So, this is my first time on Air France and it is probably my last. It certainly isn’t horrible, but the beauty of competition is that I have a choice on my European routes.
The good: the food is pretty good. Good lobster at the beginning, the steak was pretty much par for the course for meat that has to be frozen and re-warmed at 37000 feet. Service has been good – nothing to complain about.
The bad: Satan designed the business class seats. Oh, I’m quite sure they are Givenchy (that’s gih-VON-sheeee) designed. The leather and fabric accents serve to tell you that you probably paid too much for this ticket. Two things: 1) where the hell is my storage? I have precisely one little cubby into which I can shove something I brought on board (like a Zune – seriously -it’s that small). 2) The deal killer – the headrest has probably caused me brain damage. Let me explain.
On these flights I like to get on, kick back, have dinner, work for a few hours, and then catch some sleep so I’m not totally wasted when I get to Europe. That generally means I make the seat go into ‘bed’ mode and crawl in for some nighty time. Tonight, however, this is not to be. The headrest is like a slab of granite covered in white leather. And it moves precisely two inches in either direction. Meaning when you go to bed mode, your head is laying on your kitchen counter. I kid you not, I walked around the cabin to see how others were coping with camping at 37000 feet and it was a comedy of contortion. People had pillows wedged between the seat and the rock. People were trying to slink down in the seat, but that meant you had to go all fetal. People were abjectly sobbing in the aisle, wondering what happened to their neck and if their flying to Paris, one of the more athiest countries in the world, somehow brought this plague down upon them.
Finally, dear reader, I said Fuck it. Back to work. But then my in-seat power didn’t work, so that’s only good for another hour or so. Then, it will just be me and the champagne. Ahhh. Traveling.