Death is not worse pain than an empty life. -- Lun Tha

I was too young to rent a car.  I believe I was newly twenty-four years of age.  I had finished my Bachelors, worked for a year in the escrow department of a Title Company, and had returned to school for my teaching credential.

I decided it was time to run around before I started my new job as a fifth grade teacher. So I made arrangements.

Not being insanely wealthy, I still had generous family folk who were willing to chip in on my cross-country excursion. I had generous friends and extended family who were willing to let me bunk with them, take me to see local sights, and drop me off at remote train stations or airports or wherever I needed to go to get to the next place.  From Southern California, then, I flew to Columbus Ohio, where I got a train to Boston, where I traveled with friends and saw parts of New England that I will likely never see again (hitting the L.L. Bean store in Maine was a highlight for me.  As much for the company as anything else), flew back to somewhere I can't remember right this minute and then flew out to San Francisco.  Shopped and had a good time with an old school friend (old school friend...we played four-square in elementary school...we'd known each other since fourth grade), and returned home.  Tired, tanned, with lots of "I Was There" t-shirts and memorabilia with which to begin life as a fifth grade teacher.

It was a great trip.

But the best part of the trip was when I flew first class out of Boston.

Now, see, I had ridden the train in from Ohio.  Cleveland, I believe.  The schedule was such that my cousins (generous and willing to drive at odd hours!) dropped me off in the wee sma's. I saw steam rising from the vents in the streets. For the girl from SoCal, it was a bit surreal, Cleveland at two in the morning. 

The train ride was long.  Amtrak, standard coach seating or whatever they called it.  Very different from the trains I had ridden in California.  Across the aisle, a mother was with her young son.  During the course of conversation or something, it had come out that I was a teacher.  (I was so very proud of my new career!)  At some point, the mother threatened her son with me (not with my consent, either).  "If you don't be quiet, I'll make you sit with that teacher over there!"

It was a long trip for me.  When I arrived in Boston, I was tired and really not looking forward to the return train trip back to Ohio.  So, I decided I owed myself a treat.

I booked a flight.  All they had open was first class, so I took it.  I felt VERY daring and a little decadent.   I could afford it, though, due to a good year of solid work, so I wasn't being foolish...just different than The Family Norm.

Thing is, this was back in 1990.  The First Class Seats flying out of Boston's Logan International Airport were filled with extremely well-dressed men (mostly men, in my memory, lol) in conservative attire.  Their ties were properly knotted. Shoes were shined. Briefcases were slim and obviously leather-crafted.  The flight attendants were chosen for this section due to their attractiveness and skill. 

Into this bastion of Ivy League Graduates comes the chick from SoCal.  Wearing a neon-green short-set with a white and black image of Laguna Beach or something, and the words Southern California screenpainted on it.  Tan (very tan...I had worked on my SoCal tan by the pool before I took my trip) and blond (I was in my "highlights and hot rollers" phase then) with matching neon green socks (it was actually in style where I lived at the time) and white-white canvas tennis shoes. 

The men in their collars and ties looked up as I entered the cabin, but they expected me to proceed into Coach, I know.  Eyebrows lifted in more than one row when I smilingly took my seat in 2B.  Right there with the Shiny Shoes & Briefcase Assemblage.

The flight attendant, pretty and Nordic, also looked surprised for a nanosecond.  But of course, she accorded me the same attention as she gave the precision-hair-cuts in the other seats.

I didn't visit with anyone there, but I did catch the rare puzzled glance. What was this neon-dressed girl doing up with THEM?

Flying, of course.  For pleasure, not business.

And when we landed, I retrieved my luggage from the overhead, had my garment bag handed to me by The Nordic Princess and smilingly thanked them for a nice flight.  I had had a blast.  Just being me.

I still smile as I remember.