Confessions of a Hostie

True Stories of an
International Flight Attendant
(Vol.1 in the Confessions of a Hostie series)
Danielle Hugh
Disclaimer
The episodes featured in this book describe my experiences working as an international flight
crew. To protect confidentiality, not everything I write can be taken as gospel truth. Some parts
have been fictionalised, and names, airlines and locations have been changed. I have avoided
revealing any information that would put my colleagues in the air at risk and, most importantly, I
have disguised myself to such a degree that I should not need to worry for my job, because I dont
want to lose it and work as an earthling.
Contents
the joy that is jetlag
life is a merry-go-round
Id be wanting
curry in a hurry
sometimes the greatest experiences are giving something back
the glamour of being an international flight attendant
shop till you drop
home sweet home, but only for a heartbeat
sometimes not so happy beginnings become happy endings
i feel like a martini, shaken not stirred
thats what friends are for
the walk of shame
turning my life around
ho ho freakin ho!
let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
these boots are made for walking
its a goodyear
sick of being sick
turning japanese, i think im turning japanese, i really think so
theres not many of the good ones left
nothing beats good conversation
here they come!
lessons in human behaviour
the bigger they are the harder they fall
lady godiva rides again
mai tai madness
some couples are meant to be together, some are not
something smells funny
trying to remember what normal means
in the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight
doctor, doctor, give me the news
i knew he looked familiar
one year later
SNEAK PREVIEW OF VOLUME 2
A SHIN IS THE PERFECT DEVICE FOR FINDING A GLASS COFFEE TABLE IN THE DARK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
When I was eleven I fantasized about being an international hostie. I thought I had some idea about
what the lifestyle would be like. I had no idea at all, however after almost 20 years of flying
around the world I now have an inkling. Every story I am about to tell is true and every character
is based on real people.
Welcome to a snapshot of my world.
www.facebook.com/Confessionsofahostie
the joy that is jetlag
I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m.
Where the hell am I? And, more importantly, am I alone?
Fumbling, I switch on the bedside lamp. As my eyes adjust to the blinding light I breathe out a
sigh of relief the other side of the bed is empty. My dignity is still intact.
The room does look familiar, but then all hotel rooms do start looking alike when youve stayed
in as many as I have. I roll out of bed and slide back the curtains, allowing the bright lights of a
citys skyline to present themselves to me.
Singapore. Thats right, Im in Singapore.
I am unsure if Im hung-over or still drunk. Jetlag is a strange sensation. Sometimes two glasses
of wine have the same effect as a dozen martinis; yet other times a dozen martinis feel like two
glasses of wine. I cant be sure how the glasses of wine will affect me, yet I drink them just the
same.
How do you cope with jetlag? people often ask me.
I dont, I tell them simply.
Ive tried every fix I could think of, from staying on my local home-time to drinking a dozen
bottles of Evian. But the only thing that remotely seems to work is having those two glasses of
wine and they dont work at all.
Its 2.15 a.m.: this is the worst time of the day for someone to be wide awake. The shops wont
be open for nearly eight more hours, a real coffee is unobtainable for nearly four more hours and
the only shows available on TV are either infomercials or in Chinese.
I decide to console myself with chocolate.
The only chocolate I find in the rooms mini-bar is a Snickers bar. I dont really like peanuts.
But Chocolate is by far my favourite food group.
Tiredness, hunger, and jetlag can affect your judgement. It is unwise to sit on pristine white
sheets and pick peanuts from a chocolate bar. It is poorer judgement to take an unexpected, but
appreciated nap, to wake up lying face down on the wrapper with the half uneaten Snickers bar
and the discarded nuts stuck to your face.
While I plucked out pieces of peanut from my cheek and contemplated my stupidity, I suddenly
thought of something else: What will housekeeping think of me when they discover the chocolate
stains on the sheets? Oh no, what if they dont know it is chocolate? By the time I had scrubbed out
every last trace of my foolishness from the sheets and had also left behind a substantial
housekeeping tip on the bedside table it was morning outside. Starbucks will be open soon, I
console myself.
As I walk toward the shower I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
So thats what I am going to look like in ten years time!
I look away quickly. Damn jetlag.
* * *
I cant get a coffee quick enough. Caffeine is not a drug its a vitamin. Comedian Steven Wright
makes a joke about how he first makes an instant coffee just so he has the energy to go ahead and
make a regular one.
I want to laugh at the joke, but I cannot. Not yet. Not until Ive had my usual double-shot latte.
As I enter Starbucks, however, my heart sinks, for I discover a twisting and turning queue. How
is it even possible for a shop that has only been open for five minutes to have a queue this long? In
my state, a five-minute wait for coffee is five minutes too long.
It is not fair that I have a genuine medical need for coffee, yet I am forced to line up behind all
these so-called recreational users. I joke, of course, but I have often thought there should be an
express lane for double gold-platinum frequent coffee users like myself.
Then, suddenly, I realise that the queue is made up of airline crew: some from my airline; some
from others, but all airline crew nonetheless. It is amazing how easily you can identify your fellow
crew, even when they are out of uniform, and even if they belong to other airlines. There are no
neon signs flashing the words crew, but you just know. Mostly from the I-need-a-damn-coffee-
right-now look on their face pretty much the same look I have on my face now.
I take my first sip of latte delight. Ahhhhhhh! I let out a long and orgasmic sigh of ecstasy. I
thought Meg Ryans fake orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally was quite realistic. My
performance is more convincing. Now I can function properly. That first coffee always gives me
the energy and the focus to make plans, at least short-term ones I immediately make plans to have
another coffee.
Later I am catching up with one of my flying girlfriends for lunch. Until then, I have enough
caffeine running through my veins to do the one thing I do better than anything else shop.
Everyone needs a hobby, Ive been told. Shopping is my hobby.
life is a merry-go-round
Mary, one of my flying girlfriends, has a massive problem with booze. And with drugs, as well. If
you can drink it, snort it, smoke it or pop it, shell take it. She often jokes that she used to have a
substance-abuse problem and she still does; its just that she used to as well.
Nearly twenty years ago, Mary and I were in the same initial training class. What a beautiful-
looking girl she was then. She is still attractive now, but she looks at least ten years older than she
really is. Mary is a great girl with a good heart and can be a lot of fun. The trouble is she is totally
screwed up.
When Mary starts partying, she never really stops partying. If most of us have had too much to
drink or if we think its getting too late, we go home. Not Mary. The more alcohol she drinks, the
more alcohol she wants, and this usually causes her to land in trouble, or in someone elses bed, or
both.
Her full name is Mary Gomez, but most in the company, particularly the boys, simply call her
Mary Go-round, because most have had a ride. A cruel nickname, I know, but also extremely apt,
considering that Mary does go round and round, doing the same mistakes over and over and over
again.
The one-night stands and the drugs have taken their toll on her. Poor Mary has had as many
therapists as she has had her pseudo-suicide attempts. One of her cry-for-help habits is to get
totally wasted, drunk-dial someone and then cry for help in a manic-depressed slurring stupor.
That someone has been me on a number of occasions, but then almost everyone I know has been
on the receiving end of that phone line.
Mary flies in to Singapore later this morning, and we are catching up for lunch. Luckily I fly out
tonight, so an all-day bender is a no-go for me. Mary will surely have a few glasses of wine, if she
hasnt done so already, and then tell me all about the latest guy to dump her.
I already know that she has been having a fling with one of the guys from work. I know this
because Mary has had flings with almost every straight man in the company. Who is the fling of the
week thats something I dont know yet. I guess Ill find out over lunch.
We meet at a little Indian restaurant not far from the hotel. In hindsight, I wish I had chosen
another place. I am flying to India tonight, and I just know Im on the road to curry overload.
Mary looks tired and deservedly so after flying in from Europe. She, however, unexpectedly,
has a big smile on her face.
Mary gushes, Im in love!
Dumbfounded, I ask, In love? With whom?
Michael Lawson.
I know Mike Lawson. If Mary has a male counterpart it would be Mike Lawson. If Mike is not
the sleaziest guy in the company already, he is certainly a strong contender of the position. He has
even made moves on me, many times too, and I think I almost gave in once, some years ago. Mind
you, he is rather handsome, even if he does lack sophistication.
As we eat our curries she cannot stop gushing about how fantastic he is. Perhaps I am being far
too critical, I wonder quietly. Perhaps they are perfect for each other?
Who am I kidding? It doesnt have a chance in hell of working out. The relationship will end in
Apprehended Violence Orders, daily therapy sessions and copious amounts of booze and drugs.
And guess wholl be called upon to be the understanding, sympathetic friend?
I look across the table at Mary and smile.
Airline crew romances are commonplace. Some become couples, some do not. I have
earthling friends that have told me about their inter-office affairs, so I know that this is
reasonably common in their world as well. But being a flight attendant is such a unique job and
brings with it a unique lifestyle. We interact with so many different people, and sometimes those
like Mary take interaction to a whole other level. Office affairs just cant compare to what we
have going on for us: we could go away with someone for days at a time and not only work
together with them, but get a chance to be with them in different countries, to stay in the same hotel,
jetlagged and partying.
And if someone like Mary does decide to have a little onboard romance, its not that big of a
deal. In a regular nine-to-five job, you are going to have to see that person day in and day out; in
our job, theres a very good chance you may not see that person again for years.
Some crew, but not all crew, have what I have heard described as Goodyear relationships: it
is all over as soon as the planes tires have touched down on the ground back home. What goes on
tour stays on tour, as they say.
I usually try to avoid going out with a fellow flyer. I did have a fling with one colleague some
years ago. We tried to keep it a secret, but no one really cared, except for me.
I am surely not like Mary, but I am not a prude either.
I just like to be a little more discreet. Also, I like to stick to my principles at least, most of the
time.
But I can understand why crew members are drawn to together. Someone who spends all his or
her time flying around the world requires a very special and understanding spouse. Not everyone
can handle their partner, boyfriend or girlfriend being away so often. Moreover, not everyone can
handle a partner who returns home jetlagged or tired or sick or just wanting to be left alone.
When you are seeing someone who doesnt fly, it can be a difficult thing, asking them to respect
your wishes of being a post-trip hermit. When you arrive home you want to say, Hi honey, I have
missed you. Now get the hell away from me. After all, the task of being all smiles and seeming
like the epitome of hospitality elegance for fifteen hours at a stretch on an aircraft will wear
anyone out. The last thing you would want to do when you get home is to pretend to be Miss
Congeniality. In fact, I usually wrap myself in a (security) blanket for twenty-four hours when I get
off work: during this time, I see no one and talk to no one. I barely have the desire or energy to
have a monologue with myself, let alone a dialogue with someone else.
Mike and Mary can share their post-work tiredness with each other, I think to myself. They can
share their grief, share their built-up aggression and, finally, share their hatred. They are doomed,
of course.
As Mary tells me about how she and Mike have their next trip together, and as she describes it
to sound so romantic, I wrestle to push down the cynicism building up inside me. And although I
know beyond a shadow of a doubt that their relationship is a train wreck about to happen, I smile. I
give her only replies of support and cheer.
You look so happy, I say.
You are so lucky.
Im so happy for you.
As I walk away from the restaurant and a gushing Mary, I know its almost time. I have to get
ready for work now. I have to put on my uniform and then paste on my fake smile.
India, here I come.
Id be wanting
The flight is full, full and full. We have just handed out our 747th special vegetarian meal, and my
patience is beyond shot: it is shot, buried and already has its headstone covered in overgrowth.
I feel a tug on my uniform. I have felt hundreds of tugs on my uniform. Most tugs, I simply
ignore; some tugs, I manage to pull away from, sufficiently enough to break their grip; a few tugs,
however, I cannot shake off no matter how hard I try, for they hang on for their dear life.
Id be wanting another Scotch. The tug grows more impatient.
I try really hard to not give in to the temptation to grab this man by the scruff of his neck and
scream, Id be wanting to take your fingers, which are so rudely pulling at the seams of my dress,
and place them on a George Foreman grill!
I grimace, and then flash him a half-smile, displaying acting skills that should win me an
Academy Award, or at the least a nomination. I tell him I will bring him a Scotch soon. I have not
even finished my sentence when another tug interrupts me. Id be wanting another man yells.
By the end of it, I have promised to serve passengers twenty-four Scotches, fifteen wines,
twelve packets of peanuts and a partridge in a pear tree. I hide in the galley, take a deep breath and
make myself a cup of tea.
I just cant go back out there. Not now. Not yet.
As I sip my tea and contemplate the horror of stepping back into those fires of hell, the
unthinkable occurs: I get my period.
I am not due for several more days, but this job messes with every possible body function. I am
not even sure I know what my actual menstrual cycle is anymore or if I even have a menstrual
cycle anymore. What I do know is I need to get to a bathroom. Now.
It feels as if Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier are fighting inside my stomach, using my uterus as a
punching bag. As I sprint to that elusive available toilet, several hands reach out to block my path
and to grab my uniform, but I dodge them all with the precision of a professional footballer. One
hand almost grabs my arm, but I roll my wrists and follow up with a karate chop that would have
made Bruce Lee proud. Ahead of me, a large man is standing in the aisle and although the laws of
physics might dictate it impossible for me to pass him, I contort my body around him, passing him
without breaking stride. A steely look in my eyes, I make it to the toilet area.
Thank God! There is a toilet free here. I push open the toilet door with the urgency of a fireman.
Stay dry. Stay confident claim a popular tampon brand. Im now dry, yes. But confident? The
only thing I am confident about is that the next six hours are going to be the longest of my life.
Flying at 35,000 feet, cramping and sleep-deprived, with craters on my face from falling asleep
on peanuts, I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus. Dont kill someone, dont
kill someone, I keep repeating to myself.
I was sure that jails and detention centres around the world were full of women that suffered
from severe menstrual pain, lack of sleep and jetlag.
God help the next passenger who gets on my wrong side.
As I slink back toward the galley, someone grabs me by the arm. Id be wanting some potato
crisps.
Dont kill him, dont kill him, I tell myself again, although I am ready to scratch out his eyes
and force them down his own throat.
He lets go of my arm.
I take a deep breath and reply, We dont have crisps, only peanuts.
He doesnt give up. Do you have crackers?
No. Peanuts, I repeat myself. Im convinced that he is the subject of some sort of experiment
for Artificial Stupidity.
Cashews? Do you have cashews? he persists.
No. Peanuts!
Are they roasted?
At this point I could do one of two things. I could attack this man with a verbal machete, and risk
losing my job, or I could do the smart thing and get even with him.
Of course, we have roasted peanuts. Ill roast you a fresh batch now. It might take a while
though.
He nods, smiling. I go back to the galley, fill a foil tray with peanuts and then place them in the
oven: I roast the nuts on high. Only when I am sure that they have been burnt to a crisp do I take
them out of the oven.
When I serve the piping hot peanuts to the man, he immediately attempts to grab a few nuts
eagerly, only to immediately drop them back, his fingers burnt. I walk away with a satisfied grin on
my face.
I hide myself in the galley again, but only moments later find the same passenger standing before
me; he has opened the curtains to the galley and is looking inside, at me. Oh God, what does he
want now, I groan to myself.
However, he takes my hand in his own and shakes it, repeatedly.
Those are the nicest peanuts I have ever had.
I feel terrible. All the poor man had wanted was a little attention, and all I had done was screw
with him.
I sit down in the galley with the curtains closed and have an attack of hormone-induced cry.
curry in a hurry
It is now called Mumbai, but most locals still call it Bombay. I must say that I love India. It is a
fascinating place; however, as crew, we dont really have enough time or the energy to leave the
confines of the city areas. On my first five or six trips to Mumbai, I was the definitive tourist there
and did everything a tourist would most surely do, from seeing where Gandhi had lived to treating
myself to high tea at Taj Mahal Hotel. Later, in 2009, that same magnificent hotel would become a
shooting gallery for radical extremists. Luckily none of our crew was there at the time, although the
terrorist attack did open our eyes to some of the dangers that lay out there. Most of the countries I
fly to are caught in some sort of political or social turmoil: some of them have the usual security
issues that can be negotiated with a little common sense, while some countries are just downright
dangerous. Such incidents made me realise that we do not live in a perfect world.
Such incidents also made me realise that I had a knack for escaping trouble.
In 2002, I was in Bali only a week before the bombings there. I was in Jakarta in 2004, only a
day before a bomb had ripped through the foyer of the nearby Marriott hotel. In 2005, while I had
been on my way to London, the tube bombings had occurred in the city. During another one of my
trips to Mumbai, in 2006, a series of bombs had gone off on local trains, killing hundreds. This had
happened only hours before we had arrived there, and our crew had been instructed by our
companys security to not leave the hotel. I had left Narita only an hour or so before the
catastrophic earthquake of 2011. Ive just narrowly missed riots in Bangkok on two occasions and
became stuck there during major flooding. I have also been in other cities badly affected by
monsoons, typhoons, cyclones, hurricanes and tornadoes. I saw massive destruction caused by a
series of twisters in and around the Dallas area, Texas. Our hotel in Brisbane, Australia, was once
inundated by flood waters while I was there, as were hotels in Manila, Bangkok, as well as
Mumbai. And I was in New York only days before 9-11; I had then flown back into the city on one
of the first flights that had been allowed in.
I rarely leave the hotel room these days when I travel to cities like Mumbai. Apart from the
safety issues, theres another reason for this: I have had horrible gastro-experiences in India.
Before taking this job I could never have imagined the amount of strain my poor bowels would
have to endure. Flight attendants talk to each other about things that I am sure no one else would
ever discuss with their work colleagues. We freely discuss our toilet habits and about the ill-
effects of a hostile vindaloo. Ive suffered food-related bugs that I didnt even know existed. The
worst of these was giardia it basically stripped out my insides and made me feel like I wanted to
die.
I now carry around my own pharmaceutical dispensary. I have tablets for diarrhoea, and I also
have tablets for constipation I have never needed the latter in India. Ive made sure that I will
never eat food off a Bombay street vendors cart ever again, but rather stick to the dining room of
my hotel. My decision to stay in the confines of five-star luxury really doesnt need justifying after
all: the hotel has clean kitchens, outstanding food, comfortable beds, a magnificent pool and
drinkable coffee. What more do I need?
Ironically, poor countries like India have the grandest hotels. In fact, I have found that the poorer
the country, the better its hotels. In Mumbai, the magnificent hotel I usually stay in is surrounded by
slums. Every time I order a gin and tonic there, I know the drink costs as much as what it would
take to feed a whole family in the slum. For a month.
Well, I cant cure all the worlds problems, can I? I am just being saucy, of course. Flight
attendants are some of the most generous people I know. The involvement by some crew in fund-
raising and charity work is outstanding.
One of the better things about travelling and seeing so much is that it gives you perspective, a
chance to see the bigger picture. Not everyone who travels opens their eyes wide enough to see
that bigger picture, but the opportunities are certainly there. As I lie by the hotels pool,
contemplating the world, contemplating my life, I cant help but realise that my period cramps,
jetlag and lack of sleep are all inconsequential in the larger order of things.
However, along with the bigger perspective, travelling can also give you a bigger sense of
denial.
So, I deny all the trouble and chaos I see around me. And I simply order another gin and tonic.
sometimes the greatest experiences are giving something back
I bet you have had some great experiences on your job, people usually tell me. And then they ask
about the greatest and most memorable experience Ive had.
They probably expect me to talk about the great places Ive travelled to perhaps the Great
Wall of China, or the Great Lakes of Northern America, or the Great Barrier Reef of Australia.
However, the greatest impression left on me during my flying career was my trip to New York,
only six days after 9-11. As we travelled on the crew bus toward Manhattan, the sun was setting
behind the island. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky. It should have been a beautiful sight,
but it was not. The familiar shapes of the World Trade towers were missing from the citys
skyline. There was only smoke where the twin towers had stood. When we had arrived at our
hotel, just around the corner from Times Square, you could tell that things were different. Gone
were the friendly smiles of the hotel staff. Gone were the big city noises usually associated with
New York. I couldnt even hear the impatient horns of taxis. People had come out to the still-
blackened streets, but the atmosphere was still quiet, somber.
When we arrived at our hotel, we really didnt know what to do. It was inappropriate to party,
but some of us felt we should do something. But what? I suggested we go to a little bar called
Dont Tell Mama, only a short walk away from the hotel we stayed in. According to the
concierge, all of the citys theatres and bars had been closed for days, but some bars were
reopening that night.
Dont Tell Mama is a bit like a karaoke bar, but with live music. The inhouse pianist knows
every Broadway tune ever written, and most of the bar staff are performers, some even
understudies for the local Broadway shows, and they sing show tunes on stage between serving
drinks. The bar is also a meeting place for producers, actors and a few Broadway stars, who
sometimes drop in for a drink after a show. On any given night, you are likely to hear some
exceptionally talented performers there.
On the night several of our crew went there, many of those performers paid their respects to
family and friends that had passed away in the blasts only days ago, and singers belted out Frank
Sinatra tunes with a passion I have never seen before. They let their tears flow freely, and we sat
there for hours, watching them, awestruck by their strength. By the time we left the bar, the sun was
long up.
We then walked down to the World Trade site. Security was surprisingly lax, and one of the
crew members flashed a fake press pass (from Bangkok). We continued walking inside the
cordoned-off areas. And we stood there, silent, amongst the smouldering rubble that was once such
a symbol of power. No one took photos. No one spoke. Everyone was moved.
