Somewhere over the Atlantic last Sunday, I realized I’ve been flying all wrong. The woman next to me—a polished Parisian, with silky brown hair, wearing a black blazer and clutching a Chanel bag—settled into our 11-hour flight from Paris to LA with what I can only describe as a highly evolved inflight protocol. There was a face mask. An eye mask. Various creams applied at strategic intervals. Two pouches of electrolytes dunked in an enormous water bottle. An impressive amount of WhatsApp-ing. And then, somewhere around hour four, an outfit change! She floated back into her seat wearing her own silk pajamas. Mind you, CDG>LAX is not an overnight flight.
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