“I beg your pardon?”
“The flight is full and I can upgrade you to business class but you have put on more polite shoes.”
“Closed toe,” J offered.
I looked down at my feet in black Old Navy flip flops and felt kind of proud of their traveled look- tan, toenails a bit too long and haggled, a little dirt stuck to the sides. But I did get a pedicure in Thailand and I did wash them every night. The flip flops were still pretty clean- isn’t that polite? Then I thought of my other option- Asics, Duromax, lightly coated in rice field mud from our trek to a climbing spot, put away wet. They were covered in a towel to keep them away from the rest of my bag. But if they just wanted closed toes…
“Yes, I have polite shoes.”
Tore open my bag to retrieve them and a powerful smell hit me in the face. Ah, wet sneakers. The socks were caked in mud and shoved inside. I discretely slipped the socks back into my backpack and undid the shoes’ soaked laces. Wow, they stunk. After getting them on, I looked at J’s feet- too big muddy sandals, his smashed toes. Nothing had been asked of him.
“What about your shoes?”
He flashed me his bragging child grin and I just narrowed my eyes.
“I hate being a girl.”
“Good thing you are. I’m not into boys.”
“Wonderful. Then I hate the double standard.” I had been noticing a lot of that lately- being passed over for a male traveling partner in business transactions and conversation. It was maddening but luckly foreign.
My hands reeked from the polite muddy sneakers. I put my flip flops into my bag and hoped she didn’t notice the nastiness. We learned we couldn’t get our “special” veggie meals in Business class either but I was happy to skip it.
We boarded the plane on final call- my shirt is a little dirty and on its 3rd wearing, frayed bra strap flapping on my shoulder. J’s shirt is wet in the front from washing out a stain in an airport sink. I gave up on my hair about day 2 of the trip and had just crammed a hat on my head this morning. My legs are peeling from a burn and there are zits on my chin from endless sweating. J’s beard is at stage itch; he’s proudly holding a beat up guitar in his hand. A farang (foreigner) woman watched us come through the special first/ business class door with surprise and disgust. J started a pillow fight when we sat down and we debated whether to order champagne or French red wine (or both!). I can smell myself in this shirt… or maybe that’s my polite shoes We’re a little out of place.
("hum... red wine or champagne?" "excuse me, stewardess...")
Looking closer though, I can see that we’re not the only pieces lacking perfection. The cup tray is dirty and my arm rest is cracked. The fold-out tray table sags in the middle and the buttons for the TV have been worn completely through. It’s an older plane and except for the extra room, sweet service and alcohol choices in real glasses, this class is a mental thing, a head trip. We’ve taken a host of photos trying to show our snooty side, but we know we don’t fit in here. Yes, we come across as a little rude.
But looking down at my endless leg room, I’m happy to see that at least my shoes are polite.
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