?

No, I didn’t drink right through the wine menu – I didn’t touch the whites – although I would have liked to have tasted them. Alas, sometimes even I reach capacity.

There were no allotted meal times; I was able to have anything I wanted from their extensive menu replete with luxury items (including the aforementioned caviar), anytime I wanted it – I just summoned the ever-so-obliging flight attendant. Sounds like a slice of real life, doesn’t it? Not!

It didn’t take much persuading, after that, to let the cabin steward make up my bed (with a mattress) and to settle down for some serious shut eye. When I looked up from my comfortable, fully-flat bed, there were stars in the night sky, so pretty.

When I woke up, I showered. Yep… you read that right – I showered! On the A380 – there’s a lovely bathroom where you are able to take a shower – and I did.

The result was that I reached Dubai looking and feeling like a human being – unheard of after a long-distance flight. As for the people disembarking from down the back… well, their eyes were blank. The flight had been a long one.

On arrival

We first-class passengers – of which there were just three – on arrival, were whisked off the plane and into the terminal in Dubai in our own bus, replete with leather armchairs, while the rest were herded onto buses, of the same size, as packed to the gunnels as the black hole of Calcutta – standing room only.

Unfortunately, I am not able to tell you what the first-class lounge in Dubai was like as, on both occasions, my onward flight was not first class. Being Emirates’ home hub, I imagine it would be nice (sigh!).

Author’s note:  I didn’t notice any difference in the configuration of the Boeing 777 to the A380.  Neither did I notice any discernible difference in the quality of the service and offerings (although only some 777 have showers).

Anyway, if there were subtle differences, after a couple of glasses of wine (usually while still on the tarmac) who’d notice or care?

And, by the way, these flights were NOT freebies – you know ones that created an obligation to be nice. No, I paid for them. No cash for comment here!