Paris! The City of Lightheadedness! If you have a cold, the remedy is at hand! Photo by Mark Orwoll
Unfortunately, it involves expensive first-class flights, a suite at the Ritz, and nonstop martinis. Worth it? You decide!
EVERY FREQUENT TRAVELER DREADS anything out of the ordinary that could disrupt a well-planned itinerary at the last minute.
I am not talking here about “ordinary” disruptions such as hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, or the president canceling the budget of the entire U.S. air system without congressional approval. We can plan for all those. No, I’m talking about the kind of disruption that begins with a tickle in your throat—a tickle that feels like a tiny demon has taken up residence just aft of your uvula and is practicing gymnastics with a little pitchfork.
This happened to me just before a long-awaited trip to Paris in 2017. Air France had just relaunched its La Première first-class experience (just as it relaunched it again in 2025) and I was invited to, well, experience it, with all the perks, whether I had a cold or not. The plan was that I would fly out in business class, then fly back in first. But I had that cold to deal with…
I responded to the creeping catarrh wreaking havoc on my mucus system with the time-honored medical protocol of sucking down Cold-Eeze lozenges, which are disgusting zinc tablets that taste like you’re licking a corroded Energizer 9-volt battery terminal. I consumed these by the boxful, hoping they would prevent me from developing Full-Blown Death Flu.
I was still medicating myself as I arrived at JFK and made my way to the Air France business-class lounge at Terminal 1. My itinerary for the next three days, barring any septic meltdown in my tonsils, was going to be idyllic: I would fly business class to Paris, spend two nights at the renovated 5-star Hotel Ritz, and return home on Air France’s first-class service, La Première, which is French for “La Première.”
Assuming, that is, I was still upright and breathing once I reached the City of Light, as opposed to being the City of Guy Slumped Over in His Seat Making Alarming Gurgling Noises.
An Elevated Species of Airport Food
My flight didn’t depart until 10:35 p.m., so I had the option of dining in the lounge. “It’s the same menu,” said the hostess, “whether you eat on the plane or here.” This struck me as odd, because eating in an airport lounge is like eating in a really nice bus station, whereas eating on a plane is like eating in a really nice… OK, bad example.
Despite the lounge’s harsh light and airport atmosphere—which included the soothing ambiance of gate announcements and the occasional screaming child—the service might have been lifted from a warm and woody brasserie in the Marais. The maître d’ lacked only a white linen towel draped over his left forearm to complete the illusion that we were not, in fact, sitting 50 feet from a Hudson News.
Armagnac duck foie gras on walnut-cranberry toast, broiled shrimp, crusty olive bread and a nice chunk of camembert. And that’s just the starters. Photo by Orwoll
At this point, my throat tickle was feeling somewhat mollified, possibly because I was drowning it in alcohol and fatty duck liver.
No Red Eyes on This Flight
Boarding was a breeze, and I quickly found my way to my assigned place. Air France’s updated business-class seats morph into inviting lie-flat beds, which is good because sitting upright for seven hours makes you feel like a pretzel that has been stored in someone’s gym bag. So after takeoff, as soon as I heard the ding of the 10,000-foot-altitude indicator—which I assume means “You are now free to become horizontal”—I went into prone mode.
Before I drifted off, though, I wondered whether I was wasting this opportunity. Shouldn’t I have been enjoying the upper-class experience more fully—snapping my fingers for champers, slyly scanning my fellow flyers for celebs (I saw none, unless you count the guy who looked vaguely like someone who might have been on a reality show about storage units), and wallowing in the very spaciousness of seat 17-L?
The next thing I knew, breakfast was being set before me, and the green fields of Brittany were skating away below us as we glided toward Paris. I had slept through the entire flight, which meant I had successfully avoided watching any movies starring Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.
Puttin’ on the Ritz
Legendary hotelier César Ritz opened his eponymous establishment in a cozy corner of the grand Place Vendôme in 1898. Steps from the Seine, the Tuileries, and the Louvre, the Ritz defines the phrase “centrally located,” as opposed to “located near the airport in a light-industrial zone next to a tire warehouse,” my usual lodging locale.
The restored Hôtel Ritz defines “centrally located.” It also defines “luxury,” “over-the-topness,” and “OMG, I can’t believe I’m staying at the freaking Ritz!” Photo by Arthur Weidmann/Wikipedia
The grand deluxe “room” to which I was shown might have been the Presidential Suite at many U.S. hotels, meaning it was larger than my first apartment. The cream-colored furnishings and elaborate fixtures were ornate and impressive. Brass swans spouted water from the twin sinks and tub, because apparently, regular faucets are for people who fly coach. Mirrors above the fireplace and in the bathroom masked electronically camouflaged TVs, which would spring to life when you pressed a button, presumably startling the brass swans.
Bathrooms at the Ritz have more gilt than Trump’s Oval Office. Well, almost. Photo by Orwoll
The refurbishment of the Ritz saw the addition of the world’s first Chanel spa, because the world desperately needed a place where you could get a massage while surrounded by handbags that cost more than a Hyundai. There’s also the elegant, book-lined Salon Proust, a newly created space that serves afternoon tea and is presumably named after Marcel Proust, who wrote very long books about remembering things.
My lodgings at the Ritz. I was afraid to touch anything for fear I’d damage it. Photo by Orwoll
Leaving Paris, Reluctantly
I dined one day at a Michelin-starred culinary jewel box called Le Grand Véfour, which is so small that if more than 12 people show up, someone has to eat in the street. On another day, I went to L’Acajou, an equally diminutive eatery that is as modern as the Véfour is traditional, meaning they serve food on things that are not technically plates. Unfortunately, L’Acajou closed permanently in 2025.
