Must be the clouds in my eyes.

My trip began with a flight to Paris. First Class. (Gotta love those frequent-flyer miles!) Which subsequently enabled me to chill in Delta’s Crown Room with free food and drink while waiting to board, rather than out at the gate with all of the common beggars and thieves.

I sat in quiet cushiony comfort, sipping my beer and musing on the pending excitement of the next two weeks, and looking forward to getting some shut-eye on the plane in my nice, big, first-class reclining seat/bed. So comfy and customizable, with all of its mechanically adjustable parts and high-tech personal tv screen/radio/gaming console. I could hardly wait to curl up with my luxurious first-class pillow, pull my blankie up to my chin, and cover my eyes with those handy complimentary eyeshades.

“Ooh, they’d better have good stuff in those overnight goody bags,” thought I, with an unbridled sense of entitlement. “And good food. And wine. Plenty of good wine.”

And with that in mind, I regretfully left the tranquil Crown Room sanctuary and strolled casually through the terminal, hoping they’d be ready to board by the time I reached the gate so that I could just cut to the front with the other first-class passengers.

My god, the bright lights. The noise. I felt assaulted by the chaos of the busy concourse. “Jesus, just get me on that plane and into my comfy little first-class cocoon. Can’t they build a separate, secluded, first-class passenger tunnel or something? I mean, really.”

But when I arrived at the gate, I was greeted by a most unexpected sight.

More than 50% of the “beggars and thieves” crowding the gate area were military personnel. In desert fatigues. Most of whom were my age and younger. And this was a Boeing 777, so we’re not talking a small number of people here. The entire terminal from end to end, as far as the eye could see, was packed with these young soldiers, mostly men, but with a few women sprinkled here and there. Didn’t have to think too hard to guess where they were headed.

Talk about a reality check.

Here I am thinking about my “much needed” vacation and my First-Class passenger status, and these young men and women are shipping off to their fearful, highly uncertain fate. I was pretty sure I’d be returning from my trip abroad. I wondered how many of them could say the same.

I felt like a shit. Don’t even know what to say about it, really, except that it made such an impression that when I finally settled into a real bed on the other side of the Atlantic, I dreamt about it all night. And on that flight to Paris, curled up in my “bed” with my blankie, my eyeshades, and my array of in-flight entertainment, I found myself repeatedly pushing away thoughts of all those soldiers sitting back there. In coach.