From this experience, I learnt how fragile the human life can be, and how senseless these acts of
violence are.
In all fairness, I am not as completely self-absorbed as I seem. Nor am I completely oblivious to
the difficulties of those less fortunate than myself. I am involved in charity work in a number of
poverty-stricken nations. A number of crew work on these projects, and we donate our time and
experience, not just goods or money (although we do that too). We have hammered in many, many
nails for others we have funded and helped build houses for orphanages in Asia and Africa.
On the home front I have my own little project going on: I save all the hotel amenities that I have
collected from trips, like shampoos, soaps, slippers and lots more, throughout the year and make
little gift hampers. I even buy a few extra odds and ends in my travels to add to these hampers. I
then deliver them to several nursing homes in my area at Christmas time. I usually take them in a
few days prior to Christmas, as I am typically away on Christmas day, going away on one of my
trips. Not this year though, I make a note to myself. For once, I have not been rostered to work on
Christmas. This year, I get to don my little Santa hat and hand out the hampers on Christmas
morning.
I have celebrated Christmas only once at home so far, ever since I began my flying career. That
day, I still remember, I took my sack of hampers to the first of the nursing homes. There was a
lovely old lady sitting near the homes front door, and we had a little chat. She told me she was so
excited about meeting her family they were on their way now, to meet her and spend Christmas
morning with her at the home. When I met the nurse in charge, I explained that I did not have
enough hampers for every patient at the home, and that they be handed out to only those that did not
have families; people like the lovely lady I had just talked to had family arriving to see her, and
they would obviously bring her gifts, I reasoned. The nurse told me that the lovely lady I had just
spoken to had been staying at the home for over three years, and every year she waited outside for
her family to come. But, every year, no one came for her.
I wept for her. After I had regained some semblance of composure, I offered a hamper to the
lovely old lady, then sat with her and chatted for most of the morning.
As for India, all my charity attempts there have only ended in an overwhelming feeling of
helplessness. Each time crew have taken either clothing or food into a slum, the slum lords have
taken away the goods, and although they promise to distribute them to those who need it, we know
that they will sell the things we gave them. The only ones that eventually benefitted from our
generosity are those at the top, not the ones who need help. Sometimes life is unfair.
the glamour of being an international flight attendant
It is already time for me to fly out of Mumbai. I am heading back to Singapore, and we have almost
finished boarding the passengers. I am refreshed after the well-deserved rest I got in Mumbai. I
have even decided to reassess my attitude onboard the aircraft: I will try to show patience; I will
try to be courteous; I will try to be understanding. I can only hope that my renewed sense of human
respect lasts for the duration of the flight.
No one has grabbed at me or pulled at my uniform yet.
So far so good, I sigh. But then again we have yet to take off.
I have been called so many things in my flying life. Air hostess. Stewardess. A trolley dolly.
Hostie.
The new, and more politically correct term, for what I do is flight attendant. My duties,
however, are not as easy to define. Most passengers think all I do is pour tea and coffee for them.
They have no idea about some of the situations we flight attendants may be required to deal with.
We are first and foremost a safety professional and there is a lot more we do. We are a security
officer, a fire-fighter, a psychologist, a travel agent, a cleaner, a law enforcer, a bartender, an
aged-care worker, an announcer, a cook, a diplomat, a promotional spokesperson, a problem
solver, a salesperson, a nurse and a child-minder, all rolled into one.
When a passenger addresses me as waitress, I jokingly tell them about some of these other
skills, before smiling to say, So, would you like the chicken or the beef?
Most people think being a flight attendant is an extremely glamorous job. They couldnt be more
wrong. Try spending fourteen or fifteen hours getting harassed in a narrow aluminium tube with
nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
I get pushed, grabbed, prodded, tugged at, coughed on, spat on and vomited on too often to
recall. Ive even been handed a soiled diaper. Moreover, some of the things Ive found in the
aircrafts toilets are too graphic to describe here. In fact, some of the things Ive seen in the cabin
are too graphic to describe here. If someone vomits or a toilet has been treated like a toxic dump
there are no commercial cleaners on call at 35,000 feet. We can, at times, lock off a toilet that has
been badly violated. However, there are generally only enough toilets onboard to service the first
six rows of passengers. Even if there arent enough serviceable toilets, the passengers will still
need to go and they do go. This next story I am about to tell is almost too incredulous to believe,
so I will leave out the explicit details. I will say that on one flight someone used the back galley as
a toilet. Not number ones either. Because of hygiene reasons the galley was blocked off, and
passengers did not receive any food for the rest of the flight all because someone (or something)
should have been locked up in a cage and not been on an aircraft. We were out in the cabin
working, as we do, and no one saw who the culprit was. Based on the evidence, we could tell this
was an adult, or at least someone with adult-size toilet habits. Had we, or the passengers for that
matter, known who had done it, the intensity of the reprisal would have been proportionate to that
of the disgusting act.
Oh the glamour of it all.
Travelling around the world was once seen as quite glamorous, by both the passengers as well
as the hosties. I remember my first ever time on a plane. I was eleven then, and a wide-eyed and
awe-struck passenger. Everyone on my flight was dressed immaculately. The men looked
distinguished in their Cary Grant suits while all the ladies wore Coco Channel and other designer
apparel. I remember looking at the stewardesses and thinking about how beautiful they looked.
They were the epitome of style and elegance, and I was mesmerised. It was then that eleven-year-
old me decided to become a flight attendant.
Oh, how times have changed now. These days we are lucky if the passengers are wearing shoes.
Airline travel was once an experience to be savoured, but it is now purely a mode of
transportation. And more than often, a passengers common courtesy is checked in along with the
luggage. Crew normally dont put up with passengers that are disrespectful or uncouth. We get
really livid at rude passengers, or we get even. One passenger I had the misfortune of serving was
extremely rude to all the crew as well as to passengers around him. On landing he mocked the
crew by putting a cigarette in his mouth and pretending to smoke it. He knew what he was doing
and as the cigarette was not lit he taunted There is nothing you can do. I am not breaking any
laws.
Maybe so, sir.
Unbeknown to him, when we landed, we forwarded his details to customs officials along with
the message that he was acting suspiciously during the flight and had refused to eat or drink. Also,
we casually hinted that we thought he might be carrying drugs.
As the crew walked away, most of us laughing like an evil Bond villain, we hoped that the rude
man would enjoy being body-searched with a rubber glove.
Ive heard similar revenge stories from the other crew members. When I first started flying I had
never heard of the term air rage. I have now witnessed so many instances of such rage, so many
over-reactions to situations that neednt be responded to with venom.
There are now even reports of flight attendant rage yes, it is not just the passengers who can
be rude and thoughtless. I have seen some flight attendants be just as bad-mannered as some of the
passengers. We often have to put up with a lot, and sometimes crew members do react. In most
jobs if something or someone really gets under your skin, you can step outside and get some fresh
air and reassess the situation. You cant do that in the confines of an aircraft.
Now, as I walk along the aisles while passengers board, with a calm smile still stuck on my
face, one of the passengers stops me to ask for a drink, even before he has even taken his seat.
Actually, it is not so much that he asked for the drink that tests my patience, but it is how he asked
for it. Some of the passengers from the subcontinent can be a little condescending, and I dont
usually put up with such disrespect. However, I control my anger and politely tell him that I will
bring him his drink after take-off.
On one of my earlier flights from India, an experienced hostie became frustrated at the rudeness
of one such demanding passenger and told him so.
In my country you would be a servant, he had snapped at her.
Without batting an eyelid, she had snapped back, And in my country you would be a taxi
driver.
Touch.
Although I am trying my hardest to avoid confrontation, the man asks me again. And he chooses
to ask me while I am in the middle of performing my safety demonstration.
Could I have my drink now, he calls out to me. My problem-passenger alarm bell has begun to
ring. I know that pesky passengers like him ask every crew member for drinks. By the time we
figure out that each flight attendant has given him three drinks, he is totally hammered and we are
usually only an hour into the flight then.
My guess turns out to be correct. This guy is indeed a pesky, drunken passenger. When we walk
up to him to serve him his meal, he clumsily spills a glass of red wine and then leaves his seat to
go to the toilet. On his return he proceeds to eat, and then throw up all over himself. In my
experience, the number of red wine drinkers who throw up outweigh those who drink white wine
or maybe it seems this way because red is more apparent than white? In any case, my drunken-
vomiting-mess-of-a-passenger mumbles something about how I had to clean him up and then
passes out. I move those around him to other seats and return to see the man still passed out, with
vomit dribbling down his chin.
I discover from our passenger list that this guy is a manager of a rather large company. I
consider taking a photograph of him; I could send it to his company with the caption: This is how
your manager behaves on flights.
With utter disdain for the man, I grab a blanket and throw it over him, and then spray the whole
area with disinfectant. As gross as he is, at least he is comatose now and is resting in an upright
position. Ive faced similar situations where people have fallen asleep on their backs, and weve
had to constantly monitor them for fear that they may choke on their own vomit. It is very hard to be
compassionate towards someone who has self-inflicted afflictions. And who has abused the crew
and made our life a misery in the process. However, we are professionals, and we must do what
we must do. Besides, the paperwork Ill have to do if this man dies on me is a complete nightmare.
I walk down the aisle, and another passenger directs my attention to a nearby toilet, the same
toilet my now comatose man had visited earlier. The passenger points to a little surprise on the
bulkhead and floor outside the toilet. The Indian man had not actually made it to the toilet but had
thrown up all over the wall and floor before thoughtfully returning to his seat and deciding to share
the contents of his stomach with those around him.
It takes me nearly an hour to clean up his vomit from around the toilet area. It takes me longer to
recover from the horror.
The perpetrator sleeps through my cleaning hell, and when he does finally wake he presses the
call button. With dried vomit on his face he demands, Clean me up.
My reply is not something I can repeat here.
I am constantly baffled at how rude and ignorant some people can become on an aircraft. I dont
know of anyone who enjoys rudeness. I also dont know of any crew member who likes to be
touched by passengers (whilst in the cabin, at least). Thank goodness I dont suffer from
aphenphosmphobia, which is a fear of being touched, particularly by a stranger. Even so, I am still
not fond of being touched by strangers, especially if it is avoidable.
When Im in a dress shop, and that does happen a lot, I have never gone up to a sales assistant
and tapped them on the shoulder, let alone poked or prodded them to get their attention. Yet some
people think it their given right to sit in an aircraft seat and do everything from grabbing the nearest
flight attendant on the arm to tapping them on their backs.
No, we are not completely deaf. If we are close enough to touch, we are obviously close enough
to be talked to.
Once, a woman, whom I knew spoke English, poked me so hard I shrieked out in pain. Then, I
lost my cool.
You might think you have the right to jab your finger knuckle deep into my ribs, but sweetheart
(a word I only ever use when I am angry), Ive got news for you! There are better ways to get my
attention, like a polite excuse me or even pressing the call bell.
Did I find out what she wanted?
No.
After years of being treated like a human pin-cushion by passengers, Ive had enough. I make
compensation only for cultural ignorance or being accidentally touched, but apart from that, I draw
the line.
One male colleague, frustrated with this whole prodding-and-touching routine, decided to give it
back to his offenders. Whatever a passenger does to him, he does back, and he does it back twice
as hard.
When they stare back at him with an alarmed expression he responds, Oh, Im sorry, you didnt
like that either?
Ive even heard of some flight attendants threatening these overly touchy-feely passengers with
arrest or being met by airport security once they land. In some cases, the crew overreact a little; in
most cases, they are justified. In all fairness, most passengers are polite and respectful, but the
ones who lack basic manners are no longer tolerated. If I wanted to be touched all the time and
have strangers put their hands all over me, I would work in a strip club, and would probably get
big tips for letting that happen.
While I deliberate changing professions, another girl on the crew tells me something that makes
all my current suffering fade to insignificance. She says something so profound and so enlightening
that it reaffirms my decision to become a hostie.
Did you realise that the Great Singapore Sale is starting today?
The thought of going to the biggest sale in what is already a shopping Mecca puts a smile on my
face and a spring in my step.
This is not your everyday run-of-the-mill Singapore sale, after all. This is the Great Singapore
Sale.
shop till you drop
Like most girls, I love to shop. Unlike most girls, I have the chance to go to exotic locations and
only enough time to do little else but shop.
Ive always been a shop-till-you-drop style of girl, but when I first started flying, shopping
initially took a back seat (well, more like a side seat really) to other things, particularly playing
tourist. I was just so excited to visit all these different countries and explore their sights, the
different cultures, the cuisines and the shops. But after seeing Singapore for 146 times, there are
only so many times you can play tourist.
I dont really need an excuse to shop. I choose to shop over doing almost anything else even in
mega-touristy places like Europe. Shopping can feel so damn good a much-deserved relief from
limited slip times, jetlag and sleep deprivation issues. Besides, even if its Paris, if youre visiting
the city for the fifteenth time, even the Eiffel Tower begins to start looking like a rusty old piece of
scrap metal. The shops, however, look shiny and new.
Some people are born to play sports, some to dance, some to be diplomats. I was, ladies and
gentlemen, born to shop. I have even made up a nice little way to use shopping as a way to work
out and keep fit.
I call it retail aerobics, and it involves walking really fast for twenty minutes, with my heart
rate getting faster and faster as I approach the shops. It is not the walking that gets my blood
pumping, but the possibility of snagging a bargain. After two hours of patrolling aisles and lifting
hangers, I head back to the hotel carrying bulging bags on my arms like dumbbells. Retail aerobics
is a fantastic workout, and it really does help lose weight: my purse does weigh substantially less
after a round of retail aerobics.
When I am in a foreign country, shopping is the only activity safe enough for me to do on my
own, is in air-conditioned comfort, is available in every major city and, most importantly, is a lot
of fun. The world is really a small place. A shopping mall in Singapore is essentially the same as
one in Los Angeles or Sydney or Johannesburg. They all have Guess, Ralph Lauren Polo, Armani,
DKNY and, of course, my complete and undivided attention.
The unique thing about Singapore is much of their shopping is available underground. You can
go from shopping centre to centre and, using a series of linking walkways or the train system, you
can spend all day shopping, and not even glimpse the outside world. This works perfectly,
especially when those tropical storms roll in as they do most afternoons. Once, I had been
shopping all day in Singapore and didnt even know there had been a massive storm outside, until I
had returned to my hotel room to open the curtains.
This time I am arriving in Singapore and the weather is fine. I open the curtains, admire the
view, and then contemplate my movements. I am tired, and I know I should go straight to bed. But
then, I also know that the sale is already on, and the prospect of a life-altering-bargain is too big a
temptation for me to refuse. I freshen up and then immediately race downstairs to get my Starbucks
coffee to go. Its time to begin my retail aerobics with coffee-fuelled gusto.
Jetlag and lack of sleep can make you delirious. Usually this state of delirium is not something I
look forward to, but this time I am deliriously happy as I head underground, armed with a double-
shot latte in one hand and a handbag filled with credit cards in the other.
Soon, I am in retail heaven. Sure, there are people everywhere. Sure, my body is functioning on
pure adrenaline and nothing else, but all of this fades into the blurry background when I spot a rack
of Dolce and Gabbana jeans being offered at a 70% discount.
A 70% discount! I scream inside my head. They are almost giving them away.
My retail-aerobics session moves from cardio to weights as I carry around bags of pure joy.
Should I go back to my hotel, I wonder when Im almost done. Should I drop these bags off in the
room, have a quick power nap and come back for more? Or should I just be satisfied with my
efforts and call it quits?
I decide to go with Plan C. I grab another Starbucks coffee and soldier on. If only I had this
much determination and dedication when I had studied at university, I would have topped all my
courses. Sadly shopping wasnt a course option offered to me.
I take a break to plot my remaining shopping strategy. Ive just bought two dresses, three tops, a
new handbag, some jewellery and those killer pair of jeans. What should I get next? Shoes! I need
a new pair of tan-coloured boots to go with my jeans.
It is funny how I have to have, I must have and I need have come to mean the same thing to
me now. At university, if I said I need a new pair of shoes, it meant that I really did need a new
pair of shoes, that I would be going to classes barefoot otherwise. Yes, I do need to have a reality
check soon, but all I want now is a pair of shoes.
I do find my dream shoes soon enough. They arent as heavily discounted as some of my other
purchases, but then what are credit cards for? Anyone who lives within their means suffers a
distinct lack of imagination, I say.
My next trip is to Manila, another shopping wonderland, and I know this will give me an
opportunity to scratch my shopping itch very soon. I decide to call it quits for the day. Fully
satisfied, I return to my hotel room. Although I should sleep straight away, I am still buzzed from
all that shopping and go through a little routine I often do when Ive had a magnificent shopping
day. I take all my purchases out of their packaging, lay them on the bed and then stand back,
looking at them in admiration.
I stand with a smile on my face for about five minutes. I then realise that Ive tried on all the
items before buying them, but I havent tried on my new boots not with the jeans, at least. I barely
have the energy to keep my eyes open, but I do find the will to wiggle into my Dolce and Gabbana
jeans and slide into my boots before standing in front of the full-length mirror.
Damn, I look good.
I have noticed that most guys refer to their jeans as simply jeans. Girls, however, usually refer
to their jeans by the name of their brand. While deciding what to wear, we usually think, Will I
wear my Armanis? Or my Luckys? Or my Calvins? Or my DKNYs? Or my Guess jeans?
To my list, I can now add these D&Gs.
I carefully fold my new purchases and put them back in my suitcase. Once, the bed is free again,
I proceed to do what I should have done hours earlier: sleep. Tomorrow Ive to get back on the
aircraft, but Im happy that Im going home. And Im going home with a suitcase filled of joy and a
face beaming with a bargain-hunters grin.
home sweet home, but only for a heartbeat
The flight home is a night flight. This means that after the meal service, most of the passengers
would fall sleep. They sleep, yes, but we dont. After twelve or thirteen hours of working, through
the night, bogged down by jetlag and fatigue, I stagger into my apartment. My body is screaming for
sleep. The trouble is it is 9:00 in the morning, and my unit is bathed in bright, cheery sunlight.
I have become accustomed to sleeping on almost every type of bed available, but nothing
compares to the reassuring comfort of my own bed. I could sleep for a week, but the trouble is I
only get three days at home before my next trip. After deducting all that sleep-time, walking-
around-like-a-zombie-time, washing-time, drycleaning-time and repacking-time, I am left with no
time for myself.
I hit the pillow with a thud. My body says sleep, but my brain doesnt agree. Even with thick
curtains helping plunge my bedroom into darkness, my brain still argues with me, I know it is light
outside. You cant trick me!
Like almost every flight attendant I know, I use sleeping tablets by the bucket load. I wish I
didnt have to, but I do.
The tablets I take now knock me out for four hours exactly. Sometimes four hours is the right
amount of sleep time, sometimes it is not.
When I wake up, I contemplate my limited time at home and my not-so-limited chores to do.
There are bills to pay (particularly my expanding credit-card debt) fish to feed, family to phone,
friends to catch up with, rotten food to throw out and fresh food to buy (which has to be thrown out
again after I get back from the next trip).
Whats the point of buying food at all? I decide to not go to the supermarket. At least that is one
time-consuming task I can strike off my list. Eating out is easier anyway.
Keeping a track of what goes into your fridge and what needs to come out of it can be such a
pain. I cant remember the last time I bought a container of milk and didnt throw out most of it;
unfortunately they dont sell fresh milk by the thimble. My freezer is full of food I have tried to
save. Usually, by the time I find something I need in the freezer its already time for me to throw it
away.
For my current brief interlude at home, I decide that the freezer will be opened only if I have to
get some ice for a stiff gin and tonic. But not tonight though. Not on my first day home: I am very
careful not to drink alcohol on the first day Im back from a trip, for I am already in a zombie-like
trance and having a drink will only put me over the edge. The other thing I need to be careful about
is what I eat. I get so hungry after a trip, and although my body craves sweets or junk foods, my
conscience and my waistline cannot tolerate the guilt of giving in.
The real disadvantage of eating in as many restaurants and cafes as I do is keeping tabs on how
much fat and carbs I consume, and of the highs and lows of my glycemic index, depending on what
kind of diet I am on at the time (and I am always on a diet). I often joke that on my last fourteen-day
diet the only thing I lost was fourteen days.
I usually want to make time to go to the gym, but never really find the time in the end. I get to
spend only a few days at home, after all. I even signed up for a six-month membership package at
my local gym, desperately hoping that I would find the time and the energy to get myself fitter.
Predictably, Ive never set foot in there. However, I will eventually end up paying for another six
months guilt, New Years resolutions and optimism will kick in.
Some of my flying friends fight real battles with weight. It is a lifestyle that does not lend itself
to routine. It is a lifestyle that only lends itself to convenience and compromise. Some crews
bodies handle it, some dont. I am lucky that I dont put on weight easily. Unfortunately, easily is
not the same thing as never.
Some hosties make huge sacrifices to look the way they do. A flying friend of mine, Sue, is what
I term a gym junkie. She eats the right things, follows a strict exercise regime and forces herself
into some sort of routine in a job and lifestyle that really doesnt allow it. At the end of it all, Sue
looks sensational.
Sue lives on her own and is extremely strict about her schedule, and as a result has become very
selfish with her habits and her time. She has no problem getting dates, but she cannot keep a guy.
