Coastal Traveler - Summer 2008 - (Page 32)

When I was a young boy, I flew with my mother to London. She was a master party crasher. As soon as the seatbelt light turned off she flicked our seat buckles and made for the spiral staircase that led to the first-class lounge. A crooner in black tie sat behind a piano. Women with Farrah Fawcett hair and slit dresses sat obliquely on a sofa. Men with expensive, wide lapels ordered drinks from a bar. My mother went for the caviar, while I ate from the fruit bowl. I sneaked some champagne and ate some cheese and sat on the shag, my head leaning back against the sofa, inches from a perfumed hemline. The pianist played the Beatles, and I was the Walrus. Time passed too quickly, and I arrived in London as a happily buzzed jet-setter. After my parents split up I flew every weekend from San Diego to Los Angeles, where my mother had moved to crash better parties. My father would put me in the care of a PSA stewardess, who led me away in her orange and pink mini-dress. Even though I flew every weekend, I enjoyed the lovely chaperones, the nuts and drinks, the thrusting acceleration and chirp of arrival. Then President Reagan deregulated the airlines in 1978 and my deeply discounted children’s fares disappeared, along with the piano bars, as airlines became stingy and tired, deglamourizing flight — taking away the scarf. It became very hard to socialize, other than in the line outside the bathroom. Airlines offered cheesy in-flight magazines and censored pop movies. Service was a poor, aisle-blocking affair. Requests for additional peanuts had an Oliver Twist quality about them. Ringing for a flight attendant was like sending food back — done guiltily, with profuse explanation and demonstration, more for the surrounding passengers than the stewardess, as if apologizing for bogarting the hospitality. Into this came Sir Richard Branson, the shaggy-haired, British billionaire behind the Virgin brand. Branson was the dyslectic son of a barrister who quit private school at age 16 to start his first company, a magazine called Student. Soon he was selling “virgin” (unopened) records, first by mail order and then through a chain of record stores. He started a recording label, Virgin Records, when he was 22, which became the financial goose for hundreds of other Virgin companies. One of them was Virgin Atlantic Airways, which Branson started with a second-hand 747 that flew between England and the United States. Branson also set records by crossing the Atlantic by balloon and speedboat, earning himself a knighthood. Branson started Virgin America a year ago at San Francisco International Airport, which is sandwiched between the bay and the freeway. Some studies show the airport will be underwater if the oceans rise three feet from melting icebergs. Perhaps then out of self-interest, Branson announced recently that he has earmarked three billion dollars toward the development of an alternative fuel company, Virgin Fuels. My son and I took our first Virgin America flight six months ago from San Francisco to Los Angeles ($69 one-way). There was something serene about SFO’s well-designed space, as if its sheer size made people, and their problems, seem small. It had a train shuttle passing through its heights, just above the Virgin America check-in counters. White tables supported white touch-screens on articulated chrome necks. A single, large vase was placed at the center of the table, holding stalks of white orchids. But I was attracted to the staff outfitted in red, ten of whom were gathered together having fun, hips cocked, feet up on the scales, crying with laughter. It was shocking, really, to hear their laughter, to see so much personality on display in a corporate environment. There was a utopian ease about them, as if they had found acceptance among their peers. I approached the counter and joined the banter. They allowed my son Max to weigh himself on the scales and egged his childish antics, which made him feel lighter, as if some weighty oppression were jettisoned. As we walked down the gangplank, ambient club music beckoned. A flight attendant stood in the doorway. She wore a white, mandarin-collared, button-down shirt tucked into black slacks accented with a thin red belt. The shirt was fitted, which drew attention to her breasts, but in a strange, teacherish way, inviting, yet turning away admiration at the same time. The right half of her face was struck by daylight flooding in from the cockpit door. The left half of her face was cast in dark, purplish light, as if representing the two sides of Stewardess — lifeguard and waitress. Max grew hushed as we walked down the aisle. He turned back to me and whispered, “This plane is so cool.” The first-class seats were white leather, and separated from steerage by two dry aquariums of purple plastic. The seats in coach had skeletons of white, smooth plastic, like a MacBook, and were upholstered in black leather. The plane was lit by a combination of white, blue and purple lights, which shifted according to the sun, with settings called “twilight” and “dawn.” Mood was created out of filament and filter — inexpensive and lightweight decorating, perfect for weight-sensitive flight. We sat in the ergonomic chairs and I adjusted the headrest for height and angle. Before us was a nine-inch, touch-sensitive screen called Red. But before I could examine it, Max asked for some water. I went to the back of the plane, where a flight attendant stood, and asked for a bottle of water, “for my son,” as if asking for a special, pre-flight dispensation. She laughed and stepped aside. A self-serve refrigerator, filled with water bottles was mounted on the wall. She said she was studying for a graduate degree in genetics and engaged me with intelligent eyes, unafraid of rapport, as if connection were her natural state. She, like all the stewardesses I interviewed, said the reason the “team members” were so happy was because they were allowed to retain their individuality and to have fun. They didn’t feel like they were part of a normal corporation. When I returned to our seats with the water I began to look around. There were regular power outlets and USB connectors built into each seat so you could charge your laptop or iPhone. But most passengers left their laptops sleaved and began to play with Red, a nine-inch touch screen through which one could watch satellite TV, play video games and purchase food, movies and premium television. People boarded the plane and came up the aisle whispering the passenger mantra, “It’s so cool.” I didn’t hear much from Max, who had discovered the video games. When we landed he turned to me and said, “Dad, I only want to fly on Virgin.” On a longer flight to New York ($159 one-way), I ordered a cheese plate through Red and paid with a swipe of my credit card. A short time later the flight attendant brought the plate. There was no cart, orders were delivered individually. I paid 99 cents to watch an episode of Weeds and then purchased an episode of 30 Rock. Hungry again, I bought a Chinese chicken salad and when it arrived, settled in for a movie. It was a connoisseur’s selection: Juno, Lars and the Real Girl, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Superbad. I paid seven dollars to see Before the Devil Knows Your Dead. The movie opened, somewhat shockingly, with Phillip Seymour Hoffman doggie-styling Marissa Tomei. I looked around to see if anyone could hear the slapping flesh. The lady beside me glanced and there was thrill in the permitted exhibitionism. Virgin America has a policy of not editing movies, an artist’s respect for creative work, a very European sense of droit d’auteur. It is this European sensibility, above all else, which distinguishes Virgin America. There is a feeling while boarding that you are entering an EU embassy, and while you are still in America, an anti-puritanical force field surrounds you. Red splinters passengers into autonomous viewing units, but it also permits flirting. You can open a conversation with another passenger by texting their seat number. So it is best to board the plane last, notebook in hand so you can write down the seat numbers of attractive passengers. And while this disembodied flirting isn’t as louche as a piano bar, it smells a lot better than standing outside the bathroom. 32 coastaltraveler summer

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Coastal Traveler - Summer 2008 Contents Coastal Connoisseur Coastal Picks Coastal Art Coastal Flyer Coastal Sex Coastal Eco Coastal Surfer Coastal Adventurer Coastal Snaps San Diego La Jolla Laguna Beach Malibu Santa Barbara San Luis Obispo Big Sur Carmel Monterey Santa Cruz San Francisco Sausalito Mill Valley Stinson Beach Bolinas Olema Point Reyes Station Fairfax Inverness Marshall, Tomales Sebastopol Petaluma Sonoma Coast Redwood Coast

Coastal Traveler - Summer 2008

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