Enclosed cabins with double beds, mini-home-theater systems, gourmet meals curated by a chef and sommelier, and so on.

Now, the fact that all this airborne decadence is something of a Potemkin village – you’re still aboard an airplane, in a space smaller than a $39 single at the Motel 6 behind the Conoco station – and that most of the passengers in first class or business are mid-level corporate suits rather than genuine tycoons, tells us something important about the New Gilded Age. It’s pretty much a fake. It’s like a giant game of three-card monte, in which the superrich move just enough money around to make society appear dynamic, to convince many of the rest of us that lives of wealth and luxury await us, just beyond the horizon. The first-class cabin, like the McMansions Thomas Frank recently wrote about, is a vulgar echo of something that once seemed impressive, a promise that is never fulfilled. It’s a reminder that in America we are never to see ourselves as members of an exploited class, but only, in the apocryphal but revealing phrase attributed to John Steinbeck, as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.