The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport is a good friend to drinkers. The bartender is fast, last call is flexible, and the bar sits right across from the security checkpoint, allowing those so inclined to turn their chairs around and drink while watching people get frisked. It made the two hours before takeoff seem too short.
You can't get that level of enjoyment anywhere else. The big wigs behind television shows and movies haven't yet realized that such simple things are the holy grail of entertainment. I could spend hours watching angry midwesterners getting their toothpaste confiscated, especially when the only football game on TV is some second-rate college in Michigan playing some technical school in Tennessee, with Second-Rate Michigan winning by 25 points.
The bartender in the airport was almost as tense as the people being frisked. She had been working 12 hours a day for the past two weeks, covering everyone's shifts during the holidays. Or at least that's what she claimed. It could have just been a ruse to get bigger tips. If it was, it worked on me. She played the part well. In the hour I was there - from 8:30 to 9:30pm - she could barely remember anything. Had I paid? What drink had I ordered 30 seconds earlier? Was I interested in getting another beer during last call, despite the fact that my current one was nearly full and my plane was boarding in 15 minutes?
The answer to those questions, respectively, were yes, Leinie's Honey Weiss, and hell yes. I would've lied and told her I already paid, but I was afraid airport security would find out and confiscate my liver.
But the real treat was the flight itself. First-class upgrades were only $60, and since my plane was arriving late and I had to work in the morning, it was a good way to get some sleep. I had never flown first-class before, and it was everything I dreamed it would be. My seat was leather, my legroom was adequate, and the flight attendants tended to me as if the losers in coach were just annoyances. Which they were, of course.
"Excuse me, miss? That peasant man in the coach section is snoring too loudly. Could you lock him in the toilet until we land? Thank you."
The ill-bred commoners in coach were given a cold, hard grilled cheese sandwich to eat, while I received a warm turkey and cheese sandwich, a macaroni salad of some sort, and a bag of those thick potato chips - the ones no one likes but everyone knows are fancy. After my meal, I was offered a brownie for dessert. They didn't ask and then get the brownie for me, they presented the brownie to me first, as if my decision required an inspection.
I ran back to the coach class with my brownie, spitting large mouthfuls of it at the lesser passengers while screaming crude obscenities to show them how important I was, and how depressed they should be that they weren't me. "I'm better than you!" I screamed. "Your section of the plane smells like farts! Your dinner is a stale grilled cheese sandwich and one-fourth of a can of Diet Coke! Go back to your trailers and spawn more uncouth welfare children, you hillbillies!"
Then the stewardesses escorted me back to my seat and fellated me until I fell asleep. I dreamt of unicorns, newborn puppies, and Ryan Seacrest's hair. When I awoke, the stewardesses had covered me in a blanket made from Jesus Christ's hair. After the plane landed, we got to cherry pick items from the coach passengers' luggage.
Few airlines offer a cheap first-class upgrade, and when you find one you should spring for it. I'm glad I made the most of my first and probably last first-class flight. Even if I never get to do it again, I'll still have my memories, and all the medication I stole from other people's luggage.
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