The look from a woman half my age who offered me her neck pillow because "I looked like something hurt".
We hadn't even taken off yet.
I stared at the back of the seat in front of me for a good while thinking: What exactly did she see when she looked at me?
I'm 61 years old. I'm retired. I was VP of sales at a medical-device company. For three decades I averaged 120,000 miles a year. Singapore. Dubai. Frankfurt. São Paulo.
I knew the business cabins of almost every airline like you know your corner coffee shop.
The reclining beds. The little drink before takeoff. The noise-canceling headphones.
I never thought much about it. It was just... how I traveled.
Until 18 months ago I retired.
And suddenly those $150,000-peso tickets were no longer charged to the company. They came out of my pension.
My wife, Diana, and I had a list. All those places we'd spent 30 years saying "someday": Portugal, New Zealand, Japan, Croatia.
We were finally going to have the time.
Except we could no longer afford to see them from row 3.