Her body might be flexible, but her time is not. No man will put up with such a rigid woman no
matter how good her body is. It is not just guys who get annoyed with Sue, but friends as well. If
you want to hangout with Sue, youll have to fit yourself into Sues timetable.
On the other hand, I make a real effort to keep in touch with my close friends. Yet, there are
times when I realise that I havent seen a friend in months, or even in years. I make calls, I text, I
email, I tweet, I facebook, and I even leave nice and long voicemail messages. I do all I could
possibly do, yet to get face to face, particularly with another flight attendant, is not an easy task.
After sleeping for the obligatory four hours and after my mandatory wake-up coffee, I potter
around my apartment in a jetlagged daze and do all the menial chores I need to do. I contemplate
ringing a friend, but I just dont feel like talking to anyone. Not just yet.
The one major flaw in my plan of not going to the supermarket to buy food and opting to eat out
is that I actually need to go out and eat. That means getting dressed and actually communicating
with people. I would rather wander around my apartment, dressed in my flannel pyjamas and
comfy slippers. Its horrible that we have to eat to survive.
If I have to eat, then I may as well try to be social at the same time. I phone Helen, my best
friend, who couldnt care less that I am verbally incoherent and have a preference to be a hermit.
Although she is not a fellow flight attendant, Helen understands what I am like after a trip and is
non-judgmental about it. Thats probably why she is my best friend.
Thank god, Helen is free for lunch. As dysfunctional as I feel, I always look forward to catching
up with Helen. The one thing I try to do around her is to not talk about my trips so much. To boast
about the exotic places I go to, the lavish sights I see, the people I meet and all the shopping Ive
done to a mum who has two kids, a hard-working husband and a crippling mortgage would be
selfish and inappropriate. Especially because I know Helen is jealous of me. I wish I could stay
in a five-star hotel just for one day. No kids. No stress. I would get room service. I would get a
massage. I would be in heaven, she often tells me, and I know exactly what she thinks of my life.
I always point out to her that my job and lifestyle are not as glamorous as she thinks it is. She
can see for herself the physical signs of jetlag and fatigue on my body, and how difficult I find it to
cope with my exhaustion. She can also see for herself that make-up and five cups of coffee are no
disguise for the weariness that seeps through every pore of my body.
Yet, Helen does not like to hear about how tired I am nobody likes to hear about it for that
matter. What Helen does like to hear about are some of my travel stories and about any celebrity
encounters Ive had on my trips.
I put on my new D&Gs, my new boots and one of my new tops and make my way, almost by
instinct, to our favourite little caf. One of my little quirks is that if I buy something new, I have to
wear it straight away.
New clothes? Very nice. I love the boots as well. Oooo! Who are the jeans by? chirps Helen
when she walks in and sets eyes on me.
I am not surprised at her observation skills. After all, she knows me well enough to know that I
wear something new every time I see her.
Trying not to rub in my good fortune too much, I tell her a small and white lie. I think they are
Dolce and Gabbana, but they are only cheap Asian knockoffs. You know, copies. Theyll probably
fall apart next week.
Ive used such white lies on many occasions. Im sure she doesnt believe me, but appreciates
my intention just the same. Poor Helen would love to have a wardrobe 1/100th the size of mine,
but I know that grocery shopping, school fees, the dogs vet visits and making sure that her kids
have clothes that fit take priority over her own fashion wants.
As we sit down to our regular table she asks her usual question, Did you have any celebrities
onboard this time?
I almost want to make up something so as to give a glimmer of excitement to the mundane
existence she thinks she lives. One white lie at a time, I decide, and so I shake my head. No, not
this time.
While Helen envies my lifestyle, I envy hers. She has a loving family, normal sleep patterns, a
normally functioning body clock, set routines, a nice house and the worlds cutest dog.
All I have is a goldfish and no normality at all.
sometimes not so happy beginnings become happy endings
When your body clock is all over the place, the three days at home feel considerably lesser than
three days. They feel like three hours. I can only find solace in the fact that my next trip is only a
four-dayer, and I get just as much time off at home when I get back. The other saving grace is Im
going to Manila, and I love Manila. When I get there, I intend to shop, shop, get a massage, shop
and then shop some more. I had a look at the crew list and found that I know one of the girls on the
crew. Her name is Gabrielle Reiner, and I know she is the type of girl who loves to shop. At least,
Ill have someone to share a taxi with.
From memory, Gabrielle is a bit of a princess. But then, it is not really safe to walk around on
your own in the Philippines. Though two is not that big a number, it is more than one. And though
Gabrielle can be a little painful, hanging out with her will still be better than hanging out on my
own.
The flight to Manila is fairly uneventful, albeit hard work. I realise en route that my princess
memories of Gabrielle are indeed bang on. She is extremely lazy and snooty on the aircraft, and I
begin to reconsider my decision to hang out with her. You are just going shopping with her, not
inviting her to become your new best friend, I scold myself. I decide not to over-think this.
We get to the hotel quite late at night. Some of the boys on the crew head straight into town. I am
not really sure what they get up to in Manila, but I do know they are up to no good.
I have a good nights sleep, a good workout in the hotels gym, and a great breakfast. I rarely use
a gym at home, but when you are awake in the early hours of the morning and the gym is just
downstairs, it is so convenient. The workout justifies the indulgent breakfast I have just eaten. I
feel justified and fantastic. I meet up with Gabrielle, and we hit the shops with gusto. The first
shopping centre we land in sells fake copies of things. Gabrielle buys a few latest release DVDs,
as well as sunglasses and watches. I grab a couple of things too Christmas is only ten days away,
and I win the title of favourite aunt every year for a reason.
As this is the first year in a long time that I will be at home for Christmas day, and I will get to
see my nephews and nieces opening their presents before me. The thought only adds to my
excitement.
When Im done picking out my gifts, I am happy to pot around while Gabrielle does her thing. I
notice that Gabrielle, unlike me, is serious when it comes to shopping.
Although Ive never been shopping with Gabrielle before, I quickly discover that her princess
attitude spills across effortlessly to the retail world as well. Haggling can be so much fun, and the
Filipinos are such friendly people; Gabrielle, however, is brutal. I become embarrassed at her
discourtesy and lack of warmth as she speaks and haggles with them. Unable to watch the mean
girl anymore, I want to walk away. At least for a while.
How about I meet up with you in two hours? At the coffee shop at the entrance of the shopping
centre? If you need to stay here longer, we can take it from there? I ask.
She agrees. I slink away to the only department store in the complex.
It has been a while since Ive been to Manila, and Id forgotten about the large number of sales
staff allotted to the stores there. Every single one of these shop assistants wishes me as I walk by:
Good morning, maam.
It sounds incredibly pleasant at first. For the first fifteen times, during which Ive barely
cleared two aisles of the shopping area, I smile and happily return the Good morning. For the
next fifteen, I simply return a slightly more reserved, Morning.
Im still not anywhere near the fashion section. Then, come the next fifteen Good mornings,
and I meet them with a sweet smile and a simple nod of the head. After this, all I want to do is nod
my head, without the smile.
I can see where this is going, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. Before another
sales assistant can wish me a Good morning, maam, I approach an aisle and jump in, shouting
out loud, Good morning everyone!.
A group of perplexed assistants look back at me, but then they recover quickly. They all smile
back, collectively wish me a good morning, then get back to their business.
Bingo.
I finally reach the ladies fashion floor, and I just start looking through one of the clothes racks
when I become aware that a shop assistant has snuck up behind me. Good morning, maam.
Damn it.
Still, I smile at her and say, Good morning.
She peers over my shoulder while I try to concentrate on the job at hand, and I feel very
uncomfortable. I move racks, but she follows me. For every step I take, she takes one. She has
become my shadow. I try to ignore her and take a dress from the rack.
She says, Dress, maam.
I turn and give her a smile, out of sheer politeness. I really just want to be left alone, my eyes
scream. I put the dress back and move to another rack. I take a shirt from one of the racks.
Shirt, maam.
I feel like saying, Thank you for pointing out this is a shirt, for clearly, if you had not done so, I
would have thought I was holding a rabbit!
I turn and try to be as inoffensive as I can.
Thank you, but I dont need any help at the moment.
However, as I turn away, towards the rack, I know she is still there. I just know.
I am not an impatient person, and I do give people the benefit of doubt, especially with regard to
cultural and language differences. So, I put the shirt back on its rack and sneak away to another
section. It is only when I know for certain that the persistent shop assistant has left me that I walk
over to another rack. As a pre-emptive strike, I say to the nearest shop assistant, Good morning. I
dont need any help at the moment, thank you.
Thankfully, in Manila the only retail annoyances are the Good mornings and the shadowing
staff. In countries with more aggressive attitudes to customer service mostly countries with large
Chinese communities or in the Indian subcontinent the sales staff attempt to anticipate your every
move. One only has to glance sideways for a nanosecond, and the salesperson will jump in and
grab the piece of clothing at which they thought you were looking. Usually, they go on to shove this
piece of clothing in your face, and usually, this piece of clothing is not only the wrong outfit but
probably the second most hideous thing you have ever seen the shop assistant is usually wearing
the first most hideous thing.
Markets in those countries are not a lot of fun. There, vendors often try to yank you into their
shop or stall. I get enough pushing and pulling on the aircraft to tolerate being physically harassed
by hoards of aggressive vendors in Shanghai. A little trick I have learnt is to walk around such
markets wearing earphones or headsets. They dont even need to be connected to an iPod, but just
pretending not to hear these hostile hawkers at least limits the verbal harassing I receive, even if it
doesnt do much to stop the arm-grabbing.
What these people havent realised is that most Westerners will buy a lot of thing if they are just
left alone and not manhandled. At least, I know I will.
After two hours of shopping mostly walking around and dodging sales assistants and little to
show for it, I decide to head to the coffee shop and wait for Gabrielle.
As I walk there, I already know that Gabrielle is going to require more time. I also know that
she will be late, which is why I chose to meet at a coffee shop. Two slowly sipped lattes later,
Gabrielle arrives, without any remorse for being late. As predicted, she tells me she isnt done
shopping there. I immediately make the bold decision to cut Gabrielle loose and move on to
another shopping centre. I jump into a taxi and take my chances solo. And I end up having a ball.
I shop. I get a massage. I shop again. I even stumble upon a dental clinic and decide to enquire
about getting my teeth whitened. I had a complete whitening procedure done in Bangkok, but that
was years ago and my coffee addiction has left some telltale yellowing on my teeth. I dont have
the time or the money for the full procedure now, I tell them. They suggest that I get a briefer and
cheaper treatment, which is almost as effective as the laser whitening procedure. Although they
give no guarantees on the results, they could fit me in straight away. That will do, I tell them.
Teeth whitening is so expensive back home. In fact, any sort of dental work costs a fortune there.
In Manila and Bangkok the dentists are usually trained in the U.S., do a good job, but charge local
rates.
When the dentist is done with my teeth, I check in the mirror and realise that he has done a
terrific job. My pearly whites are actually pearly white again.
I flash him a bright, beautiful smile, then thank him and make it back to the hotel, alive. Happy
with the day Ive spent so far, I dump my shopping bags and head out to get a massage. Massages
in Asia are generally cheap and unbelievably relaxing. Ive heard a number of the male crew talk
about happy endings. When I first started flying I was so nave that I thought a happy ending was
just a really joyful and therapeutic finish to a standard massage. What I did not know, at the time,
was that happy ending is actually a sexual term. On one of my first trips to Bangkok, I was getting
a massage done and the masseuse asked, Would you like a happy ending, madam?
Pleased at the prospect of getting more pampered than I already was, I said, Yes.
Imagine my shock when I discovered what a happy ending really meant.
Did I let the masseuse finish?
That is a secret I will take to the grave.
i feel like a martini, shaken not stirred
After my massage I go back to the hotel. Often I try and have a little nap before attempting to work
through the night, but my massage was so good I opted for an extra session. When I walk into my
room, I notice that there is a note under my door. Also, a light is flashing on the bedside phone.
This cant be good news.
I am informed that my flight has been delayed by several hours, and thus going to work has also
been postponed by a few hours. Thats not enough time for me to leave the hotel or to have a quick
nap. At least I have the comfort of staying in my hotel room, whereas the passengers would have to
wait at the airport. And Manilas airport is not the worlds most modern place. The terminal is so
antiquated that it doesnt even have a Starbucks. How uncivilised, I mock; if the passengers are
anything like me, and need coffee as much as I do, they are going to be furious.
The flight back home negates all the good that the day of shopping and massage has done for me.
As well as being late, the plane is full of rowdy drinkers. Also, to make thing worse, we
experience constant turbulence. Gabrielle is playing princess games again, as I had expected, and
is sitting in our crew rest area, pretending to be sick. She pulled the same trick the last time I flew
with her. She sat down for the whole duration of the meal service and joined us when all the hard
work was already done.
The rest of the crew barely have time to bitch about Gabrielle as we are swamped with drink
orders. Moreover, the turbulence is becoming more severe, and walking straight is becoming an
almost impossible thing to do.
As I stagger through the aisle, carrying every imaginable combination of alcoholic drinks on the
menu, I feel as if Im the ball in a pinball machine. I bounce off the seats. I bounce off the
bulkheads. I bounce off passengers shoulders, elbows and knees. Yet, somehow, I manage not to
spill a drop.
Aircrafts are designed for making maximum revenue. Seats are crammed into a small vessel,
and the aisles are narrow. Moreover, the average seat has been designed to comfortably fit an eight
year old. As most of the passengers are surely larger than an eight year old, body parts spill out
into the aisles.
I can understand that some people cannot help but take up more space than others. What I cannot
understand, however, is how some passengers lack spatial awareness and stick their elbows,
knees and feet out into the aisle. If the cart bumps into them, it doesnt hurt the cart. I am, however,
not quite as sturdy as a metal cart.
There are usually two of us on a cart, so the odds are you end up spending half your service time
walking backwards, and going backwards makes it all the more difficult to dodge passengers.
Flight attendants, therefore, train themselves to get really good at walking backwards. If they ever
introduce a backwards-walking obstacle course at the Olympics you can bet that a flight attendant
will take home the gold medal.
Walking through the cabin with a cart or a tray of drinks is difficult, yes, but add to it the
additional challenge of a moving, vibrating, shaking floor and it becomes almost impossible. Much
of the time we use the cart like a walking frame, to keep ourselves standing and stable in these
turbulent times.
Unfortunately, turbulence has been rough and persistent for most of this flight. I actually feel a
little squeamish, and I know I cant be the only one. Onboard are dozens of men who have spent
many days getting drunk in sleazy Manila bars, and are now continuing with this habit on the
aircraft. Add constant bumps and shaking to the alcohol intake and something has got to give and
it does.
It takes only one man to start the show: one man throws up, then another, then another one, and
so on. It is like someone lined up a row of bicycles and pushed one over, for it to fall into the next
and push it over, which then falls over. Once it starts, it never stops. The drunken passengers are
going down like flies.
I have never thrown-up onboard before, but this flight might change that. I have cleaned up vomit
more times than I could care to count, yet, I feel Ive never felt this way before. Im sure that even
if I do as much as see a stray carrot, I would lose control. I am not the only one feeling this way, I
discover. Most of the crew are feeling the same way. What do we do? we wonder nauseously.
Only one thing can prevent the passengers from drinking, we soon realise, and this one thing
will also prevent us from cleaning up messes while we are feeling sick ourselves. We call the
flight deck and ask the pilots to turn on the seatbelt-sign.
I scurry into my crew seat quicker than a rat does up a drainpipe. I am so thankful for the break.
This turbulence is not severe, but just extremely relentless.
I have been in severe turbulence before; it is sudden and unexpected, and clinging onto
something usually helps in such cases. One time I was out in the cabin, handing out meals from a
cart, when sudden turbulence hit the flight. Before I know it, I am flung to the ceiling. When I
crashed down to earth again, I fortunately landed on what was possibly the worlds fattest
passenger.
Sir, would you like a lap dance with your dinner? I almost blurted out.
It is easy to laugh off things when you avoid serious injury by sheer luck. Sadly, on that same
flight, several other crew members were not so lucky. One guy broke a bone in his wrist, another
hostie hit her head and several passengers also sustained minor injuries.
Ever since that flight, whenever I feel that little shudder, which indicates that a major jolt is
about to follow, I wrap my foot under the nearest support bar located under the passengers seats
and hang on for dear life.
Though I am confident that this flight wont be as turbulent, I am not looking forward to facing
the vomit-drenched masses when the seat-belt sign goes off.
Ill get the disposable gloves and the spill kit, and then hand them over to Gabrielle, I think to
myself.
I have a little chuckle as I imagine myself approaching Gabrielle and saying, Youve had a nice
little rest, havent you dear? Now get your lazy butt out there and clean up all that vomit!
Just as I am praying for the seat belt sign to stay on for the whole flight, the dreaded bing
sound goes off.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and mutter, Oh God, here we go.
The next six hours are pure torture. The entire crew, with the exception of Princess Gabrielle,
work like dogs to clean the cabin and feed the passengers. Just as the annoying turbulence subsides
and the last of the vomit has been cleaned up, guess who miraculously recovers? Princess
Gabrielle, of course.
It must have been hell surely for her, sitting there and taking rest, while we were busy doing
work that felt as terrible as having our teeth pulled.
Most cabin crew are extremely diligent and work harder than is required of them. The few
members who dont do any work, like Gabrielle Reiner, almost always stick out like a sore thumb.
Being a flight attendant is truly about working in a team, and if someone doesnt pull their weight it
becomes noticeable immediately. All the crew members have noticed Gabrielle, and none of them
are happy.
None of us tell the Princess what we really feel about her though. Most of us just avoid her, but I
can guarantee that nobody will forget her or her actions or the lack of actions. When I get home I
will do everything in my power to forget this flight. However, I cannot forget Gabrielles laziness,
no matter how hard I try. My blood boils as I think about how the princess gets paid as much as I
do, but gets away with doing half the work I do. And it is not just me who gets short changed by
her behaviour. All the crew members need to work harder, and the passengers ultimately receive
proportionately less service. For every action (or lack of action) there are consequences. I am so
angry.
I once read a great quote in a comic strip: I know the world isnt fair, but why isnt it ever
unfair in my favour?
thats what friends are for
When I finally arrive home, I am completely shattered. My body still feels like it is going up and
down with the turbulence. I have been seasick before, and this feels similar to that. The one saving
grace is I now have four glorious days off before my next trip. For now I sleep, and then I will
enjoy every precious second of being at home.
The bed feels like it is rocking from side to side, but I am so exhausted that I could probably
sleep on a roller coaster. When I wake up, I do absolutely nothing. Sometimes doing nothing is
vastly underrated. I enjoy every second of that nothingness.
At least until the phone rings. It is Mary-go-round on the other end, and she is hysterical.
Whats wrong?
When you ask a question like that to a crying woman, you just know that youre going to be
listening to her answer for a long time.
Mary is obviously drunk or drugged or both, and she is home alone. She shares an apartment
with a gay guy, who also flies, but he is away on a trip. Thank god, she doesnt live on her own, I
think to myself. This woman just couldnt handle that.
Mary tells me that she and Mike have just had the worlds biggest fight and whoever saw this
coming (everyone) its all over between them. You dont have to be Nostradamus to predict this
would happen, I want to tell her. However, she is threatening to throw herself over her balcony.
Mary makes a lot of bad decisions. One of them is choosing to live on the tenth floor of an
apartment block.
Although this is not the first time she has made such threats, I know I should go over to her place
and calm her down.
The first thing I do when I get there is lock the balcony door. The second thing I do is take the
glass of pure vodka out of her hand.
Just as I begin to calm her down, the phone rings. It is Mike, she tells me when she picks up, and
he wants to apologise to her. She is absorbed in the phone call for over an hour, while I sit there
thinking, Of all the things I could be doing right now
After a point, I realise that Mary has forgotten all about me. She doesnt even remember I am in
the room with her anymore. I go up to her, indicate that I am leaving and ask for her to call me
later. She breaks the conversation with Mike for a heartbeat and looks up at me with puppy-dog
eyes, Mike still loves me.
I am out of there before she can say something else.
Is this the last time I will get a suicidal call from Mary? Of course, not.
Will I rush over to her place to help her again, if I have to? Of course, yes.
I desperately need a dose of reality, so I call Helen.
We meet at our usual caf, and she listens patiently to all my stories about Mary although she
has heard them before. Helen has met Mary only once, at a party I threw years ago. Mary, as one
would expect from her, ended up getting sloshed and having sex with a man, whom both Helen and
I know, in the toilet. I know Helen doesnt have any respect for Mary (In all fairness, Mary doesnt
have any respect for Mary).
Helen still cannot fathom how anyone would want to have sex in a toilet. If Helen only knew that
this happened all the time (particularly with the likes of Mary), and at 35,000 feet too. The Mile
High Club is not a myth after all and if they ever elect a president, I am sure it would be Mary.
Like Helen, I believe that toilets especially toilets in aircrafts are the last place in the world
Id want to have sex in. Yet some people do just that. Ive been on flights where it is obvious that a
couple is planning to go in there, but the crew members generally turn a blind eye if the couple is
subtle about it.
However, sometimes, couples are not so subtle and thats where we have to intervene. Ive seen
things that a single well-bred woman like me should never have to see. And it is not just
heterosexual couples who are up to no good. The most trouble I have ever had was with a lesbian
couple they didnt end their action in the toilets, but brought it back to their seats.
And its not just the passengers who misbehave.
