"You Can Use The Food Court. Downstairs."

This past month has been the most travel-intensive of my short life. Were I to leave a trail like Family Circus' Jeffy, there'd be so many dotted lines across the Middle East you'd think you were back at the Treaty of Paris, carving up the region for the future colonial successes that were the mandate system. By my count, I've been on 14 flights so far this month with another expected four to come. I think March will be a bit tamer.

I don't mind the flying - my body has become attuned to travelling to such an extent that I've developed a Pavlovian sleep response to the {bing} that signals the plane has reached 10,000 feet. The other reason I don't mind flying so much around the region is that we get access to the airport lounges across the Middle East. Instead of mingling with the masses on unsatisfyingly pleather seats, I spent my hours at a free buffet, sipping hibiscus juice and (thank you Kuwait City!) receiving neck massages.

However, I was rudely awakened from my traveler's dream last night flying back through Cairo to Riyadh. I confidently walked up to the desk at the lounge, presenting my member's card. The lady looked at my card, then her gaze shifted to my flannel shirt, torn jeans and Seattle-style sandals+socks combo (no judging). The skepticism in her eyes betrayed her concierge-trained smile. She politely informed me that my card did not allow me in to this particular lounge and pleasantly stated "You can use the food court. Downstairs."

Never have I felt so bourgeois.