…and speaking of the aforementioned LAX/Sydney flight, while trolling the aisles of the aircraft that evening, I walked past what I thought was the most fabulous coffin, securely seat-belted into a pod seat, and safe under the watchful eye of a careful guardian, who I naturally assumed was the son of the lovely and clearly petite grandmotherly figure contained therein.
I was immediately hit with two slightly morbid and conflicting thoughts, which sent me off into one of my stream of consciousness monologues, that went something like this.
“What is that? Oh my God, is that a coffin? Is that a Louis Vuitton coffin that looks like a steamer trunk? Euuuu – does that mean there is a dead body in it? Is it going to rattle around business class the entire way to Auckland? Its kind of sticking far out into the aisle. What if the beverage cart bumps it and the body of – God, it must be a little old lady – a really little old lady – probably a KIWI – so cute. And this guy – he’s very attractive, isn’t he? He must be her son. Or maybe her grandson. He’s obviously in charge of bringing granmum home. Oh, that’s so sad. I bet they were so close. What a good guy. He really is very good looking though – looks very windswept with the chapstick lips and tan face. Like a sailor. Hey, we’re sailors, too, I say. Really, he asks? What kind of a boat? A sailboat of course, I replied, completely oblivious to what I was saying as the internal stream of consciousness monologue kicked into high gear.
“I have GOT to have a Louis Vuitton coffin. I mean, I’m the only one I know that wants to be buried, not cremated. I’m not great with fire and the last thing I want is to be scattered in a bazilliion pieces. No way. Being buried is much more civilized, though everyone else will be cremated, so I guess I wouldn’t really see anyone, which is a drag. Still, I know where I want to be buried (Montecito cemetary for any family members who might be reading this.) Preferably under a tree. Facing the ocean, for sure. And with a bench – not a marble or stone one – gotta be wood. With a gold plaque dedicated to me. Something understated – ish.”
Realizing I had nothing more to say to the son, or grandson, and was beginning to involuntarily yet discreetly sniff around the coffin to catch either granmum’s perfume or the death odor, I thought it best to carry on back to my seat, um, pod (gotta get used to that). I couldn’t wait to tell Stuart about my discovery and fabulous new idea to have a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk as a coffin like the little old woman back in aisle 11 has, who quite possibly, now that I think about it, could have been an acrobat. Or a circus performer. Predictably, upon hearing my enthusiastic whining for an LV coffin, Stuart shook his head and groaned, doing a spot-on imitation of Lurch from The Addams Family. He then turned his eyes to the heavens, as though pleading for celestial assistance to send down a planet to fall on my head. “Darling”, said my husband, in his snobbiest British accent, “that is not a coffin for a little old lady Kiwi acrobat circus performer. That trunk contains the America’s Cup trophy, on its way back to Auckland.” “Ohhhhhh. Are you sure”, I asked, not completely convinced, though that did explain the grandson’s yacht club polo shirt and boat shoes. Turns out Stuart was absolutely right, and we were flying with the America’s Cup trophy (an excellent omen as planes never go down when there is something as significant as the America’s Cup trophy on board). And as we sped through the night sky, I meticulously mapped out plans for my Louis Vuitton-themed funeral, which I know will be fabulous.