11am. The Japanese flight crew is preparing to close the doors so the plane can pull away from the airport. The boarding pass I received in Bangkok says seat 6H, so that’s where I’m sitting, but any minute now I expect somebody to tell me to move because I didn’t pay extra for business class. With a little luck, it will soon be too late to correct the mistake.
1pm. A friend recommended All Nippon Airways for its good service during travel to the U.S. He considers that the journey starts when you get to the airport, not when you arrive at the destination. I haven’t generally thought that way. Just get me there. But after the last two hours I’m quickly converting to my friend’s way thinking. In business class on ANA, they ask you by name what you would like to drink. Food is arranged on a ceramic plate in a way that forces mindful eating. The meal matters. Everyone treats me like a respected uncle.
3pm. I am re-reading the menu, trying to match names to what I
ate for lunch. The courses are described as zensai, kobachi, and shusai. I’m guessing those terms must correspond to appetizers, main dishes, and dessert. But I’m no closer to figuring out which was which. Everything was about the same size, and nothing identified itself by sight as salty or sweet, let alone animal or vegetable. The brown cushion-shaped morsel could have been either the salt-cured sea squirt or the simmered taro.5pm. Something is missing. I’m not talking about the stiff neck and cramped legs you get in coach after trying unsuccessfully for five hours to get some sleep. (Those things are missing, for sure, thanks to the way my seat reclines all the way into a bed.) I’m talking about announcements: we’ve reached our cruising altitude, the temperature outside is minus 35, the in-flight duty-free shop is about to open. Nobody is saying anything, except Ms. Mikami (we’re now on a last-name basis), who asks occasionally, “Another bottle of saké, Mr. Henderson?”
8pm. I have been sleeping for a while. My watch is still set to Thailand time. I lift the windowshade and see the tops of mountains sticking out of a sea of clouds, like islands. The peaks are sharp and partly covered with snow. Even though it must be the middle of the night wherever we are, it is light enough to see because at this latitude it’s always light enough to see in July. There are more peaks than I can count. Ms. Mikami, who is passing by, agrees that it is a beautiful view. “Does it happen every time?” I ask. “It’s the first time,” she says.
10pm. Even small things are better than they have to be. The SkyMap tells me the mountain islands are located between Juneau and Carcross. The down comforter has a little pocket for my feet. I need only point at my menu to have a steaming bowl of udon noodles placed on the side table next to my personal movie screen.
11:30pm. Soon I’ll be asked to unplug this computer and to press the buttons that will lower the leg rest and withdraw the neck support. I’ll comply reluctantly. Even though twelve hours is a long time to be in an airplane, this little taste of Japan has been delightful.