There is a story about Mary that I havent told Helen yet. A year or so ago Mary was in all sorts
of trouble with the company over an incident in our crew-rest area. A 747 usually has a rest area
with little bunks in the tail of the plane. Mary was up there with another crew member, who just
happened to be married to another flight attendant, although his wife was not on that flight.
Apparently Mary climbed into his bunk in the crew-rest area, at his request, and the ensuing
shenanigans were seen and heard by another not-so-impressed crew member. That member then
reported the incident to the company, and both offenders were dragged into the office.
Mary has been caught red-handed on a number of occasions and on a number of charges, but this
was the first time she has been caught having sex on the plane the key word here is, of course,
caught. Both she and her married lover didnt deny being in the bunk together, but did deny doing
anything sexual, thus going with the Bill Clinton I did not have sexual relations defence. With
only the verbal evidence of the crew member against them, both offenders were let off with a
warning.
It is very hard to get sacked from this job just ask Mary.
There are plenty of married guys who work as hosties. A few are married to other hosties, most
are not. But, married or not, not all of them are sleazy like Marys crew-rest buddy. In fact there is
a terrific married man that I have done a few trips with. Coincidentally, his name is also Danny.
He calls me Danny L. and I call him Danny W., as his last name is Weily. Along with the matching
first names, we also have a lot more in common. He is not a bad-looking guy, but there is no way
he would ever cross any line with me. I trust him implicitly, and he trusts me just as much.
We travelled to Rome once, years ago, and I dont remember ever laughing as much as I did
with my namesake while on the trip. I havent seen Danny for a while, but I have a trip with him
later in my roster, and that trip is one I am really looking forward to. Helen does not want to hear
about well-behaved married men like Danny. She wants to hear juicy gossip.
Have you seen any celebrities? Helen asks as she usually does, and breaks me out of my
thoughts about Mary, Danny and sex on airplanes.
I decide to talk to Helen about what she wants to hear, celebrities.
Did I tell you that I had Hugh Jackman onboard?
Helen moves to the edge of her seat, excited. Hugh Jackman? You mean Wolverine Jackman?
Van Helsing Jackman? I love him. What was he like?
The reality is I did have him on board, but it was probably two years ago. Hence, technically,
this is not a lie. I know how much Helen loves these stories.
He was such a nice guy.
Helen gushes, I thought he would be.
Helens favourite celebrity story, which I have told her and she has then retold to everyone she
knows goes something like this: a particular celebrity singing-diva, with a reputation for being
difficult, was sitting in first class and arguing with a crew member over a simple safety-related
request he had made.
Do you know who I am? the diva protested.
The flight attendant turned to his passing supervisor and simply said, Can you get me the
passenger list, please? This woman doesnt know who she is.
I wasnt actually on that flight, and this may as well be an urban myth, but Helen lives for such
stories. As I have explained already to Helen, most celebrities are great onboard most, but not
all. When we spend as much time as we do with them, we often catch them with their media-guard
down, and thus get to see the real person behind it. Sometimes that real person isnt so nice.
The crew is particularly savage with celebrities who are disrespectful to or dismissive of us,
and news about how badly they behaved travels faster through our network of hosties than through
any gossip magazine.
I leave Helen to go back to my favourite recreational activity doing nothing. My nothingness is
briefly interrupted by an apologetic and now deliriously happy Mary. It is hard work having a
friend like Mary, but she does have a good heart. Besides, being friends with her has paid off in its
own weird way: she has taught me what not to do with my life.
the walk of shame
Ive spent four days at home, have done so little, but achieved so much. I am refreshed and looking
forward to spending Christmas with my family after my next trip, which is another trip to
Singapore. This trips a short one, and I get back by Christmas Eve.
I call shorter trips like this one as wheelie-bag trips because I can fit all my clothes into just
one in-cabin bag. I usually do so much shopping that I regret not taking my suitcase and end up
cramming everything into my wheelie-bag, having to then carry extra shopping bags anyway.
Not this next trip.
I have done enough shopping in the last month to satisfy the average womans shopping fantasies
for a year. This time in Singapore, I intend to sit by the pool and take relaxing to whole new level.
I pack my wheelie-bag, which takes all of about a minute, and drive to work. I actually feel
safer on a plane than I do in a car, but thats probably because I am not a very good driver.
Every time I go to dinner parties someone wants to talk about their flight from hell and how they
thought they were going to die. You can put a dozen flight attendants, with over hundred years of
collective flying experience between them, in a room, and you would be lucky if you can get one
story about an alarming or life-threatening flight they had been on. The reality is that air travel is
very safe.
An aircraft has back-up system after back-up system for its engines. I have been on two flights
where we have lost an engine. On one occasion just after take-off there was a loud bang, and
then came the flames. The jumbo 747 made an emergency landing. There were fire engines and
emergency personnel everywhere, and my emergency training kicked in effortlessly. However,
although my heart was pounding and my throat went dry with anxiousness, the reality is that the
plane did not behave any differently with one of its engines malfunctioning.
For all the derision that cabin crew aim at the pilots (and we do), we are aware that their
responses in those emergency situations save the day. And thats why pilots are so respected and
why they get paid the big bucks.
Many friends have asked me if I ever think of the possibility of crashing. No is my sure
answer. I never consciously think about crashes, but I do have a morbid fascination for them. When
I am away on trips I usually get ready for work with the TV playing in the background. My
favourite channel is the Discovery, and nine times out of ten, the channel shows investigations of
air crashes in great detail while I am getting ready for work. Thus, there I am, about to get onto an
aircraft, and yet I cant help but watch them show the flaming wreckage of a doomed flight that has
slammed nose-first into the ground. Haunting images, yet I cant look away. It is no wonder that
when I take a little nap on the flight, I have the most distressing dreams about being in a plane in
all sorts of trouble. However, I have never dreamt of a crash but then again I have never slept
long enough in the crew-rest area to finish a dream.
The crew-rest bunks are not exactly luxury-hotel beds. The bunks are small with paper-thin
rubber mattresses as soft as concrete. All of this is located in the tail of the plane that is hurtling
through the air at breakneck speed and with high-altitude winds swirling around. In the case of the
slightest turbulence, our bunks shake like we are in the middle of road-construction works;
passengers sitting in their cabins will feel only the slightest vibration, on the other hand. Some
people are great at sleeping through all this. I am not, and this only makes this job so much tougher.
Ours is the only job I know where we can spend up to sixteen planned hours constantly facing
and interacting with the general public. On occasions, I have done over twenty hours duty, thanks
to delays or diversions.
Helen is a school teacher, albeit part-time now. I once asked her, Can you imagine teaching the
same classroom of children at one go for over 20 hours, and you get only one break to freshen up?
She couldnt, she said. I dont think anyone could, I said.
The hardest thing about the crew-rest bunks is the walk of shame once you have finished with
your nap, or at least trying to close your eyes. Often, when you enter the cabin, after being asleep
in a dark and shaky environment whilst dreaming of plane disasters, you find that the lights are on.
Everyone in the cabin is awake and awaiting the next meal service. Also, a queue has lined up
outside the toilets, which just happen to be right next to the crew-rest area youre stepping out
from.
Not only can you not use the busy toilets, but you need to walk through the cabin with hundreds
of eyes staring into you. Make-up is usually smeared all over your face, and your hair looks like
that of the lead singer from the band, The Cure. You put your head down and walk as fast as you
can toward the toilets at the front of the aircraft, only to be greeted by another queue there.
I have done the walk of shame so many times, and I still havent gotten used to it.
I see that I am well ahead of time for the Singapore flight. I park my car and join my crew for the
pre-flight briefing. This is the time I get to meet the crew, to renew acquaintances as well as meet
new people. This is also the time when I can find out whether I can look forward to having a good
trip ahead of me.
The crew is very senior; in fact, I realise that I am the most junior one there. It is no wonder the
crew are so senior we have a seniority-driven bidding system for our rosters, and everyone
wants to do this trip. It is, also, no wonder that I made this trip my priority bid. This is the trip that
will get us home for Christmas, so everyone wants to do it. Another incentive is that this flight
mainly involves daylight flying, and we get home Christmas Eve with minimal jetlag to contend
with. Not only did I get the dream roster of having Christmas off, but also get to spend New Years
Eve in New York my next trip is to the Big Apple. I like my job most of the time, but right now I
love it!
The great thing about working with a senior crew is that everything onboard runs like
clockwork. They deal with problems swiftly and effectively. They may sometimes be a little curt
with passengers, but then if something does go wrong, they will save the day. Junior crews are
enthusiastic, but are often a nightmare to work with.
It is not just the lack of experience thats the problem with the junior flyers. Working with the Y
generation brings a lot more problems to the trouble. They are probably called the Y generation
because they are always asking why?, also usually followed by how?, what? and where?.
Senior crew ask very few questions, and get their job done quickly. Also, they are a whole lot
of fun. Several of the older men I work with some even old enough to be my father are
incredibly young at mind and at heart.
As one of the guys on this crew, who is actually older than my dad, jokes, I am only twenty-
two. Ive just had an extra thirty-five years of experience.
They can be a little flirtatious and naughty at times, I am not offended the least; in fact I enjoy the
attention. It becomes obvious that these guys are not used to working with anyone under fifty, and it
is also obvious that they are just having fun. These men are experienced enough to know how far
they can go.
The only trouble with crew that have been flying thirty-plus years is that their patience with
passengers is getting as thin as their hair. I understand their frustration. After years of dealing with
the public in the confines of an aircraft, it only seems like all the good passengers (who are the
majority) have faded into the background and all they care to see is the annoying minority. After
all, these minorities do take up the majority of a flight attendants time.
This flight goes effortlessly and without incident.
Am I on the dream trip that every hostie dreams about? I pinch myself.
We get M.T.O, which stands for Maximum Time Off. On this job, we use thousands of such
acronyms. If a non-flyer were to hear us hosties having a conversation, he wouldnt know what the
hell we are talking about. Most of the emergency equipment is also referred to in acronym form;
even I dont know what some of them stand for. B.C.F, for instance. I never bothered to check what
it meant. All I know is that if there is a fire, I point the B.C.F. at the fire and squeeze the trigger,
and the fire will be put out.
With my M.T.O, instead of reading a book like I had wanted to, I end up listening to two older
guys and their wonderful stories from the G.O.D (Good Old Days). These guys were pretty
outrageous in their time. I am surprised at how frank they are and even more surprised at how
proud they are of their antics. Even so, I am fascinated.
They talk about the days when the early jumbos had a lower-lobe, a galley area in the cargo
hold that was accessed from inside the cabin. They tell stories of sitting down there with each
other, smoking and drinking, even before take-off. They even talk about how they used to take girls
down there. The details of what they did with the girls down there, I dont want to get into.
Mary should have been born in their era, I think.
Then, I think that I should have been born in their era as well, for they tell me about trips to
warm, exotic lands that lasted for almost a month. Six days in Athens, four days in Mauritius and
so on, they brag, and I fume.
It was like one big around-the-world party, they laugh. And when they eventually did get back
home, they got as much time off as they had just been away.
So if you did a twenty-one-day trip, you would get twenty-one days off?
At least. Those were the union rules back then.
These days, once I get back from a week-long trip, Id be lucky if I get enough time after to wash
my hair and let it dry before I have to pack and head off to work again.
As much as I love listening to the good old days, I am somewhat envious of these old-timers. I
also assume that these boys have used a little creative license in their stories. Even so, it is all
highly entertaining, and the time onboard passes quickly.
I get to the hotel feeling more alive than I have felt for a long time. I even have a glass of wine
with the boys before calling it quits. Then, I head to my room to have a night of deep and blissful
sleep something I havent done for ages now.
turning my life around
As I claim my rightful throne on the lounge by the pool, covered in equatorial sweat and the warm
water that I had just stepped out of, I think to myself that this is what its all about. This is why I
became an international jet-setting hostie.
After another half hour of lying about in the hot sun, I decide to go back inside, to the air-
conditioned comfort of my room. Still dripping with pool water, chlorine and sweat, I slip on my
sneakers and head back. As I open the door to my room a feeling of dj vu hits me hard: there is
an envelope under my door, and the message-light is flashing on the desk phone.
Dont panic just yet. Like last time, the flights been delayed by a few hours. Thats all. Theres
nothing to get worked up about, I try to calm myself as my heart begins to race.
I open the envelope. No, no, no! (More like, expletive, expletive, expletive!)
I am being turned around. Someone has gone sick upline, and I am now required to make a trip
to Frankfurt.
Frankfurt? Merry expletive Christmas!
I throw myself on my bed and try not to cry.
Ive been turned around before. I am not the first flight attendant to be turned around, and I wont
be the last one. Its the nature of my job. But why now? Why me? I really wanted to spend
Christmas at home. Obviously someone has gone sick on the other crew. I wonder who it was, and
I also wonder if they are legitimately sick.
I read the message again and then look at my watch: I havent got time to be angry. Even so, I sit
for a few more moments with all these questions whirling around in my head until the biggest
realization hits me like a sledgehammer I have with me only a wheelie-bag, which contains a
swimming costume, a sun-dress and my sneakers, and I am now going to Frankfurt, Germany, in the
middle of winter. It is probably snowing, and I have enough clothing to barely cover a Barbie doll.
It is time to panic now.
I race to the nearest department store, which is conveniently located in our hotel complex. The
words to Bonny Tylers Total Eclipse of the Heart are playing in my head for some reason:
Turn around every now and then I fall apart.
I need to hold it together. I have just thirty minutes to buy a complete winter wardrobe,
otherwise I will be spending three days in a dreary hotel room, staring at the walls and wishing
theyd close in on me.
The trouble with shopping in a panic is that I am acutely aware of the fact that I will be paying
way too much for things that I will probably wear just once. I am also aware of the fact I am being
forced to do something that riles me to the very core and that goes against every grain of my belief
system: I am buying clothes not based on how good they look would look on, but for how useful
they would be for me. But I cant stop. I need to stay warm in Frankfurt.
Damn it, Singapore! Where are you hiding all your winter wear? I am in one of the hottest
countries on the planet shopping for winter clothes. No wonder I cant find any. The clock is
ticking. All I need are clothes that will effectively perform one function: they will to stop me from
freezing to death. And I need these clothes now.
First thing on my list gloves. I buy the only pair of leather gloves the shop has, and they are
pink. Not a tolerable pastel pink, but hot fuchsia. I then get a pair of thick pants that look like
something my grandmother would wear. When I do find a jacket and drop it into my cart, I know it
will have to drop it into a charity bins as soon as I am back from Frankfurt.
In my home wardrobe I have the worlds best scarf collection. I also have the softest pashmina
wraps in every conceivable colour except for hot fuchsia, that is. Surprisingly, this department
store does have quite a collection of scarves, but I cannot bring myself to finding one that will
match my new pink gloves. I know I am going to look like a fashion victim even if I do match the
scarf with those gloves, so I decide not to. I might as well buy a scarf in a colour that doesnt want
to make me puke.
Now I need socks and shoes.
If my scarf collection is impressive, my shoe collection is better. It really aggravates me that I
am going to buy a pair without careful deliberation. Most of my shoes only get worn a few times a
year; yet, I make sure that each pair is of such good quality that they will last forever.
I barely have time to think now let alone hunt for a good pair of shoes, so I decide to get myself
a pair of thick socks, which I can wear with my sneakers. When I get to Frankfurt and have time to
go shopping, Ill get a new pair of shoes there. There are some great shoes shops in Frankfurt, I
remember from my previous trips there. Surely I can survive in sneakers for just one morning?
Last but not least on my list a pair of nice warm socks.
Time is ticking away, and I am actually struggling to find the one item I thought would be the
easiest to find. I find plenty of paper-thin socks, but I dont see a pair of winter socks until
I see a pair of Christmas-themed socks, and they are the only pair of thick socks in this store.
No, these are not beautiful socks with a subtle motif of mistletoe and snowflakes. These are socks
that are so loud and gaudy they should come with a volume control and a pair of sunglasses.
Oh well, I might as well get into the Christmas spirit. I wish again that I could home for the
holidays, well-dressed and my family.
Family? That reminds me. I have to let my family know that Im not coming home.
Thank goodness for text messaging. I let my family and friends know my utter disappointment at
being away (yet again) for Christmas. This is probably the hardest thing about my job, being away
for Christmas, for birthdays, for Valentines Day, for Easter, for weddings and, of course, all
parties.
It has just dawned on me that for the first time in almost twenty years I wont be able to deliver
my Christmas hampers to the nursing homes, and my presents for my nieces and nephews will now
have to be given to them sometime in the New Year.
If I can make it home for New Year, that is. Who knows where theyll send me for New Years
Eve.
I was planning to be in New York this year. To be a part of the celebration at Times Square and
watch the ball drop. Ive been waiting for years and years to do that. Now thats not going to
happen.
Expletive, expletive, expletive again. And over and over again.
I go back to my room and although the sands in my get-ready-for-work hourglass have run out,
this time I do throw myself on the bed and cry like a baby.
ho ho freakin ho!
As Air Crash Investigations plays on in the background, I fasten the last button on my uniform
with so much anger that I nearly rip the buttonhole. I hate going to work angry. I know nothing good
ever comes of it. Yet, I cant help my frustration.
Maybe it is a great crew? Maybe the hotel in Frankfurt will put on a big Christmas bash for us?
Maybe all this bad timing might turn into something life-changing?
Maybe I should stop trying to kid myself?
I go down to the hotels foyer and greet my new crew.
Gee, they look young.
With the most senior flight attendants sent home for Christmas (like I should have been), the
most junior ones are being sent out to work.
The boss looks like hes about twelve, and he is the oldest on the crew. Except for me, that is.
Some of them do sympathise with my circumstances. Several even notice I am the only one
without a suitcase and put two and two together, figuring out quickly that Ive been turned around
suddenly and that I might not have many warm clothes with me.
I turn my attention to the miserable human being that fell sick, thus placing me in this
predicament.
Who went sick? I ask.
Someone replies, Gabrielle. Several of the crew roll their eyes at this.
Not Gabrielle Reiner?
Several nod.
Instinctively, I want to find her and gouge her eyes out. But what if she is genuinely sick, I
wonder.
Is she OK? I ask to be sure.
The boss replies, She has pulled the old back-pain routine and is going home tonight.
So, let me get this right she is sick with something that will still allow her to travel, so she
will be playing passenger and going home while I fill in for her. And she will get to be home for
Christmas?
The crew give knowing smirks and nods of affirmation.
My anger, which had been directed toward the company at first, has now shifted to Gabrielle.
Somewhere, somehow, I will get back at that princess, I resolve. I will never forget or forgive her
for this. The thirteen-hour flight to Frankfurt is non-eventful, yet the smallest things seem to drive
me wild. I am still professional though, but I lack the usual jolliness and pizzazz that I am known
for and proud of.
We have the usual complaints and whining about seating, which we have on every flight that we
get on, but today I am just not in the mood for it.
One woman complains bitterly about not getting an aisle seat when she specifically asked for
one. She goes on and on, insisting that the ground staff had promised her an aisle seat; now, she not
only expects that seat, but demands it. On longer flights, usually everyone asks us for an aisle seat,
and there is only a four in ten chance of someone getting one. This means that 60% of passengers,
like this irate woman, miss out.
Experience has shown me that each passenger has a sequence number on their boarding pass that
indicates the order in which they had checked in.
Can I see your boarding pass, maam? I ask as sweetly as I can.
I locate the small-printed sequence number and chuckle internally.
Unfortunately, you were the 396th passenger to check in. And there are 420 passengers on
board this flight.
I want to tell her, You are lucky the ground staff didnt put you outside on the wing of the
airplane.
What I do tell her is that if I do notice any spare aisle seats, I will let her know, although I know
very well that there is no chance of that happening. As a flight attendant, one learns to say what
people want to hear, even if they have to lie. While I stand there, reassuring her, I know very well
that the seat wont be the only thing this lady would complain about during this flight to Frankfurt.
Almost every flight has at least one problem passenger and they always present themselves as soon
as they get onboard. Always. On this flight, this woman is the problem passenger.
After years of dealing with the public I have become very good at profiling certain personality
types. This woman is over fifty, I think to myself, unmarried, likes to be referred to as Ms, is a
vegetarian, lives on her own and has a cat. Of course, I dont know any of this for sure, but to test
my prediction (at least part of it) I check our passenger-list and find that she is indeed a Ms and a
vegetarian. I will never know for sure if she does live on her own or if she owns any cats. What I
do know for sure though is that she is going to be a pain-in-the-butt for the rest of the flight.
And she is just that. Ms. Veggie Cat-Woman drives the crew crazy. She obviously gets very
little attention from anybody else, so she takes her frustrations out on us.
This woman really irks me until I take a long hard look at her and try to understand what her life
must be like. And, weirdly, her life seems very familiar to me. She must live on her own; I live on
my own. She must be single; I am single. She is vegetarian. I do eat some meat, but I could easily
be a vegetarian. She probably hasnt had sex for years; for me it is not that long, but She must
have a cat; I have goldfish. Gasp! Can it possibly be true? Am I this woman? Will I become
exactly like her in a few more years?
What the hell am I thinking. Snap out of it. I am nothing like this woman, I tell myself.
I dont really want the whole married-with-children thing, but the thought of coming home to
someone with strong arms to hold me and a muscular shoulder for me to cry on is a lot more
appealing than coming home to a cat and a smelly litter-box. I dont even like cats.
