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Patience: the Only First-Class Ticket

In this episode, Patience: the Only First-Class Ticket

They say travel broadens the mind.

After eight days sailing the Rhône with 140 fellow luxury vacationers, I can confirm it also tests patience, calf strength, buffet strategy, and one's tolerance for people furious that France insists on being French.

Don't get me wrong—I adored this trip. The river shimmered like liquid optimism. The villages looked hand-painted. The pastries could negotiate world peace.
But somewhere between Ship Horn Hello and Bon Voyage, we'd inadvertently boarded a floating behavioral research study disguised as a holiday. Our ship was less a cruise and more a ferry for the Sailors of Status.
Some passengers approached relaxation like yogis. Others treated leisure like a final exam with extra credit. I came to believe certain luxury watches emit ultrasonic signals that only their owners can detect. A frequency calibrated to trigger rapid movement toward any line forming for any reason. I saw more Rolex watches in a week than I've seen all year.

"The doors to dinner will open in 10 minutes . . ."

WHOOSH!

They were off—charging toward tranquility at competitive speeds, their $25,000 chronographs precisely measuring how quickly they could unwind. The great irony is that these travelers, who can afford to take time off and explore the world, seem to have the least amount of time to spare.

Friends, the buffet was not a meal. It was a pilgrimage with priority seating rules, advancing tactics, and emotional stakes.

You haven't truly lived until you've witnessed a grown adult execute a geopolitical negotiation over the final pain au chocolat.

Somewhere onboard, I'm convinced there was a spreadsheet ranking passengers by their strategic napkin deployment and pastry acquisition efficiency. This wasn't luxury dining; it was a competition of scarcity.

Then came the excursions—beautiful small towns where geraniums tumble from window boxes and church bells provide the soundtrack. Everything was perfect until the announcements began.

In French. In France. Nonetheless. . . 

The indignation was swift and genuine.

"Why can't they speak English?" someone sighed, tapping their foot aggressively in loafers.

Another passenger, arms crossed, whispered the rallying cry of international tourism: "It would be so much more authentic . . . if I could understand it."

I realized then: we hadn't come to France to immerse ourselves in French culture. Many had come to test whether France would perform for them.

Here's the thing about (luxury) this kind of travel:

You can sprint for the first seat on the bus, or you can stroll on later and enjoy the fresh air. You can race to the front of every experience, or you can drift in gently and actually experience it.

Because after the elbows retract, the lines dissolve, and the watch-face glow subsides, the truth remains:

  • The view is the same.
  • The croissant tastes identical.
  • And French will continue to be spoken aggressively well in France.

Luxury is not measured in proximity to the front; it is measured in distance from the frenzy.

Next time, I'll be easy to spot: I'll board after the Bus Access Olympic qualifiers conclude. I'll smile at the hustle and bustle, then stroll the other direction.

I'll remember that travel isn't a checkpoint—it's a souvenir you carry quietly in your bones because the greatest upgrade available on any itinerary is not priority seating. It's patience.

First-class, fully rechargeable, and—unfortunately for some—not sold in boutiques.

I'm Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. It's Great to be home!

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Don Hanley said…
Patrick - this is delightful - thank you - reminds me of Patty C.
November 10, 2025 at 10:42 AM
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