I Deserve VIP Service Because I Once Flew First Class
Two years ago, I got bumped to first class on a cross-country flight because the airline oversold coach. I didn’t pay for it. I didn’t even ask for it. They just waved me to the big leather seat, handed me champagne, and called me “Mr. Johnson.”
That one event rewired my brain.
Now, anytime I’m anywhere that even resembles a service setting, I expect first-class treatment. Coffee shop? My latte better come with a biscotti and a warm towel. Grocery store? Bag my produce separately and spritz it with mineral water. DMV? Offer me a glass of prosecco while I wait for my number to be called.
Last week, I walk into a mid-tier hotel lobby—three stars at best—and the guy at the desk asks if I have a reservation. I tell him, “No, but I once flew first class, so I think you know where to put me.”
He laughs. I don’t.
I explain that since I’ve experienced the pinnacle of travel comfort, I’m now, by law of the universe, entitled to VIP service in perpetuity. This includes upgrades, free drinks, and the staff addressing me as “sir” with a tone that implies I’m both wealthy and important.
He says, “Sir, this is a Comfort Inn.”
I say, “Then comfort me.”
Fast-forward twenty minutes: I’m in their “executive suite” (read: slightly bigger room with two chairs instead of one) because the desk clerk “wanted to get me out of the lobby.” I take this as a win. I order room service even though they don’t have room service—just DoorDash—and insist they put it on the room.
As I settle into my average-quality armchair, eating takeout noodles I didn’t pay for, I think to myself: Once first class, always first class.