I know of several international hosties who are younger versions of Ms. Veggie Cat-Woman.
They have somehow managed to have a job which makes it almost impossible to own a cat, yet
they live with not just one cat, but two. I have flown with one such cat-owner several times and
she not only talks about her cats incessantly, but carries around photos of her babies and shows
them to anyone who just as much looks her way.
She leaves her babies with her parents while she is away on trips and even phones the cats
from each layover port to talk to them. I have heard her speak to them on a number of occasions,
and she swears that the cats understand her and meow back. She even hosts birthday parties for
each cat, where she invites other cat-women and their cats. I can only imagine the bizarre
conversations these women must be having at such parties, with each other and with each others
cats. Does this girl have a boyfriend? No way. She is close to forty and totally resigned to living
on her own. She has substituted any real chance of a human relationship with the one she has with
her cats. This girl has two cats, and sadly thats all shes got.
As I listen to my onboard cat-woman present another complaint to me, I will myself to feel sorry
for her, but my patience is running thinner than a steamrolled crpe. I do notice that she is now in
the aisle seat. She must have pestered the person next to her to the point that they swapped seats
with her just to shut her up. I can only wish we had a spare seat in business class, so I could
upgrade the person sitting next to her, who had so kindly given away his seat. Theres an old
airline adage that you never reward bad behaviour. I like to take that notion further: I reward those
sitting beside or around someone who is misbehaving. In this instance, I cant, and I feel sorry
about it.
I turn my attention to the other crew. I have sixty-four fun-filled hours in Frankfurt, and as nice
as the other crew are, they are all so young. They will probably be up to the nonsense I was doing
fifteen years ago. I still have my moments of adolescent behaviour, but then those are just moments.
I now find myself preferring mature conversations and mature drunkenness. That is not going to
happen with my baby-faced crew.
It dawns on me that Ive not met the tech-crew yet. Our pilots usually stay in a different hotel in
Singapore, and they are dropped at the aircraft by separate means of transport. Probably chauffeur-
driven limousines.
There is a little animosity between the cabin crew and the tech-crew. We crack jokes about
them, and I am sure they do the same about us.
This is my favourite one: what is the difference between the tech-crew and a sperm? At least,
the sperm has a one in two million chance of becoming a human being.
Heres another: how can you tell that a Captain is at a party? Dont worry hell tell you.
In fairness some of the techies are good people. Not every techie fits into the stereotypical
mould, but I must say they usually are easy to identify at crew drinks, thanks to what they wear. I
dont know what most pilots do in layover ports, but Im sure it is not shopping for clothes.
Yet another popular tech-crew joke tells of a pilot who goes on a four-day trip and takes along
one shirt and a $20 note. He doesnt change either. A little harsh, yes, but possibly true.
Considering that, since 9-11, a flight deck is more secure than Fort Knox, if we dont see the
techies when they come onboard, we are lucky if we see them at all unless we are part of the
crew serving them, that is.
I find out that the tech crew on this flight will be staying at the same hotel as us in Frankfurt.
Well, in Mainz actually a quaint village just outside Frankfurt on the Rhine. It really is beautiful,
and although it had been almost completely destroyed during WWII, it has been rebuilt to resemble
the original architecture. Whether or not it is going to be too cold this time of the year to wander
around those quaint cobblestone streets is something I need to find out.
I decide to ring the flight-deck and kill two birds with one stone: say hello and also find out
about the weather forecast. The First Officer answers the phone. His name is Brad. He sounds cute
and uses my name regularly in his replies (I like it when someone uses my name). He asks about
how far along we are in our meal service; I tell him we have just collected our last tray. On the
weather front, it is not good news. It looks like Ill be having a white Christmas, but with ice, sleet
and a wind-chill that could freeze the straw in a daiquiri.
Our brief conversation must have made Brad realise that he will be spending the next three days
in hibernation with us hosties, so he comes down the back of the aircraft to meet the rest of the
crew. He looks about the same age as I am.
Yay! Finally, I can talk to someone who doesnt have the persistent need to use the word like
and whatever in every sentence.
Brad is also quite good looking. And he is not wearing a ring. I cant help but notice that he
spends most of his brief visit talking to me. I even sense a hint of flirtation.
Maybe this trip wont turn out so bad after all.
We discuss crew drinks at the hotel, and although his words are directed at the crew, I get the
distinct impression that he is really just talking to just me. As he leaves, his eyes meet mine and I
can tell that he is interested. I dont normally get interested in techies. Some girls do. Some chase
pilots with the ferocity of a lion hunting down a wounded gazelle. We call this type of hostie a
TCM a Tech Crew Mole.
Most TCMs who have actually managed to snare a pilot get pregnant as soon as they get married
and then wave goodbye to the job forever. They obviously couldnt wait to get out of flying, yet at
dinner parties with friends they always look back on their life of flying with fondness and are only
too eager to share stories of there was this one time in Rome or the gyozas in Tokyo are just
superb or I was chatting with Mel Gibson or Europe is so pretty when it snows.
In each instance the woman has manipulated her husband to be just a shell of the man he used to
be. The wife has tried to turn her husband into the type of man she really wanted, which of course
doesnt work. What she does have is the beautiful house, the all-wheel drive car in the remote-
controlled garage and private-schooled children in designer clothes. For these women, this is all
they need. For some this life hasnt worked out, but then again all relationships have a fair failure
rate regardless of whether they are airline crew or not. At least, if your husband is a pilot and is
getting a fat pay-check, youll get a fat alimony when its all over.
Brad soon heads back to the flight deck, leaving me again in the galley-kindergarten. I find
myself wishing he had stayed a little longer.
One of the crew looks at her watch and says, It is midnight in Frankfurt Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas? I thought it was tomorrow? I ask, surprised.
She assures me, No, we get in Christmas morning.
This job is hard to keep up with time. We are always crossing time zones, and it is so easy to
lose track of time. I have just realised that we will be arriving in Frankfurt on the one day of the
year that all the shops will be shut there, including the supermarkets, malls and the shoe shops.
The shoe shops! Oh my god!
I am going to be spending Christmas dressed like a homeless bag-lady. I have a cute techie to
impress and Ill have to do that while wearing neon-Christmas socks and a pair of poolside
sneakers.
let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
It is early in the morning and still dark as we land in Frankfurt. The further north one gets in
Europe, the shorter the daylight hours become in winter.
I wont be surprised if I need to use a miners hat with a torch to see things at midday.
It is snowing and everything is covered in a thick white blanket. The place is freezing, but it
does look beautiful.
We make our way on the bus to the hotel. I spend the whole ride listening to the kindergarten-
crew discuss what high jinks they intend to get up to in the next three days. Considering that
everything in town will be shut today, the Captain proposes that we all meet at his room for a few
drinks later in the day.
After a sleeping tablet-induced four hours of deep sleep, I awaken to contemplate how I could
possibly conjure up an outfit from the bits and pieces inside my wheelie-bag that can only loosely
be described as clothes. At least we wont be leaving the warm confines of the hotel, so dressing
like an eskimo is one thing I dont have to worry about. I decide to wear my sundress with my new
grandma-pants, the dress tucked into it. I look in the mirror, and although the pants are dreadful, the
exposed part of the dress does look like a top.
Not too bad at least from the waist up.
With much regret I slip on my Christmas socks, but rejoice in the fact that my nana-pants cover
them, at least when I stand. I cover their remaining gaudiness with my sneakers. I know I dont
require my new scarf tonight, but it is the only piece of new clothing I have bought that looks
remotely classy, so I wrap that around my neck. I look in the mirror and try to convince myself that
I really dont look that bad. Yet, I know very well that I look hideous.
At least my hair and make-up are perfect.
The party is in full swing when I arrive at the skippers room, and the kindergarten-crew are
already a little tipsy and boisterous. In fact I could hear them halfway down the hallway while I
was walking to the room. I am sure the other guests will be forgiving. Its Christmas time, after all.
I pour a glass of wine, say Cheers everybody and head to the quietest corner of the crowded
room, which just so happens to include Brad, who is standing with our two second officers. Both
second officers dont look old enough to shave, let alone drink, but who am I to judge?
Cheers boys.
I place myself in the best position to talk to Brad. I can tell he is pleased to see me.
I didnt think you were going to make it? he smiles warmly.
Trying to act prim and proper, I lie to him, I dont normally do the whole room-party thing, but
it is Christmas.
Brad flashes me another warm smile. I take this opportunity to take a good look at him; this is
the first time, Im seeing him out of uniform. I am dressed dreadfully by circumstances. Poor Brad
is dressed so by choice. He is wearing a cheap knock-off Ralph Lauren Polo checkered shirt
(Ralph Lauren has some gorgeous designs, but this Asian copy is not one of them) and a pair of
dowdy pants. I look down to Brads shoes. As men dont normally wear jewellery or other
accessories I can generally judge a guys fashion-sense by the shoes he wears. Brads shoes are
clean, but look old enough to vote. They might have been considered old-fashioned even back in
1987, the year he probably bought them.
At least he is wearing a beautiful watch. I can tell that it is not a fake, and would have cost a
pretty penny. There are two things that the techies dont usually scrimp on: watches and sunglasses.
Everything else though is better bought cheap. He does comment on my nice scarf, and even though
this guy doesnt seem to have one good fashion-bone in his whole body, I am flattered that he
noticed my effort. Maybe I shouldnt be so harsh on him, I think. He is kinda cute.
We drink and talk for hours. We drink and slur for even longer. I havent let my hair down this
much since a night (and next morning) out with Mary in San Francisco almost a year ago. On that
occasion I ended up doing something (well, someone) that I regretted. Mary ended up doing two
somethings though, and she didnt regret it at all.
Tonight is different. Its Christmas; I am drunk; I like this guy; I am sure he likes me. I try not to
overthink the situation.
Brad and I have been flirting for hours, yet we are very much aware of the others in the room.
We need to be discreet. By the time we are both so horny that we want to rip off each others
clothes in full view of the rest of the crew, he leans in to whisper to me, Would you like to me
meet me in my room in five minutes?
I nod innocently, and he whispers his room number. He then lets out a loud and melodramatic
yawn, and announces to everyone that he is tired and going to bed. I have seen better acting skills
in a Greek daytime soap opera. Five minutes later, I say my goodbyes too and leave. I know that it
must be obvious to everyone there that something is going on between Brad and me, but we have
made the effort to at least appear to be discrete. Thats enough for me.
I anxiously knock on Brads door, and we end up kissing before the door is even shut. We are on
the bed before the lock has clicked, and we are naked before I have time to draw a breath.
Even though I am wasted to the point of delirium, I am sober enough to know that Brad is not the
most competent lover a girl can ever have. But it has been months, and he does seem like a nice
guy. And it is Christmas, a time for making merry.
There are grunts and groans and the occasional Oh yeah! but no other words are spoken. It is
fantastic.
Merry Christmas, Danielle.
these boots are made for walking
I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m.
Where the hell am I? And, more importantly, am I alone?
No, I am not. I am with Brad, in his hotel room. And I am still a little drunk. I also know from
experience that it will be impossible for me to get back to sleep, even though Brad is out cold.
What do I do? Should I sneak out? But what will he think when he wakes up alone? Should I just
lie here until he wakes up which seems like it could be sometime in the New Year?
I am still feeling frisky, and it has been a while since I have felt the reassuring warmth of a
mans body next to mine. I decide to cuddle up to him. I guess he must have enjoyed my warmth as
well, for Brad wakes up more specifically, the bottom half of his body wakes up and we make
love again.
Then, I fall asleep.
I eventually wake up hours later. The bedside clock shows 10:00 a.m. I have never woken up
this late in my entire life. And apart from still being a little hung-over, I feel fantastic.
So this is how I can overcome the dreaded 2:15-cant-get-back-to-sleep jetlagged routine. I
have finally figured it out.
Brad is also stirring from sleep. This is the first time we are looking at each other post-sex and
completely sober, and we are feeling a little uncomfortable and a tad embarrassed.
Good morning.
Morning.
Brad gets out of bed, grabs a pair of underpants and makes his way to the bathroom. He is not
quite as physically toned as I thought he was last night, but then again I probably dont look like
Heidi Klum this morning either.
Suddenly, I realise that I dont really know much about this guy. I dont even know his last name.
I hear the shower running so I sneak out of bed and open the cupboard to glance at the ID on his
uniform: Bradley Dick.
Dick? I couldnt marry this guy and take on that last name. Danielle Dick yuck. Maybe I could
hyphen it Danielle Hugh-Dick?
There have been several times when people have misread my last name as Huge.
So, that idea is definitely a no-go.
Wait, why am I even thinking about marriage anyway? Only a minute ago, I didnt even know his
last name, and only a few hours ago, I was criticising how badly he dressed.
I try to look for positives. There are a few advantages to being with a guy that doesnt spend
money on himself. He can spend that money on me instead. Besides, he already has an expensive
watch. And he also has a pair of good sunglasses, Im guessing. Yes. He earns good money and is
probably not that far away from becoming a captain, and from earning even more money. I could
always buy his clothes for him and teach him a little style. Ive seen too many other girls try to
change a guy, and without success, to start believing my own inner monologue.
Brad returns from the bathroom. Although the hotel provides a free bathrobe, he has chosen not
to wear it. Instead, he comes back to bed wearing the tightest and ugliest pair of old-fashioned
briefs I have ever seen.
Teach him a little style? I think Ill have to teach him a lot of style.
Still, I find it quite cute that he has chosen to cover himself up now after all the wild and
uninhibited things we had done earlier.
I can tell he is a little shy about having someone in his bed.
Well, I am a little shy too.
Before it gets even more awkward for us, I suggest that it is time for me to go back to my room. I
tell him about I plan to get dressed in every piece of clothing I have with me and go shoe shopping,
while looking like a homeless bag-lady. He tells me that I could never look like a bag-lady and
then suggests we catch up later in the day and grab a bite to eat.
Now we are talking, my shy little pilot lover-boy.
I leave Brad and sneak back to my room. I look out my bedroom window and although it is after
ten oclock it is still dark. European winters can be dreary. I look at the street light outside, and in
its glow I can see the snow still falling. But the ground is covered in sludge as there has obviously
been rain and sleet through the night. It looks so cold out there. I put on every piece of clothing I
have. I even wear a pair of stockings under my thick socks and wrap the scarf around my head as
well as my shoulders.
I pick up an umbrella from the concierge and thank my lucky stars that no one from the crew has
seen me dressed so hideously. I step out into the Arctic blizzard, and the cold almost knocks me
out.
I have never ever felt this cold before in my life.
I am only halfway to the nearest shop of any description and I am already numb from the top of
my head to the bottom of my Christmas socks. The only part of me that is remotely warm are my
hands.
Thank goodness for my hot pink gloves.
I cant walk any faster as the slushy mixture of snow and sleet has already leaked through my
non-waterproof sneakers and I dare not splash it up my already trembling legs. I am starting to
regret my decision to tackle, what I later find out to be, the second coldest day of the year.
I dive into the first clothing shop I come across. It has the worst collection of womens fashion I
have ever seen, but the shop is warm. When I look in a mirror, I see that my lips are actually blue.
I decide to stay in the shop for a while. I pretend to browse through a rack of dresses just so I can
escape the cold outside.
Who on earth would be buying a summer dress when it is a million degrees below zero outside?
I wonder as I flip through a rack of gaudy dresses.
I step back outside, ready to take on the elements again.
I am the worlds hardiest shopper: I could borrow the Postmans motto of neither snow nor rain
to show my will to shop. Today, I am going to get these damn shoes no matter what, and I will
then get back to my room and sit in a hot bath until I look like a prune.
Fortunately a shoe shop is only a few doors down from the shop with horrible clothes.
Unfortunately the shoes look like they have been designed to be worn with the aforementioned
shops clothes. There is one pair of boots (tan again) that I could possibly make room for in my
bulging shoe-cabinet back home; the boots are outrageously expensive though.
What the hell, Im getting them. I just cant track through the snow in my leaking sneakers
anymore.
They dont have my size, although I must say that I have forgotten what size I actually am in
Germany. Every continent has a different sizing system for shoes, and when you have bought as
many different shoes in as many different countries as I have, it is easy to get confused. What is not
confusing, however, is that the boots I like come in one size only, and that size is way too big for
me. I am so cold and so desperate that I even contemplate wearing an extra layer or two of socks
just so the boots will fit. Surely I am not that despairing?
I trudge through the snow again until I finally find a shoe shop that suits my needs. It has
beautiful shoes, is reasonably priced and has the biggest heaters I have ever seen in a shop. I take
off my leaking sneakers and my soaking Christmas socks and sit down close to one of the heaters.
With a shop-assistant looking curiously at me, I lift my legs up and dangle my naked blue toes in
front of the heater.
I turn to the disapproving shop-assistant, Its alright, I am going to buy some boots, and I will
take any pair of socks you bring to me as long as they dont have the words Ho Ho Ho written on
them!
I try on a gorgeous pair of black boots that seem to run right up to my armpits.
The more they cover my nana-pants, the better. Ill take them, I tell the assistant.
I spend another half an hour thawing-out in front of the heater, before I slip on a pair of fresh
socks and my new boots. With renewed vigour I venture back out into the sub-zero torment. I find a
supermarket and decide to grab as many supplies as I can carry, so that I dont have to leave the
hotel for the next two days.
Most German supermarkets have more bottles of wine than anything else, so I take my time and
choose a nice bottle of French wine. My carry-basket bulging with enough supplies to last me the
whole of winter, I trudge through the sleet and snow and make my way back towards the hotel. I
find that my new boots are fantastically warm and fully waterproof. You just cant beat leather!
However, the problem with wearing new leather soles is that they are smoother than a babys
bottom, and it feels as if I were walking on what is effectively a sludgy ice-skating rink with
freshly waxed mini-skis on my feet. As I concentrate hard on each and every little pigeon-step I am
taking, I suddenly remember that I am meeting Brad for dinner tonight. I also remember that I dont
have any clean underwear.
I am so cold and desperate to get back to the hotel that I even contemplate washing the
underwear I have already worn and reusing it.
Here I am trying to impress a new guy and I cant even make the effort to get some nice
underwear? No, I dont need nice underwear, I decide. What I need is sexy underwear.
Damn it, I turn around.
I hope Brad appreciates all the effort I am putting in for him.
its a goodyear
Brad and I have a lovely dinner at the hotel. Conversation flows effortlessly. He even tells me that
he really likes my new boots.
If he likes my boots, then he is going to love my red lacy lingerie.
I do however take note that he is wearing the same clothes as the night before. This bothers me
and yet intrigues me at the same time.
He had a suitcase in his room, didnt he? What the hell is in it?
We both still seem to be sexually uncomfortable and dont talk about the night before or about
the 2:15 a.m. sleeping pill he gave me. We drink some more, and then it is time to get the bill.
Although I like to think of myself as a modern woman, I am taken aback when Brad asks for two
separate bills. The waiter frowns, and so do I.
Brad finally realises the situation and tells the waiter, Its OK. One bill is fine.
Thank goodness, I think.
Brad turns to me, Ill sign for it in my room, and you can pay me your half of it later.
Later? Later! You are such a bloody techie. I made every fantasy of yours come true last night,
and you wont even pay for one lousy dinner! I want to scream.
I dont even care that I am paying half (maybe I will, maybe I wont), but just the fact that he
didnt offer to pay it all himself offends me.
I now know he is cheap, and I am not even sure if he is wearing clean underwear. At this point
my sex-urge is almost hitting rock-bottom, and I regret spending half of my allowance on new
lingerie.
Totally unaware about how upset I am, he looks across the table at me and asks if I would like
to join him in his room for a drink.
He smiles, I bought a nice bottle of wine.
Perhaps I misjudged him? Perhaps it has been very long since he has been out on a date and he
has forgotten how to be a gentleman? Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt?
Even so, I decide to show some dominance, some strength.
No. Bring the wine to my room.
I get up from the table and whisper, Room 216. See you there in five minutes, then confidently
leave.
Five minutes later, there is a knock on my door, and I let Brad and his bottle of good wine in. He
hands the bottle to me, which in itself is a no-no. Maybe I have read too many romance novels, but
my idea of a strong, passionate man is one who walks through the door, heads straight to the bottle
opener, opens the wine and pours it while saying, Heres looking at you, kid.
As I take the wine, I glance at the label. I remember seeing this wine at the supermarket earlier. I
also remember that it was being promoted there with the all-enticing sales pitch of The cheapest
wine in Europe.
There are so many beautiful wines in this part of the world, and most are not expensive. Who
on earth would buy a bottle of Portuguese paint stripper for less than two Euros? I had asked
myself then. Ive got my answer now. Brad, thats who.
I open my bottle of French and guzzle it. Although he is as cheap as the wine he has bought, he is
making an effort to be romantic. He sits next to me on the bed, and with every sip of the wine he
becomes increasingly attentive. He comments again on my new black boots.
By the time we have finished my good wine and some of his paint stripper, I am still wearing my
boots and my expensive lingerie. But thats all Im wearing. With great relief, I discover that Brad
had indeed changed his underwear. Same ugly style, same ugly brand, but a different ugly colour.
Thank God hes changed it at least.
By the time my new boots come off, we are exhausted and staring at the ceiling in contented
bliss. I begin to doze off, but I am aware that he is still awake. I catch him looking at the bedside
clock.
Are you OK? I lethargically ask.
There is a replay of the last F1 GP in ten minutes.
