Watching the Rocky Mountains recede into the distance from the cushioned comfort of a Gulfstream GV, one can easily find oneself reconsidering the feasibility of a bicoastal commute. I turn to my companion, a stoic and stately blonde with a soulful stare. “This is totally doable, right? Like, we could do this regularly if we had to?” He exhales in response, a damp snort.
A flight attendant appears bearing a silver-domed tray and balletically lowers herself to lap height. Actually, kind of below. Well, now she’s on the floor. But of course, it’s not for me, this platter of temporarily hidden delights: She raises the lid and points its contents at my seatmate, who enthusiastically, and without much pausing for things like chewing or breath (let alone politesse), scarfs down far more than