I have always disliked the smug look on those first-class passengers. Often too engrossed in their crisp Wall Street Journals, they hardly ever make eye contact. Unless of course it is to take pity on you. As if to further rub in your face your demeaning zone-3 status, they sip their club soda pretentiously while eyeing you from the corner of their eyes to detect if you are admiring them. Every time I walk past them, I analyze them to figure out which of them is an upgrade-recipient and who is considering buying a Gulfstream. I always smile at them expecting at the very least a nod. Usually I get nothing. And so I stroll past their hallowed section towards 34D, passing the equally-smug exit-rowers. With only my thoughts, miniature pretzels, and cheap cranberry juice to comfort me; I often wonder about life on the other side of the curtain.