Le Grand Véfour, a jewel box of a restaurant. Forget the menu; I’ll just eat the decor.
All of which was like a chewy, comestible drum roll for what was to come on my final day: an afternoon at the highly exclusive Air France La Première lounge and a first-class flight home.
As my car pulled up to Terminal 2E at Paris-Charles De Gaulle—an airport designed by someone who apparently hated human beings and wanted them to walk approximately 47 miles between gates—a young man in a suit opened my door and escorted me to a comfortable lounge while one of his colleagues retrieved my boarding pass. I felt like a head of state from a minor nation, albeit one with a lingering throat tickle.
La Première passengers can take advantage of a VIP security lane, which means you don’t have to remove your shoes while standing behind a family of eight who somehow didn’t know they’d need to take out their laptops. After which, an airline rep escorts you to the La Première lounge.
The quiet space boasts a modernist style, with red design highlights throughout and bright windows overlooking runways. I plopped down in a comfy chair, accepted a proffered glass of Champagne (my fourth or fifth of the trip, but who’s counting?) and then went for an investigatory stroll.
The bar at Air France’s La Premiere lounge at CDG is a trifle swankier than my local pub. (Shout out to Soul Brewing in Pleasantville!) Photo by Orwoll
Showers promised a liquid restorative for transit passengers. And there was a spa! I booked a complimentary 30-minute foot massage from the lone therapist, Virginie, who recommended that, in the future, reservations would spare me possible disappointment. This seemed like good advice, as apparently foot massages are very popular among people who fly first class, possibly because their feet are exhausted from not having to walk through airports like normal people.
The boyish chef in charge of the lounge’s meals back in 2017, Alexandre Viriot, worked under the tutelage of the acclaimed Alain Ducasse, who is apparently the Yoda of French cooking. Viriot has since gone on to a brilliant cheffing career beyond Air France, and is now an inductee into the Association des Maîtres Cuisiniers de France, or Really Good French Cooks. Viriot gave me a tour of the gleaming new kitchen and proudly explained how the older kitchen had been completely dismantled and transformed into a state-of-the-art culinary center that employs 17 people, which seems like a lot of people to make sandwiches for 12 first-class airline passengers, but what do I know?
“Our goal is to give a customer a full restaurant experience at any time,” he said. “If you want a strip steak at six in the morning, we give it to you. Breakfast in the afternoon? Fine.”
I did not want a strip steak at six in the morning, because I am not a serial killer.
A Flight Not Long Enough
And then my flight was called, which meant it was time to leave this magical lounge where people will give you foot massages and strip steaks at inappropriate hours.
It would be improper, possibly sinful, to say my experience in the first-class cabin of AF 008 that evening was anticlimactic. It was, rather, in keeping with the luxury I’d been enjoying for the previous 48 hours, which is to say it was ridiculously over-the-top in the best possible way.
The 2025 updated first-class suites on Air France are large enough to house a small village on Namibia’s Caprivi Strip. Source: Air France
But first, dinner. My meal—creamed corn soup with cachaça (a Brazilian spirit that I’m pretty sure is also used as rocket fuel) and an entrée of pan-seared bass in lemongrass sauce, designed by Michelin-starred Joël Robuchon and served on fine white Massaud china—was the prelude to a delightful, if all-too-short, three-hour nap.
I slept like a baby, by which I mean I woke up every 45 minutes, wondering where I was, then immediately fell back asleep.
The Cure
It’s probably time to tell you that no, my cold did not develop into the flu, pneumonia, or a full-blown pulmonary embolism that would have required an emergency landing in Greenland. Perhaps it was that first glass of Champagne in the JFK lounge. Perhaps it was the creamed corn soup with rocket fuel. Perhaps it was the 590 square feet of brocaded hotel-room indulgence.
More likely, my medical rescue was owing to Colin Field, the veteran (and recently retired) head barman at the Ritz’s Bar Hemingway, which is named after Ernest Hemingway, who liked to drink there, possibly because they served drinks. “You’ll want a very dry martini, I think, sir,” Field said, concernedly, within 30 seconds of sizing me up on my last night in town.
Martinis await, just down the corridor of the Hôtel Ritz. Photo by Pablo Sanchez/Flickr
Saved by a martini? Rescued by a lie-flat airplane seat? Resuscitated by perfectly cooked eggs Benedict in the Ritz’s L’Espadon? No matter what relieved me from almost certain infirmity, I just call it the first-class cure.
At JFK, I was met by a personable young gentleman wearing an Air France I.D. tag. “I just want to make sure you clear immigration and customs quickly and that everything is fine,” he said. “How are you feeling after your trip, by the way?”
Good question. I swallowed deliberately, considered the state of my health, and smiled. My throat felt fine. My body felt rested. My spirit felt like I had been pampered by a small army of French people whose job it was to make sure I never had to open a door or pour my own Champagne.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m feeling pretty darn good. How are you?”
He smiled. I suspect he gets that a lot from first-class passengers.
Mark Orwoll is the former Interntional Editor of Travel + Leisure and the Lowell Thomas Travel Writer of the Year silver award winner (2025). You can follow him at Facebook.com/TravelWithMarkOrwoll and subscribe to his weekly Substack column, Mark Orwoll Is at It Again!
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