Whats a F1 GP?
Formula One Grand Prix. You know, motor racing.
The techies use more acronyms than we do. On a trip, I once made the mistake of agreeing to go
to dinner with three techies. As the other crew failed to turn up I joined the pilots as the sole cabin
representative. They were polite and included me in their conversations for the first five minutes,
but once one of them started talking about aircrafts, the acronyms began to flow. They spent
another five minutes explaining their techie-talk, but after a while they forgot that I was even at the
dinner table. I did say that I made the mistake once. I have never made it again.
I have found that pilots are fine if you talk to them one on one, but once you put two or more
pilots together, it might feel like watching a foreign film without subtitles.
Brad hasnt mentioned the words vector or V2 once over the past two days, so I must cut him
some slack. Still, lying in bed with a beautiful woman who you have known for only two days and
wanting to watch car racing thats just wrong.
I want to say sternly, Well then, you have ten minutes to get out and watch it back in your
room. But I decide to be more diplomatic.
I am so tired. Youve worn me out! Why dont you watch it in your room? It is OK. There is no
need to feel obligated to stay. We can catch up in the morning.
I dont need to tell him twice as he is out of my bed before I have finished speaking. He at least
has the decency to kiss me goodbye.
The next morning, I wait for him to call me. He doesnt call. I am now caught in the horrible
dilemma of Should I call? or Should I wait?.
I want to call him, but then dont want him to see me as desperate or needy.
I cant remember who said who was going to call whom last night. All I can remember is we
said we would see each other in the morning. It is almost midday. We go to work tonight, so maybe
he is sleeping late?
The hotel gives us an automatic wake-up call before checking out. Ironically, the cabin crew are
called an hour before we need to leave the hotel while the tech-crew only get 45 minutes notice.
The company has made the automatic realisation that pilots dont need as much time to get ready as
us hosties.
For Brad, ten minutes would be enough to get dressed and ready. He could use the extra thirty-
five minutes to watch car racing.
It is a long sector tonight, so most crew will try and get a few hours sleep prior. As for Brads
routine, who knows?
What if he is thinking the same thing as I am, I suddenly wonder. Maybe he is expecting a call
from me? Should I leave a note under his door? Should I leave a message for him on the phone?
Most hotels let you leave someone a voice message without having their phone ringing. The
message light flashes, and the guest can then retrieve their messages when they are awake.
Yes, thats what Ill do. Ill leave a voice message.
I choose my words carefully: Hi Brad, its Danielle. I am not sure if we are catching up today.
It is around midday and I should be in my room until about two. Call me if you can. Otherwise I
will see you at sign-on.
This is so awkward. I hate that I am at Brads beck and call. I hate that he is the one with all the
control. I hate this early stage of a relationship.
Relationship? What relationship? Weve slept together twice thats not a relationship.
I remember having a few drinks with some of my girlfriends and discussing our two favourite
subjects apart from shopping: guys and relationships. It was pointed out that a guy will sleep with
you the first time out of curiosity. If he sleeps with you again it is because he likes you. If he comes
back for a third time that is a relationship.
The phone rings.
Hello, this is Danielle, I say in my sexiest voice.
It is Brad. Hi. I am going to get some sleep before call. How about we meet downstairs for a
coffee?
OK,I reply.
He says, Ten minutes?
Sure.
Why did I agree to ten minutes? Although I am already showered I need at least half an hour to
get ready. He has got me wrapped around his little finger, and he knows it.
When he says meet downstairs, does that mean we are having a coffee in the hotel or are we
going into town? Do I need to wear every layer of clothing again?
I decide to show some strength, again. When I get to the foyer, I will insist that we have coffee
here at the hotel. I manage to get ready within the ten minutes, but deliberately delay leaving my
room for a few more minutes. Then, I walk down to the foyer with confidence.
He is not dressed to go to the Arctic circle, so it is obvious that he didnt intend to leave the
warm confines of our hotel. It is also obvious that he is more vulgar than I ever imagined, as he is
wearing the same clothes he did for the last two days.
What the hell does he have in his suitcase?
We sit down in the hotels restaurant, which is the only place to get coffee in the complex. We
indulge in some idle chit-chat before he drops the bombshell. He tells me something so
unexpected, so shocking and so disturbing. He tells me something that is worse than saying, I am
sorry, but I have to tell you that I am married, or even I have a girlfriend back home. He tells me
something that is as terrible as saying I am gay.
He looks at me and says those horrid words that no girl wants to hear, Id like to let you know
that I have only recently ended a long-term relationship, and I am not looking for anything serious
at the moment.
You condescending pig! Did I ever tell you that I was after a serious relationship? What gives
you the right to sit in front of me, in the same clothes that you have worn for three days straight
(and possibly more) and treat me like a piece of dirt? Youve had your fun for a couple of days, so
now you decide to tell me that you are not looking for anything serious? Youve made me feel
cheap, and youve made me feel like a whore. So this is what you guys refer to as a Goodyear
relationship. Now, youll be able to brag to all your techie friends about the good-looking hostie
with the big boots and the sexy red lingerie that you had a fling with in Frankfurt.
I would have liked to tell him all this. Instead, I roll over like a puppy and say, Thats OK. I am
not looking for anything serious either. Ill give you my number on the plane, and if you want to see
me when we get home then you can.
I know that the chances of him calling me are about the same as me doing a trip on Christmas
day by choice, but I still want to be polite and try to end things on a civil note.
And you never know, he might just call.
The day I start fully believing my own justifications is the day I will ask Mary for her therapists
phone number.
sick of being sick
Moving on, from a Goodyear to a New Year. January one, a new year, a new beginning.
But first, I must get some sleep. I spent another New Years Eve in the air and have just returned
home. I have worked through the night: I am exhausted, jetlagged and have a runny nose.
God, please dont let me start off the New Year with a cold.
I fall into my bed, unshowered and without the strength to even slip on my pyjamas. I wake up a
day later, blow my nose, cry out God, I feel like I am going to die and go back to sleep.
Could there be a more defining moment of ones depressing solitary existence than when you are
feeling so sick and so tired that you dont have the energy to call someone for help?
If jetlag, fatigue and hypoxia (the lack of oxygen) are not enough to contend with, the fact that I
am one day on the equator, wiping sweat from my brow, and the next day near the Arctic, snapping
frozen icicles off my eyebrows, is something my body cannot cope with sometimes. Today is one
of those sometimes.
When I do muster the energy to get out of bed, I make my way to the shower.
When you spend as much time in the air as I do, your body is in a constant state of dehydration,
regardless of how much water you drink. I drink bucket-loads. Sometimes my skin becomes so dry
that I place a massive dab of moisturiser on it, and it disappears before I even have a chance to rub
it in.
Flying does horrific things to your internals even when you are well. When you are not well
things just get worse. If I get even the least bit run down, I often get crusty formations inside my
nose. Everyone needs to pick their nose at some point, but since I started flying Ive had to contend
with so a lot more than boogers. Most instances, especially where blood is concerned, are too
gross to talk about.
Working on an aircraft is a stressful environment for the body, and sometimes the body reacts.
There is a lack of studies that expose how ones health is affected by spending thousands of hours
in a pressurised tube at over 30,000 feet above the ground. Working in the cabin is akin to working
on the top of a mountain. The air in the cabin is rarefied, and in addition to that, we are breathed
on, coughed on and sometimes spat on by passengers from all corners of the globe, who are often
in varying degrees of health themselves. If a bug enters the cabin there is a big chance it will only
leave when it has attached itself to someone else.
Hygiene is a big issue with crew. It doesnt matter how many times you wash your hands or try
to avoid touching or breathing someone elses germs, it is almost impossible to avoid infections.
Unless the company dresses us in surgical gloves and masks and lets us carry around our own
oxygen supply, getting the odd bug is always going to happen in the closed work-environment of an
aircraft.
Additionally, a plane travels at great speed above the clouds. We are obviously closer to the
sun than normal, and one doesnt have to be Einstein to work out that were constantly exposed to
high radiation levels.
No wonder I get sick so often.
I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman, but right now I will swallow my pride, if
indeed I could swallow. I call the one person in the world who can care for me and make me feel
better: my mum.
She comes over immediately. Funnily enough, while she is feeding me her cure-all chicken
soup, she says, Why dont you look at settling down? Surely theres a pilot out there who would
appreciate a lovely girl like you?
I sit up a little and speak from the heart, Mum, I appreciate your advice, but I am not interested
in a pilot.
Then she starts with the You are not getting any younger speech.
Most things in life are a compromise. So, I tolerate my mums nagging while she nurses me back
to some semblance of human functionality.
I love my mum. In spite of all the nagging and advising, she is truly the greatest.
I drag myself to my local doctor. I am there so often that we are on a first-name basis. I know
that if I dont take antibiotics, it will take me a week to get better; if I do take them, it will take me
seven days. More important than the antibiotics is the medical certificate I need to show the
company to prove my condition.
If one was to ask any airline company if their employees are more susceptible to health
problems than those people working on the ground, the company would deny it with all their will,
yet we are allotted more annual sick days than any other job I know. Is that a contradiction or a
cover-up? Either way, I need those sick-leave days to recover from the stresses and strains my
body endures.
Although my body screams out for rest often, I push the envelope and try to get back to work as
soon as I can. That is because I love my job, and usually cant wait to go to work. Even now, I am
trying my hardest to recover because I dont want to lose my next trip. It is to Narita, Japan, and
my friend Danny is on the crew. If anyone can make me feel better, particularly emotionally, he
can.
Soon, I am on the road to recovery. Im almost good to go again and consider going on the
Narita trip after all. Just to make sure that I truly am well enough , which really means asking
myself, Do I really want to do the trip? I turn on my computer and check the crew list for the
flight. These days we hosties can do almost everything online, from bidding for trips to doing
courses and, importantly, checking who is coming along on our flights. I see that Danny Weilys
name is still listed, but I also notice that the boss onboard is Carolyn Burkett. When Carolyn
Burketts name is ever mentioned, the words Get a life are usually somewhere in the same
sentence. She is often referred to as the pot-hole, a nickname that some of the crew have given
her, because everyone tries to avoid her.
Like the others, I dont have Carolyn on my Christmas card list, but I do love working with
Danny. I wrestle with my conscience and my health, and soon tip the scales in favour of Danny.
Im off to Narita! And I havent been to Japan for ages.
Knowing it is going to be Frankfurt-like freezing in Japan, I pack my suitcase accordingly.
No wheelie-bag this time around. No fuschia gloves or grandma-pants either.
I have some beautiful clothes in the winter wardrobe section of my closet and relish the
opportunity to choose warm clothes that are functional as well as fashionable. I drive to work
totally satisfied that I have packed to perfection and am doing a trip I really want to do.
Although it has been over a year since I have seen Danny, it feels like it was only yesterday. It is
so good to see him, and we agree to try and work together in the cabin. Danny and I are similar
seniority so if we work down the back of the aircraft, we know we should be able to work
together. This will also keep us as far away as possible from Ms. Pothole.
Carolyns briefings are painfully long. Just as passengers reveal their true selves during the
boarding process, our bosses reveal their true selves during briefings: the more anal the boss, the
longer and more detailed the briefing usually is.
With the worlds longest briefing thankfully behind us, we finally get on the aircraft. Danny is so
funny onboard. Nothing is a hassle when Im with him, and he is as easygoing with the passengers
as he is with fellow crew. When we start the meal service, we have the usual beef or chicken
choice, but Danny calls the chicken everything from chicken-ooh-la-la to Kentucky-Fried
Chicken Japanese-style. He has so much fun with the passengers, and they enjoy the interaction as
much as Danny does. Sometimes crew get so caught up in getting the service done as quickly as
possible that they forget how much fun can be had in the process.
Even when I complain about one of my overly demanding passengers, Danny only laughs and
says, She is only putting the fun back into dysfunctional.
I wish I could do every trip with a guy like Danny.
Danny is married with two kids. He rarely talks about his home life. I guess he has so much on
his plate back home that he uses every second of his time away to enjoy himself.
All flight attendants have their own problems, their own demons. The same goes for passengers,
of course. Most people tell you their problems, but not Danny.
As Danny says, A positive attitude may not solve all problems, but it annoys enough people to
make it worth the effort. It is truly refreshing to work with someone with an optimistic outlook.
As positive an attitude as Danny has, it is barely enough to ward off our managers misery.
Carolyn is what I call a career hostie: she should have chosen a career in corporate banking yet
somehow ended up becoming a flight attendant. I guess she began flying with the intention of
balancing her innate serious nature with an intention to have fun, travel and meet guys. I deduce
that the fun and guys just never worked out for her.
As relationship after relationship failed, and she spent more time on her own, she gravitated
toward the only thing she still had left in her life, her career. Carolyn picks on the smallest of
things usually. On this trip, that thing happens to be the smallest woman not me, thankfully, but an
equally painful girl called Alex.
Although is the first time I am working with Alex, she feels comfortable enough to complain to
me about everyone and everything, particularly about Carolyn. Danny has noticed Alexs negativity
as well.
In his analysis and understanding of Alex, Danny shows to me a side of himself that I havent
really noticed before. As he explains, People like Alex have low self-esteem, and by running
others down, she misguidedly feels better about herself.Although Alex is not exactly like Carolyn,
she does see in herself some of the same traits she hates in Carolyn, and therefore complains about
the latter.
This intellectual, almost philosophical, side to Danny becomes more obvious as we carry on
with the meal service.
On most flights we have 50-50 meal choices loaded at the back of the aircraft. Unless there is
some sort of miracle, we always get to a point where some people are going to miss out on a meal
choice and boy do these people get angry at not getting the meal they wanted. Ive been to so
many lavish and properly organised weddings that had a 50-50 meal choice and missed out on my
choice. Yet, these people, with a ticket that costs less than what I paid for my last pair of shoes,
feel they have been personally victimised if we cannot offer them the beef choice.
Danny teaches me an ingenious little trick on this flight to deal with such passengers. When we
offer a woman a chicken meal, instead of the beef meal she prefers, she rolls her eyes and makes
faces because we have not given her the choice of meal she wanted. You could have sworn that we
had just asked her to donate a kidney.
I am so sorry, maam, Danny jumped in, noticing that I was getting frustrated with the womans
drama. We have been unable to give you your choice of meal. It is obvious that this upsets you, so
this is what I can do. Being in the air, it is impossible for us to conjure up a hot meal for you;
however, they do load a meal for all crew members, and though it is not much we only get a
sandwich Id be more than happy to give you my meal if that means you will be satisfied.
Much to my surprise and horror this woman accepted Dannys offer and was prepared to take
his sandwich.
Danny smiled and politely said, Heres your tray. I will return in a moment with the sandwich.
When we got back to the galley I was furious.
I turned to Danny, I know we get loaded a hot meal for ourselves, but how could you reward
that woman by giving away your crew snack?
Danny just smiled and said, Watch this.
He unwrapped his sandwich and removed all the filling from it, with the exception of a pickle
and some sprouts, before wrapping it back up. He took the almost-empty sandwich back again to
the cabin and handed it to the woman. I am sorry that this is not much, but they dont feed the crew
as well as they feed the passengers.
When we got back to the galley, he grinned mischievously at me. You see, that is the art of
diplomacy telling someone they can go to hell in such a way they think theyll enjoy the trip
there.
turning japanese, i think im turning japanese, i really think so
We arrive in Narita early in the morning and on time. It is cold, but, unlike my last trip to
Frankfurt, the skies are clear and there is little wind. There has been snow overnight and the
village looks beautiful. Narita is Tokyos main international airport and is only an hour away by
fast-train from downtown Tokyo. It was originally a small farming community, but once the airport
had been built, Narita was transformed into a bustling metropolis of hotels and shopping centres.
Although it still retains the traditional Japanese architecture and aspects of its humble beginnings,
it is now a major destination for transiting European travellers and airline crew.
At any given time there are dozens of different airlines crews staying in Narita, so the village
specifically caters to them. Richard Branson has his own pub dedicated to his Virgin crew, called
the Barg-In. It was meant to be called the Virg-In, but the locals had trouble pronouncing the V.
There is another bar called Flyers along with a number of karaoke bars, specifically aimed at
drunken crew with bad singing voices. The most infamous of these karaoke joints is The Truck
why it is called that is anybodys guess. The Truck is made up of two old shipping containers
joined together with a bar at one end and a stage with a microphone at the other. It is located in the
middle of nowhere, and has portable toilets, without lockable doors, placed outside it. Sounds
gross? It is. But it also a lot of fun.
I havent been to The Truck for years, if indeed it still exists in Narita. I wont be finding out on
this trip, although I am sure the crew will end up partying somewhere tonight.
For now I need some sleep. Then, I plan to catch up with Danny for lunch and the rest of the
crew later. The standard sentence that we crew exchange in hotel lobbies, when given our room
keys is, See you for drinks at six.
I have a sensational sleeping-pill induced nap before my alarm rings, and then I get ready to go
downstairs to meet Danny. I know he likes to walk a lot, so I have worn my most comfortable
boots the pair also happens to be one of my favourites. I think I even wore these boots on the
Rome trip I did with Danny years ago.
If these boots can handle the cobblestones of Rome, then Narita is going to be a cinch. I head
downstairs, singing the words to Nancy Sinatras These boots are made for walking, and thats
just what theyll do
Danny and I get some lunch first. We go to a little crew haunt called the Student Noodle. I have
never actually seen a student there though. It satisfies every crew dining criteria. It is clean, the
food is good and it is cheap.
Every crew that ever ventures into Narita has the same thing for starters: gyozas. Danny calls
them little dumplings of joy.
I order six, Danny orders a dozen. He would like to order more, but shows restraint as plans on
having a gyoza-fest later again that night. The gyozas run down our throats faster than a Tokyo
bullet-train. Then, we have ramen, which is a soup-and-noodle dish.
I love Japanese food. Oishi!
With contented stomachs, we walk and chat, walk and chat, and then walk and chat some more.
Although we dont talk about anything specific, the one thing that we dont talk about is work. Most
crew want to spend their time whining and bitching about work. I know that I sometimes can be
guilty of doing this too, but I do consciously make an effort to talk about other things. We often
forget what varied and interesting backgrounds we come from. I have flown with flight attendants
who come from a tradesmen background, who once served in the police force, who have worked
as teachers, who were psychologists or therapists before they did this. I have even flown with a
girl who used to be a doctor.
I wonder what Danny did before he started flying? I know I told him what I did, but I dont think
he ever told me what he did. All I know is that he has been flying for around twenty years.
I start doing mental arithmetic in my head. He is probably close to fifty, so he had to have joined
the company when he was in his late-twenties or around thirty. It is obvious that he had to have
done something for a number of years before flying.
As we walk and I listen to him speak, my curiosity gets the better of me.
Danny, can I ask you something? What did you do before flying?
A little surprised that Id asked the question, he answers, Law.
You studied law?
He nods. Studied, and practiced for a while.
Taken aback I confirm, You were a lawyer?
Not a very good one, but yeah, I was a lawyer.
I am dumbfounded. Why did you give it up?
He nonchalantly replies, I got into flying.
I prod further, But why give up being a lawyer to becoming a flight attendant?
He stops walking for a moment and turns to me, I hated law, always did. All I wanted to do
was to travel and see the world. I was earning good money, had a supportive wife and no kids at
that stage, but I wasnt happy. It was my wife who suggested I apply to be a hostie, and if I didnt
like it I could always go back to the law. I obviously never went back.
I am stunned, That is some special wife you have.
He nods humbly, I know.
We continue walking for another ten minutes, without speaking.
Would you like to go to the temple? he suddenly suggests.
Sure.
I have been to the temple in question many times. I know it must have a name, but we refer to it
simply as the temple. I think it is the largest in Japan and its grounds are just stunning. The last
time I went there, the cherry blossoms had just been in bloom. Unfortunately, I missed the full
blossoming experience by a heartbeat and the branches were bare, but the cherry blossoms were
still scattered all over the ground. It still looked beautiful.
The blossoms are not out this time, but the gardens are still stunning and the ponds are glistening
in the sunlight. It is zero degrees, yet it is surprisingly warm. We find a picturesque spot beside a
pond teaming with the worlds largest goldfish (I think they are a type of carp that the locals call
koi) and sit in the sun to admire the picture-postcard scenery.
We sit and chat for what must have been an hour before heading back to the hotel. Not once do I
mention again his previous life as a lawyer, and I can tell he is appreciative of the fact.
We meet in the hotel foyer at six oclock. Surprisingly, all of the crew, with the exception of
Carolyn, have turned up. I am obviously not a huge fan of Carolyn onboard the aircraft, but I feel a
little sorry that shes been left out. It must be such a lonely existence. I turn to the one person who
is more sympathetic than anyone else I know.
Danny, do you think we should call Carolyn and see if she wants to join us?
He shakes his head.
We cram into this quaint little teppanyaki restaurant where they cook the food at your table,
before you. Again, the restaurant probably has a wonderful name, but it is located up a flight of
spiral stairs, so the crew simply refer to the restaurant as The Spiral Staircase. Regardless of the
name, the food is great. However, apart from Danny, the conversation is terrible. The other crew
spend most of the night talking about the flight over to Narita and, more specifically, about
Carolyn. Most crew dont have a reputation, but once someone does have one, everybody talks
about them. The most vocal of the critics is again Alex. She is particularly scathing of Carolyn and
discusses every trip theyve done together since 1989.
