During all of my years flying out of Denver International Airport, I would wander past the elusive United Club and simply wonder what magical activities were occurring behind that frosted glass. My imagination ran wild, picturing celebrities in sequined gowns toasting glasses of champagne with ambassadors and business executives.
When my father handed me a United Club Pass, I may as well have been Charlie Bucket seeing the first glint of the golden ticket peek out from the Wonka Bar wrapper. I was in da club and would finally gain access through the frosty glass doors and into the exclusive world of the United Airlines elite. Had I known prior to arrival the degree of glamour achieved by the airline's hoity-toity little room in Terminal B (or maybe it was A, don't judge me for forgetting), I would have arrived an illogical amount of hours prior to my flight.
Like when Dorothy first beheld the emerald doors of Oz, my eyes widened and jaw fell agape as my sights fell on the escalator taking 50-something-businessman after 50-something-businessman up to the mysterious club. This also provoked me to look down shamefully at my outfit comprised of a lumberjack-style plaid shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Never had I felt so out of place. Thankfully, sticking out like a sore thumb as I did amongst the aforementioned herd of businessmen provoked the desk lady (who was a glorified bouncer, essentially) to ask me if I was at least 18. Score! I still got the youth look goin' on.
I tried my best to suppress my giddiness as I rode up the magical escalator. Even better than my excitement at simply being admitted was what awaited me at the top. A shelf full of every newspaper imaginable (I collected one of each publication, which was enough to give away how out of place I was), a buffet of fresh fruit and other snacks, a coffee bar, and a grown-up bar. My nerves and lack of knowing if I needed to pay for the drinks at the bar or not almost prevented me from ordering a bloody Mary. I decided to observe the manner in which others ordered and came to the conclusion that the alcohol (top shelf, I may add) was FREE! Seriously? I still felt strange walking away from the bartender without paying, like she was going to accuse me of stealing.
Let me also mention how ridiculous I find it that airlines still adhere to a caste system. Special treatment for business class passengers? What century are we living in?
When my father handed me a United Club Pass, I may as well have been Charlie Bucket seeing the first glint of the golden ticket peek out from the Wonka Bar wrapper. I was in da club and would finally gain access through the frosty glass doors and into the exclusive world of the United Airlines elite. Had I known prior to arrival the degree of glamour achieved by the airline's hoity-toity little room in Terminal B (or maybe it was A, don't judge me for forgetting), I would have arrived an illogical amount of hours prior to my flight.
Like when Dorothy first beheld the emerald doors of Oz, my eyes widened and jaw fell agape as my sights fell on the escalator taking 50-something-businessman after 50-something-businessman up to the mysterious club. This also provoked me to look down shamefully at my outfit comprised of a lumberjack-style plaid shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Never had I felt so out of place. Thankfully, sticking out like a sore thumb as I did amongst the aforementioned herd of businessmen provoked the desk lady (who was a glorified bouncer, essentially) to ask me if I was at least 18. Score! I still got the youth look goin' on.
I tried my best to suppress my giddiness as I rode up the magical escalator. Even better than my excitement at simply being admitted was what awaited me at the top. A shelf full of every newspaper imaginable (I collected one of each publication, which was enough to give away how out of place I was), a buffet of fresh fruit and other snacks, a coffee bar, and a grown-up bar. My nerves and lack of knowing if I needed to pay for the drinks at the bar or not almost prevented me from ordering a bloody Mary. I decided to observe the manner in which others ordered and came to the conclusion that the alcohol (top shelf, I may add) was FREE! Seriously? I still felt strange walking away from the bartender without paying, like she was going to accuse me of stealing.
Let me also mention how ridiculous I find it that airlines still adhere to a caste system. Special treatment for business class passengers? What century are we living in?
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