Both Danny and I agree with Alexs summation of Carolyn, but we dont enter into the debate.
Alex notices Dannys unusual silence and asks him, What do you think of Carolyn?
Danny thinks for a moment before carefully choosing his words, There is an old saying that
goes, before you criticise someone you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you do
criticise them you are a mile away and youve got their shoes!
I have never heard this funny saying before, but what makes it even more hilarious is there is a
popular shoe story about Carolyn that has been circulating around the company for the last few
years. Carolyn was apparently in our crew-rest area having time off and had taken off her shoes to
have a little sleep. One of the crew, who really disliked her, snuck in and stole one of the shoes
and threw it into a hydraulic compactor we have onboard, which then crushed the shoe into a
pancake.
Carolyn had other shoes, but they were in her suitcase, which was then in the hold of the
aircraft, so she had to go through the rest of flight and the subsequent walk through customs, the
baggage area and the terminal wearing only socks. The crew knew who the culprit was, but
nobody confessed to Carolyn. From what I heard, the crew struggled to maintain straight faces and
several were reprimanded for laughing out loud within the customs hall.
Everybody, apart from Alex, laughs at Dannys joke and, more importantly, it changes the
subject. Thank God for that.
Alex mentions that she has some gossip on Mary-go-round. Alex obviously doesnt know that
Mary is a friend of mine. However, I am used to hearing gossip about Mary on most trips, so it
doesnt worry me too much. As a sticky-beak, I usually listen, and as a friend I usually dont
comment.
In this instance, I dont hear any stories about Mary that I havent heard before until Alex begins
to tell some disturbing stories about Marys new boyfriend, Michael Lawson, and insinuates that
he has a reputation for hitting women.
I am listening as Marys friend now: oh, this is difficult. If Lawson was indeed a woman-basher,
then do I tell Mary? Maybe it is just idle gossip?
I decide to investigate. This is pretty serious stuff after all.
I ask Alex, How do you know this?
Alex confidently responds, He used to go out with one of my friends.
I further enquire, Was he ever charged?
No.
I turn to Danny and whisper, Can I ask you a big favour? My friend goes out with Mike. What
should I do now?
Danny gives me a reassuring tap on the shoulder, and then confidently addresses Alex. I know
Mike Lawson fairly well. He may be a lot of things, but in all my years I have never heard of him
treating any woman inappropriately, let alone women, as you have just implied. I suggest that
your friend should keep her feelings and accusations to herself without proof, it is just slander. I
also suggest you should keep your accusations to yourself.
I pat Danny on his leg as a sign of absolute gratitude while Alex sits in stunned silence.
Bravo, I mutter under my breath.
We eat hundreds of gyozas and drink copious amounts of beer and wine before most of us
somehow end up doing the inevitable going to a karaoke bar. This one is called Cages, and as the
name suggests it has iron bars everywhere, except on stage. It is a small place and already busy as
we walk in, but with our extra numbers the place is now bulging at the seams.
The tragic thing about karaoke bars is those who should never be allowed to sing on stage are
generally the ones up there singing. I finally understand why this bar is called Cages: we are the
ones locked up and forced to listen to the tone-deaf singers on stage. Even so, I am having a great
time. Thanks to a combination of Dannys jokes and the riotous voices and antics on stage, I
havent laughed so much in ages. And soon, I get so caught up in the alcohol and euphoria that I do
something I never thought I would do (on this trip anyway) I get up on stage and do a duet with
Danny. Here I am, on stage with my good friend (make that good and married friend) very tipsy
and slinking around in my sexy boots and tight D&G jeans, singing the words from the Grease
song, Youre the one that I want, ooh ooh ooh honey, the one that I want
Danny hasnt given me the slightest notion of anything improper or flirtatious between us.
However, I cant help but feel jealous of his wife. I know that shes gotten herself such a
wonderful guy.
Why cant I meet a nice guy like you? I mumble into my almost empty wine glass once we get
off the stage. I am sitting at the bar again with Danny.
Oh God, I hope he didnt hear me, I hope to myself. I feel really stupid. I didnt mean to say it
loud enough for Danny to hear, but I cant be sure if he heard me or not.
Thank goodness I can trust Danny, because Im so tipsy I can hardly trust myself. I have done
lots of things in my life that I have regretted, but Danny wont be one of them. It is time for me to
go home. I know this, and Danny knows this. He walks me back to the hotel and I know deep down
that nothing is going to happen, but there must be an evil little part of me that is wishing he would
at least try. He doesnt, and I know he never will. Maybe that is why I like him so much.
He says Goodnight, and just as he turns to walk away he adds, Dont worry, you are such a
great girl. Youll meet a nice guy one day.
theres not many of the good ones left
Danny and I meet the next morning for coffee. Our call-time is late afternoon, so well have time to
have a chat, a coffee or two and a few hours of sleep prior to working through the night.
I feel a bit hungover this morning, I tell Danny, acting surprised.
He mocks me, No-o-o!
I know I was a little tipsy, but I think I can remember everything that happened. I think?
I sheepishly enquire, Did I do anything or say anything I shouldnt have?
He smiles, You were the perfect lady.
I thank him for putting Alex in her place. In typical Danny style, he says, Great minds discuss
ideas. Average minds discuss events. Alex discusses people.
Sometimes I dont measure good conversation in terms of time, but in terms of coffees. We
spend three lattes, each, joking and laughing. We reminisce about our John Travolta and Olivia
Newton-John moment on stage the night before. We even softly sing a few lines of Youre the One
That I Want.
Then, I ask Danny a question that I probably shouldnt ask him, How did you know your wife
was the one that you want?
He replies frankly, I didnt.
I should leave it at that, but I dont. Have you ever thought about being with someone else?
He tries to laugh it off, You mean leaving this table and maybe sitting with that couple over
there?
I shake my head and ask a little more seriously, No, I mean being with someone else?
He becomes a tad more serious as well, and he replies, Like leaving my wife?
No, not necessarily leaving her, but, you know, fooling around?
He gives an emphatic No.
I persist, So, you have never thought about it?
Of course, I have thought about it. But one thing you should know about me is that I am a
control-freak, and the one person I like to take full control of is my own self. When I was a lawyer,
I learnt that actions have consequences. Have you heard of the saying, If you are not prepared to
do the time, then dont do the crime? I wont do anything to jeopardise my family.
It is very refreshing to talk with someone so genuine and respectful. Ive been hit on by so many
married guys over the years. One time, a passenger, who was travelling with his wife, snuck away
from her to give me his phone number. I wanted to march through the cabin and tell his poor wife
what a big sleaze-ball her husband was, but instead I slipped a note into her jacket, which had
been hanging in the aircrafts coat-locker. The note read, You deserve better.
I know of a number of married crew who fool around. Some are random predators while others
have long-term affairs, often with a fellow crew member. It is not just men that do this. A married
flying friend of mine once confessed to me that she had been having an affair with another married
crew member for over two years. They even bid for trips together, but no one knew about them. At
the time I thought the chances of her eventually getting caught were quite high. I was right. Her
selfish actions, and that of her lovers, eventually destroyed two marriages.
My conscience could not handle being responsible for breaking up a marriage. I always felt that
if a man was prepared to leave his wife for me, he would do exactly the same thing to me if a
better offer came up later.
I recently flew with a guy who takes his wedding ring off as soon as he leaves for a trip. He
even tried to flirt with me.
Arent you married? I confronted him.
Only when I am at home, he said.
Jerk.
I know of another man who has been married for years and has children, but as soon as he gets
on the aircraft he begins flirting with all the gay guys. I have a pretty good gaydar, and I could tell
in an instant that he was gay. His wife must surely know, because every gay guy that met him
certainly did.
I know gay couples. I know straight couples. The rules are the same though, no matter which
way you swing. It is my opinion that if you are committed to someone you should honour that
commitment. Some do, like Danny. Some dont.
The most bizarre relationship story I have heard was about one of our captains. He was having
an affair with a woman in one of our layover ports overseas. As he was senior hed do the same
trip all the time. He would pack his bags for the eight-day trip and go away, and spend time with
his overseas girlfriend; he would then return home and do it all over again. This apparently went
on for years without the wife ever finding out.
Unbeknown to his wife the captain retired, but rather than tell his wife he continued to pack his
bag, put on his uniform and kiss her goodbye to return eight days later. He would drive to the
airport, slip out of his uniform and then passenger on a flight to see his girlfriend. When he
returned he would put his uniform back on.
All was going to plan until there was a tragedy in the family, and the wife rang the company to
pass on a message to her husband. The company replied, But he left the company over six months
ago.
One can only imagine how many times she would have slammed the George Foreman grill into
his testicles.
I am sure Danny is not the only married man in the company to stay faithful to his wife, but for
now I am really enjoying his forthrightness and honesty. We finish our coffees and decide to walk-
off the caffeine before heading back to the hotel for some rest.
nothing beats good conversation
Working on a cart with Danny on the flight home is again a joy. As the flight is a night sector, once
we have wrapped up the meal service, we turn the lights off and let everyone sleep. Half the crew
go off on a break, which thankfully includes Alex. They disappear to the crew-rest area and the
others, like myself and Danny, are left on. This must be the night where all the stars are aligned in
perfect symmetry as Carolyn is also off on the first break.
This is the easiest flight ever, I think to myself as I draw the galley curtains and take up a seat
next to Danny. Apart from the occasional call-bell interruption, Danny and I chat for hours. It feels
nice to talk to a man on an intellectual level, rather than a romantic one. Although most of my
girlfriends are intelligent, all I can pretty much talk to them about is shopping, guys, shopping and
shopping. That is probably of my doing.
The more I listen to Danny, the more attracted I am to him not just physically, but emotionally.
I wish he had a twin brother.
I actually think about asking him if he did, but then think better of it.
I think Danny knows how much I admire him, but he is so cool about it. I would love to be able
to bid for some trips with him, but that would be inappropriate. It is a bit of a shame that straight
women and straight men struggle to maintain innocent relationships.
I have several girlfriends who have a gay guy as their best friend, but I dont know of any girl
who has a straight man as her best friend. One of my friends, Jackie, is best friends with an
outrageous gay guy, Damien. I like Damien, but trouble and Damien go hand in hand. He is a funny
man, but some people do take him the wrong way. Damien is actually going to be on my next trip,
which should be interesting. It wont be as much fun as working with Danny, but Damiens caustic
tongue often has the sting of a stand-up comedian.
That is why I like Danny so much he is funny but not at the expense of others. Most people
who fly are hypercritical. I know I am, and I wish I wasnt so. I notice that Danny is only
judgmental of those who are judgmental. He doesnt gossip like most do in the galley. He talks
about social issues, about places, about life, and I am enthralled by the conversations I have with
him.
I usually wait for most flights to be over, but not this one. When we touchdown, I feel a sense of
disappointment, for I know it will be a while before I get to see Danny again. A flight attendants
job is indeed unique because you work with a group of people for a number of days but then you
may not see some of them again for years. Some of them, you may never see again. Sometimes that
is a good thing, I think as I say goodbye to Alex and Carolyn. Sometimes it is not, I think as I hug
Danny.
One of the onboard rituals we go through, particularly at the end of longer trips, is to walk
around the aircraft and thank each and every member of crew for that trip. Those we like, we
generally kiss. Those we dont, with them we shake hands. I shook hands with Alex and Carolyn. I
know I hugged Danny for too long, but it saddens me that spending time with interesting people
such as Danny is all too rare.
It is hard to explain, but I feel like I have just ended a relationship: there is a longing for that
persons company but also the realisation that they are not going to be there with you.
Get a grip, Danielle!
When we land and after we clear customs, we jump on a company bus that will take us back to
our base, where our cars are parked. As everyone gets on the bus, in unison, the phones come out
of pockets; then on, what was a quiet environment before turns into a churning conversational sea
of hosties trying to speak over each other.
Many listen to the soothing voices of their loved ones, while I listen to my message-bank.
I am not too proud to admit that I have chosen the seat behind Danny. While I pretend to listen to
my messages, I eavesdrop on his conversation with his wife. I cant help but feel jealous of her.
I bet she is gorgeous.
I can tell that he is pleased to talk with her. I also come to the unfortunate realisation that the
brilliant conversations he has shared with me for the past days are not exclusive to me.
When Danny hangs up, I replay my messages and listen more carefully to them. My first message
is from Mary. She has broken up with Mike. Surprise, surprise.
The second message is also from Mary. She and Mike are back together again.
Then, there is a message from my mum, checking that I am feeling OK.
Theres another from Mary, telling me to disregard the first message.
Theres a message from my bank, politely reminding me that I have missed a credit card
repayment.
Then, theres yet another message from Mary. She and Mike have found an apartment and are
moving in together.
I am shocked.
Moving in together? I hope their apartment is not on the top floor. Lord help them if it has a
balcony.
When we arrive at our work base, most of the crew scatter quicker than a school of fish in
barracuda-infested waters. Danny doesnt. He takes the time to turn around to say goodbye, and
before he leaves he gives me a little peck on the cheek.
As I drive home, I realise that every song on the radio is a love song. I am not in love with
Danny, but I am sad because I am not in love with anyone. Even Mary has found someone.
My life has so many high points, but without someone to share those with, it can be very lonely.
I walk onto my apartment, and it just doesnt feel as inviting as it normally is.
Perhaps I am lonelier than I thought I was. Perhaps I am feeling so melancholic because I was
sick only a few days ago. Perhaps it is because I am premenstrual.
My stomach is tied in knots. If I had some sort of menstrual regularity, then I should be due in
three or four days. With jetlag, sickness, pre-menstrual tension, my actual period, and post-
menstrual tension coming one after the other each month, the window of normality in my life can be
measured not in days but only in minutes.
here they come!
Every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I seek out a healthy dose of reality from my best friend,
Helen. I tell her about Danny and how I miss having someone to share my life with. In turn, she
tells me about some of the problems she has to deal with on a daily basis, and I eventually pull my
head out of my self-absorbent sand and realise that the grass is not always greener on the other
side.
Helen asks, Wheres your next trip to?
I almost feel too embarrassed to say Honolulu.
I just know that will get her into the all-too-familiar Oh, how I wish I could speech.
She does.
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So is life. Most people, like Helen, would give
anything to spend even a few weeks in my shoes. I sometimes lose sight of that.
I pack for my Honolulu trip. I am only there for a day or so, and the packing is easy: swimming
costume, sun-screen, sunglasses, an outfit for a night out, my Macys shopping card. Also, I know
my routine before I even get there: I will have a nap, wake up, go to Waikiki beach for a swim and
some sun, then go to the Ala Moana shopping centre.
Just before I zip up my wheelie-bag, I check the internet for the Honolulu weather forecast. It
seems perfect, just like it always is when I am there. I double-check my choice of clothes for the
trip and confidently close my wheelie-bag again, knowing that I have packed well and even have
room to bring home a Macys purchase or two.
We are working on a mid-sized aircraft, a 767, and even though there are only seven of us
working on the trip, it is still a rarity to be with a crew where you know everybody. Apart from
Damien, I dont know the others very well, but the boss, Geoff, I remember as an experienced and
a straight-down-the-line type of guy. The crew seems great though, so all is good so far, except for
the fact that I just had a visit from Auntie Flo. At least, I have got my period before I got onto the
aircraft, thus giving me time to prepare myself, even if my internals do feel like they are tumbling
in a washing machine.
Honolulu flights are generally hard work. The planes are usually full of holiday-makers, so
booze flows freely and, as many arent regular flyers, passenger expectations are fairly high. I find
that those who travel regularly know how to behave and what to expect on a flight. With them,
drama happens only if they dont get what they are used to. However, the passengers who only
travel once every blue moon have no idea of what really goes on and want everything, and want it
yesterday.
Both sectors to and from Honolulu are listed as full. I am allocated to work on a cart with
Damien in cattle class I would much rather be working up the front. Considering that work
positions are chosen based on seniority of positions, and both Damien and I are the most junior
crew on this flight, we dont have a say in where we work.
Damien and I stand on opposite sides of the aisle, chatting as we await the throng of holiday-
makers to board. We talk about our mutual friend Jackie. As I had suspected, she is still single. I
have heard the term fag hag being used frequently, both in the airline industry and outside. A fag
hag is a girl who associates predominately with gay men. Jackie tends to spend most of her time
with Damien and his gay friends. They are classy men, dress immaculately, indulge in the finer
things in life and are highly critical of those who dont. No straight guy can measure up to their
lofty standards, and Jackie has adopted the same expectations. She is a stunning woman and
attracts more than her fair share of admirers, but picks holes in every man she ever meets. A man
who dates Jackie must be prepared to be a duck in a shooting gallery, and most are not.
Damien does tell me that Jackie did have a date with a passenger she met on a recent flight.
Damien was also onboard then. In Damiens words, He was quite nice, but was wearing the most
hideous shirt. Really, who wears shirts with diagonal stripes these days?
I like Damien, but he can be very caustic and condescending. Lord help you if you get on his bad
side. Damien speaks out what most of us think, and thats what gets him into trouble. He will pick
holes in everyone and everything, and tell people about it too. Thankfully he doesnt do it to me.
Having said that, I do know he has a really good side to him: I have seen him sit down during
his break with a little old lady who was fearful of flying. He held her hand and reassured her that
everything was OK.
Now, as we watch the first group of passengers walking up the aisle, towards us, he turns to me,
Oh God, here they come, and this is going to be hideous.
It becomes quickly apparent to me that this is going to be no ordinary flight. The first twenty or
so passengers are middle-aged to elderly women, each travelling on their own, each frowning and
each standing in the aisle and waving her arms frantically to get our attention.
Oh great. There must be a cat owners convention in Hawaii.
I am quite sufficient at handling one boarding problem at a time, but not twenty. Rather than talk
individually to a mob of bitter and twisted single, older women who are complaining about the
same thing, I decide to nip it in the bud and talk out loud to all of them. Hopefully anyone else
queued up and ready to complain listens as well.
May I have your attention everyone? This is a full flight, so if anyone has a seating issue, we
cannot change your seat during the boarding process. If you could take your assigned seat, we will
verify your check-in sequence number and deal with the issue after take-off. Thank you.
Damien has heard (and thoroughly agreed with) what I have announced and tells several cat
owners on his side, You heard her, luvee. Sit down.
Most of the cat owners reluctantly sit down. One however marches toward me with fire flaring
from her nostrils.
She snarls condescendingly, If I cannot have an aisle seat, then I need to get off this plane!
I dont get paid enough to deal with loonies like this, so I dont argue with her and instruct her to
grab her in-cabin bags and come with me to the front door.
She probably didnt think I was going to react this way, and although I cant really tell if she is
bluffing, I make my way with her against the flow of boarding passengers toward the front door. A
huge Polynesian man is blocking our path, so I slide into a vacant seat to let him pass. He reeks of
alcohol, but it is hard to tell if thats why he is staggering through the cabin; he is so large that he
hits every seat on his way through anyway.
I step into the aisle again and feel like a salmon swimming upstream as I wiggle my way through
the oncoming passengers. I finally get my queen-of-the-cat-owners to the front door, where our
boss Geoff is doing the boarding.
Geoff, this lady needs to get off the plane if we cannot give her an aisle seat.
He understands the situation exactly.
Geoff is decisive, Thanks Danielle, leave her here with me. If she wont take her assigned seat,
we will get the ground staff to offload her.
As I leave I can see the fear in the womans eyes.
I am confident that Geoff has her measure. In between boarding other passengers, he will
explain to her the conditions of travel as per her ticket. It is tough for our managers during the
boarding process. He has to manage the boarding of over two-hundred people, basically on his
own, and he has only minutes to do this. Should a problem arise (and they always do) he has to
deal with it quickly and effectively, and he does.
I walk back down the aisle, following a youngish girl who is probably in her early twenties, but
acts so much younger. She makes several comments that appear innocent, but I can tell that she is
not overly bright. The wheel is spinning, but me thinks that the hamster is dead.
The boarding mayhem continues. Most of the cat owners remain standing in the misguided hope
that somehow a whole row of aisle seats will magically appear before them. One of these women
has an expression on her face that could curdle her cats milk.
Shes is going to be so much fun to deal with on the flight.
I can see the young girl, who I have followed down the cabin, staring at her boarding pass and
then studying the seat numbers under the in-cabin lockers. It seems like finding her seat is
obviously rocket science to this girl. She looks at her boarding pass again, with the intensity of a
world championship chess contender, and then moves through a few more rows, to repeat the same
routine.
The large Polynesian man is sitting in an aisle seat. Well, at least some of him is. The rest of
him spills over the poor passenger beside him and the aisle itself. I look past his hulking frame to
see the young girl, and I finally realise what seat she is in.
The aisle seat that this young girl is staring at is the only free seat in the area, but for some
reason she stares at her boarding pass and the placard featuring the seat numbers at least four times
to make quadruple-sure. Totally oblivious to the last of the passengers queuing behind her, instead
of moving into the seat with her bag and letting them pass, she tries (unsuccessfully) to put her bag
in the already full overhead locker.
Airline manufacturers design and make their aircraft based on the assumption that each
passenger is going to carry money, a passport, a camera and a toothbrush onto the plane. Most
passengers, however, bring along half the contents of their bedroom wardrobe, enough toiletries to
outlast a nuclear fallout, the complete fiction section from the local bookstore and their kitchen
sink.
The young girls bag is not as big as some I have seen, but the lockers directly above her are
full. This girl just doesnt have the brain-matter to work out that she might have to manoeuvre the
other bags or use another locker to fit in her own luggage. I am still busy dealing with other
passengers, however I keep one wary but amused eye on the young girl. Even though I am some
distance away, I can tell that her bag is not going to fit in the locker she is trying to push it into.
Hell, Blind Freddy could see that it isnt going to fit there.
Regardless of the bleeding obvious, or the advice of the passengers frustratingly queued up
behind her, the young girl continues to think that if she tries a different angle the results will be
different. It is not until I make my way to her and open the locker next to the one she has
bludgeoned for the last five minutes that she realises that there are other options apart from futility.
Amidst the young girls locker shenanigans, I notice that the woman who I had taken to the front
door has taken her seat, and it is not an aisle seat. She looks like she is ready to commit multiple
murders, but she is at least seated.
Well done, Geoff!
I look across to try and get Damiens attention as Id love for him to see the expression on this
sour womans face, but I noticed that he is in his own world of boarding pain. A woman has just
dumped a massive bag in the aisle. The bag obviously weighs a ton, but she nonchalantly and quite
rudely tells Damien to put it in the locker.
She didnt even have the decency to make eye contact with Damien as she says this. She then
turns her back to him and walks away.
Damien is going to read her the riot act, I think to myself. I can see the look in his eye, and
although I would love to listen to what Damien has to tell her, I am busy with my own rude
passengers. I will have to wait to find out what blunt words of wisdom he gave her.
I know that he will make her put her own bag in the overhead locker, and I just hope he uses
words such as occupational health and safety, if it is under the allowable onboard weight limit,
for the safety of all passengers and so on. That way when there is a customer complaint (and
there usually is with Damien) and I get called into the office, I can back up his claims and insist
that he acted professionally.
There are so many times that we must witness a display of rudeness by passengers, on a scale
most people could not fathom dealing with in their own workplaces, but we still need to hold it
together and choose our words carefully. I know Damien wont be that thoughtful.
I just hope he doesnt swear.
When the last passenger has boarded, Geoff makes his Welcome onboard PA, including
instructions for cabin preparation and for all passengers to be seated. Getting the last of the cat
owners to climb into their non-aisle seats is as hard as trying to pry a toy out of a childs hands. I
give them an extra reminder. So does Damien.
I grab an extension seat belt and make my way toward the large Polynesian man whilst dozens of
voices ask me for food and drinks. When we are preparing the cabin for take-off we need to take
control quickly and surely, and this often means having to look at the passengers collectively and
not as individuals.
Using my well-chosen plane speak, I reply to most passengers, but without breaking my stride,
Only safety-related duties at the moment, thanks folks. It is hard not to appear as rude, but time
constraints rarely allow us to give personalised service.
In the past twenty years of flying, I have never been called into the office for something I have
said. However, if they could know what I sometimes think about, I would have been sacked years
ago.
lessons in human behaviour
Damien and I sit in our crew seats for take-off. Our seats are between a bulkhead and a toilet
flanked by the over-wing exits. It is a great spot to gossip. If you speak softly, the passengers
nearby cant hear you. On most aircrafts, we are seated opposite passengers for take-off and
landing. It is sometimes uncomfortable sitting eyeball to eyeball with a stranger, especially if
youve have just been assertive with that same stranger over safety-related issues during the
boarding process.
On a recent flight, the gentleman in the exit-row seat opposite mine was one of the rudest people
I have ever met. As soon as he came onboard, it became evident how little respect he had for his
fellow passengers and the crew. As soon as he was finished with dinner, he took the tray off his
fold-out table and placed it on the floor in front of my crew-seat and the exit.
I find such impoliteness appalling. This behaviour is my pet peeve. I once slipped on a tray that
had been placed on the floor so carelessly; luckily, I had been able to grab hold of a cart and keep
myself from falling.
I would have then liked to add some well-chosen expletives to communicate my utter disdain for
the man, but of course I dont. Instead, I go into plane speak and say, Excuse me, sir. Placing your
tray on the floor is a safety issue for the crew as well as for other passengers. You have two
options, you can either pick up your tray and hold it until we come along with the cart and collect it
or you can carry it to the back galley and place it on the bench.
True to his arrogant form he snaps, Why dont you pick it up now and take it away?
In all my years I have never got down on my knees to pick up a tray from near the feet of an
able-bodied person. If this guy thought I was going to start now, he had another think coming.
I really wanted to pick up his tray and drop the remaining contents on his head, but again, a
hostie must be professional in the most trying of times.
Sir, I dont think you have listened to my safety-related instructions so I will repeat them to you
one more time. You can either pick up your tray and hold it until we come and collect it, or you can
carry it to the galley and place it on the bench there.
The man did listen this time. And he did exactly as he was told to.
Thankfully, on this flight, we dont have to sit opposite passengers. We sit peacefully in our
little hidey-hole and chitchat. It is the perfect opportunity to vent our anger at the ridiculously
gruesome boarding we have just had to endure, and vent anger Damien does. I can finally find out
what he said to the woman who dropped her big bag in the aisle and then walked away.
It turns out that he didnt choose his words carefully at all, just like I had suspected.
Damn it, Damien, youre going to have me in the office over this.
She hasnt got a leg to stand on as the bag was over the allowable weight limit. I am not going
to throw my back out for anyone, especially that pretentious little hussy.
I must confess that the vast majority of passengers are well-behaved and respectful, its just we
dont tend to gossip about the good ones. This flight has all the makings of being a flight attendants
nightmare, but a gossipers dream.
We begin to take-off, but the call-lights are lighting up the cabin like a Christmas tree.
Damien speaks out loud what I am thinking to myself, Dont these people know that the seat belt
sign is on and that no one can serve them now?
Its truly astounding how thoughtless some of the travelling public can be. Even during
turbulence, with the seat belt sign on, there are always a few people who give a look of death if the
crew dont continue serving them. A man on a recent flight actually said something about how he
had been waiting ten minutes to be served a drink. The fact that the seat belt sign had remained
illuminated during this time and several announcements had been made about turbulence had
somehow missed the mans attention. Unless this guy was in some sort of brain-dead coma, he
should have known what was happening.
I felt like saying to him, I am so sorry, sir, that I couldnt serve you. If it were up to me I would
make the crew wear helmets and knee- and elbow pads so we can continue the service regardless
of the possible injuries we could sustain during turbulence.
Not all passengers press their call-bells by choice however. Often it is a mistake. Some people
lack the basic intellect to work out which button does what, so they press anything they can find.
Thats my theory anyhow.
I decide to test my theory now. From my crew-seat, I stick out my head into the aisle to see the
young girl (the same one who took eons to find her seat and load her bags, the same one who is a
few sandwiches short of a picnic) and I see that her call light is on. So maybe my theory is correct
after all.
As soon as the seat-belt sign is turned off, I jump out of my seat, bypass at least a dozen call-
lights, and make my way to the front of the aircraft where there is a magic button. Located on a
panel containing a myriad of other buttons, there it is, easy to locate because it is the most worn. It
is the call-bell-reset button. One press, and the Christmas tree lights disappear.
If only I could make them disappear forever.
As I walk back down the aisle, my call-bell reprieve is short lived as the familiar, yet annoying
sound of bing continues to resonate throughout the cabin. I, like the other crew, ignore them as we
prepare the drinks cart. Most of the call lights are probably for drinks anyway, I predict.
Of course, Im right. And boy do the passengers drink.
The Polynesian man drinks his first drink and asks for a second even before I have moved to the
next row. The young girl, who is a few clowns short of a circus, also downs her drink with the
ferocity of a seasoned alcoholic. Everybody drinks, with the exception of some of the cat owners.
These women are so upset and so childish that they refuse everything. By refusing they must be
under the misguided notion that they are making some sort of statement. The only statement it makes
is: I am foolish. Also, no one gives a damn.
Their whole world revolves around having an aisle seat. However, it is unfortunate that they
didnt get to the check-in counters early enough to guarantee their seat, and my sanity. When they
stick their crusty palms in front of my face and look away in disdain as if to say, Get the hell away
from me. I dont want a damn thing from you or your airline, I want to scream, There are children
starving in Africa. Get a life and grow up!
I dont do that though. I simply smile and say, OK, thats fine.
Damien on the other hand cannot hold himself back. Fantastic, one less person to serve! he
snaps back. Every little passenger indiscretion is met with a roll of his eyes and a similarly biting
satirical retort.
One youngish guy asks Damien, What beers do you have?
Damien politely gives him the name of the four beers we have onboard.
The passenger then asks, But do you have ?
I can see that Damien wants to jump across the seat and scruff this guy by the throat.
He turns to this guy, Do you honestly think that we have the beer you want, but I have
deliberately not told you about it just to spite you? The guy had no idea what to say. He quietly
takes whatever brand of beer Damien chooses to give him.
Another female passenger asks for a chocolate bar with a glass of a wine. I have never heard of
someone wanting chocolate with a drink, and I am curious to see how Damien is going to handle it.
Damien quips, Chocolate? You want chocolate? This is a 767, luvee, not a 7-11.
I have seen some satirical comedians in my time, but not one has the sting that Damien
possesses. I know that when he gets to deal with the young girl, who is a few light bulbs short of a
chandelier, I just know Damien will tear strips off her. He does.
Would you like the chicken or the beef? Damien asks the young girl.
Sorry, what were the choices again? she asks him immediately. Each passenger has been given
a menu and there has also been a PA explaining the meal choices, yet the girl is confused. I am not
surprised.
To Damiens credit he takes a deep breath and says, Choice one: we have succulent chicken
pieces lovingly cooked over a flame-grill and served with fluffy white rice. Choice two: we have
beef that has been delicately cut and slow cooked in a light red wine sauce and served with a
smooth potato mash.
I look at Damien and am totally amused at the meal descriptions he gives for a good ol chicken
stir fry and a beef casserole.
As colourful as Damiens descriptions are, she still looks at him in indecision.
The lights are on, but nobody is at home, I think.
After five or six seconds of brain-dead silence Damien can take no more.
He rolls his eyes and blurts, You can phone a friend or we can ask the audience?
Still nothing.
Damien obviously has more beef left so he places it on a tray. The audience has voted, and they
have unanimously voted for the beef.
The young girl doesnt flinch as Damien hands her the tray, but she does ask for another wine.
For a small framed girl she is certainly drinking a lot.
As we push the cart through the cabin, we approach the fat Polynesian. It is clear that my
observations of him reeking of booze when he boarded were right; he is now very inebriated and
rudely demanding more as our meal cart draws closer. The cart hits his legs, and he totally loses
control. He yells at Damien, who calmly responds, Sir, your legs must have been in the aisle. I
wont get into a debate about physics, but think of the cart as a train and the aisle as train tracks. If
you get hit by a train, you cant blame the train, can you? Now, would you like the chicken or the
beef?
The big man is still furious and sneers, Give me the beef and another beer.
Although some of the cat owners are not eating, the woman that has a face that could curdle milk
is devouring her meal with gusto. Like most of her kind, she has a vegetarian meal that has been
pre-ordered and delivered to her earlier. She is stuffing the last of her lentils into her face, but still
has to get to her dessert.
One of the courtesies we ask of passengers is to put their seats in the upright positions for the
meal service, as the man seated in front of our cat owner has already politely done. You would
think that most people would have the common decency to do this anyway, but the milk-curdling-
faced lady refuses to bring her seat upright, so I ask her again.
Maam, would you mind bringing your seat upright for five or so minutes so the person behind
you can enjoy their meal with the same amount of space that the person in front of you has allowed
for yourself?
She shakes her head and says gruffly, I dont have to. You cant make me. It is not a safety
issue, is it?
No, maam. However, it is something people do out of courtesy, so fellow passengers are
comfortable.
She still shakes her head, and I can see that Damien is ready to pounce. I indicate to Damien that
I will handle it. I reflect on a similar situation that Danny had told me about, and I decide to handle
it the way he had at the time.
I approach the man who is sitting directly in front of Ms. Curdle-face and politely say, Sir, I
guess you heard the ladys refusal to bring her seat upright just for the meal service?
He nods.
Could you do me a big favour? Would you be kind enough to recline your seat back as far as it
will possibly go? Thank you.
The man smiles mischievously and reclines his chair, knowing full well that the nasty lady
behind him is about to be squashed.
When I turn around five minutes later, I see that all the seats in the cabin have their backs
standing upright now. Damien notices too, and he gives me a proud grin.
And thats how its done, I whisper to him as we push the cart further along.
the bigger they are the harder they fall
We have finished collecting all the used dinner trays and are cleaning up the cabin. Soon we will
be able to turn down the lights and let the passengers sleep well, more like, we can turn down
the lights and give ourselves a break.
Both the young girl, who is a few pretzels short of a party pack, and the Polynesian man have
consumed copious amounts of alcohol by now, and the drinks have started to show their effects on
them. The Polynesian man has pressed his call-bell, and Damien walks up the aisle to investigate. I
look from a distance, worried at how Damien is going to handle the big man; earlier, Geoff had
instructed us not to give him or the young girl more alcohol. I am too far away to hear what is
being said, but I can tell the Polynesian is upset. Damien leans in to turn off the call-light, when, in
the blink of an eye, the Polynesian head-butts Damien. Poor Damien slumps to the ground.
Oh my God, hes hit Damien! I cry.
I race toward Damien, who comes to his feet, staggering, holding his face. Blood is gushing
from his nose.
Oh my God, oh my God!
Several passengers begin venting their anger at the Polynesian man, and he is ready to fight them
all. I grab Damien and get out of there as quickly as I can. I help Damien to the galley and one of
the other flight attendants, Deb, who has also witnessed what has happened, sends an emergency
call to all the crew stations. I attend to Damiens injuries while Geoff comes down the back to
fully assess the situation. Damiens nose is badly broken, and there is a lot of blood. We are all
trained in First Aid, so I sit Damien down in the galley and lean him forward, and then get him
some towels to help stem the flow of blood. Damien is very distressed, silent from shock. We are
all shocked.
Geoff makes an instant decision to have the Polynesian man arrested when we land. He also
decides to have him restrained in the meantime. He phones the Captain to inform and confirm his
decision, and then leaves the galley to return with flexi-cuffs. The decision to restrain the
Polynesian man was an easy one to make. How we should go about executing it is not as easy.
The Polynesian man is almost as big as the whole crew combined. With Damien now out of the
equation, there are only six of us available onboard three girls and three guys, including Geoff
to help with the massive task of restraining him: Geoff is almost sixty and not in the greatest shape;
Julian is a little gay guy who looks like he could be knocked down by a feather; all three of us girls
are petite (and Jo is still in the front cabin). Rod is a burly straight man, and our only real hope.
However, hes not enough. We cant risk injuring one of the pilots, so Geoff asks for volunteers to
assist him and Rod. To my surprise, Julian agrees to help. I put up my hand as well.
You can count me in. I can kick like a mule.
Deb volunteers as well, but Geoff stops her. If theres too many of us, well only get in each
others way.
Geoff then turns to the three volunteers and says, Thank you. This is not going to be easy. We
need to act fast as he is already arguing with some of the other passengers.
Geoff is an extremely wise man and a brilliant leader. I cant help but think that he would have
made an extraordinary military general had he chosen a different career path. As he prepares us for
battle, he discusses tactics.
This guy is huge, so I suggest that we try and slip the cuffs on him while hes in his seat. He
wont be able to move much then. If we come in from behind and dont allow him to get up, we
might be able to get the cuffs on him. That will be your job, Danielle. We hold him down, and then
you slip in from behind him and slap on the cuffs. OK?
I am shaking like a leaf.
OK.
Geoff continues, First things first, I will go out there and assess the situation. I will quietly try
and move away the passengers seated behind him. Just in case, can you back me up, Rod? Danielle
and Julian, you stay a few paces behind us. Deb, you stand by the phone, where you can see us as
well as communicate with the flight deck and with Jo if things go wrong. OK, lets do this.
My whole body is trembling as I carry the cuffs behind my back and follow the boys down the
aisle. Some of the passengers are still arguing with the Polynesian, and he raises his fists at a man
sitting in front of him. The man being threatening is fearless, unwilling to backing down. He sees
us walking down the aisle, and I can tell that he knows what is going on. Geoff makes eye-contact
with the man, and they have a brief moment of understanding.
The Polynesian still has his fist raised in anger, but is seated.
Geoff quietly approaches the two passengers seated behind him and beckons for them to move
out of the way, which they do. I am getting more nervous than a dog with a long tail in a room full
of rocking chairs.
Geoff and Rod move into the vacated seats. On Geoffs command we all jump on the
Polynesians back, pushing him forward whilst Geoff and Rod grab an arm each. The passenger in
front joins in and pulls the Polynesians head down. Other passengers join in as well, helping us
restrain him.
We have made the big man very angry, and he doesnt like it one bit. He thrashes about
violently, even reaching for us, slapping away some of the limbs that have crept onto him as if they
were bugs. However, we dont give in to him. Little Julian has straddled the big mans back and is
riding him like a wild bronco. As the Polynesian is very drunk, out of shape and out of breath he
soon weakens, and we are able to get his hands behind his back. Its time for me to cuff him now.
I have used handcuffs in training several times, and they seemed easy to use in a classroom, but
it is a totally different scenario trying to put them on an angry, thrashing brute in a confined space
and surrounded by so many struggling limbs. Just as I thought I might never be able to get the cuffs
on, the Polynesian must have realised the gravity of the situation and stops fighting.
Finally, one wrist and then the other. Snap. Its done.
My adrenaline is flowing wild, if there were an area I could collapse into, I would.
Geoff remains calm, and as the limbs peel off the caged beast, he talks to the Polynesian and
informs him that he will remain cuffed for the duration of the flight and the authorities will take him
away when we land. The big man is angry, but it seems the seriousness of the situation is finally
dawning on him.
Geoff consults with Rod, Julian and myself, and then decides to move the man to our crew-rest
area. There are no bunks on this aircraft for the crew, just four standard passenger-seats with a
curtain for some privacy. The Polynesian is abeyant, and with our assistance we help him to his
feet and lead him to the crew rest.
There are certain legal responsibilities to be carried out in situations like this. Geoff is the
ultimate professional as he liaises with passengers and crew, and helps them fill out the witness
forms that we carry onboard. He is also very caring, and the crews wellbeing is at the top of his
list.
I go back to the galley to console Damien. He is a little better, but still in shock. I barely have
the chance to stop shaking when Ms. Curdle-face pokes her head through the galley curtains and
starts shouting about how she has had her call-light on for ten minutes but no one has come to serve
her yet. Damien stands up, with blood all over his face and his uniform. He looked like he wanted
to spit some blood into the evil womans face.
Damien speaks for the first time since being hit, Are your eyes freakin painted on?
I take over, Maam, you obviously havent had a chance to see most of the crew restraining and
handcuffing a passenger. We will forgive your ignorance and insensitivity, and I will get you a
drink now. What do you want?
I think she knows that our level of tolerance for her is lower than a snakes belly, so she takes
her drink and leaves quickly.
You know that I can say anything I like to the passengers because I am concussed and in shock!
Damien gives me a little wicked grin, and Im assured that he is definitely OK. I grin back at
him.
lady godiva rides again
All the violence and commotion has not diminished the wants and needs of the other passengers.
The lights have been turned down in the cabin, and the crew are hoping that some of the passengers
will finally fall sleep. That doesnt happen though. The cuffed Polynesian is one of the few who do
go to sleep. Geoff has collected the witness forms and is ready to sit down to fill out the endless
reams of paperwork that accompany an incident like this. Damien is seated on a crew jump-seat
near the galley. His nose has stopped bleeding, but both his eyes are black and puffy.
Damien looks up, I feel like Ive been partying at the Mardi Gras for a week, except not in a
good way. I must look like hell?
Yes, he does. He looks like he has been ten rounds with Mike Tyson. But I dont tell him that.
I reassure Damien that he will bounce back to his former pretty self within no time.
I havent even had time to snack on something, and I am starving. Just as I search for a bite to
eat, another woman enters the galley to tell us that the young girl yes, the one who is not the
sharpest tool in the shed has taken some sleeping tablets and is behaving strangely. The last
thing I feel like doing is dealing with a drunken girl who has taken sleeping tablets.
What the hell is she thinking? She is not thinking that is the problem.
I thank the lady for informing me about this and reluctantly make my way to the young girl. I see
that she is delirious, mumbling something about being on a train and then something about a Barbie
doll. This girl had her TV antenna up when she came onto the flight, yet she wasnt getting its full
reception. Thanks to alcohol and pills, whatever reception she was getting is now fully scrambled.
I dont have a lot of patience for her, but spend some time trying to tell her that she is on a plane,
not a train, and her Barbie doll is nowhere to be seen. At the end of ten minutes, she still doesnt
even know her own name; however, based on the dealings Ive already had with her, she may not
have known it in the first place.
I would normally walk someone around the cabin in this situation, but decide to let this girl
sleep it off. When she finally sleeps I slink back to the galley to rummage for something to eat and
to tell Damien about our brain-dead friends antics. As I try to scavenge any morsel of food,
Damien stands up, turns to me and points towards the aisle. You are not going to believe this!
I look down the aisle to see the young girl staggering towards us. That is not the unbelievable
thing that Damien pointed out though. She is naked, totally and utterly naked.
I grab the only spare blanket I can find and wrap it around her. She is totally oblivious to the
fact that she has taken off all her clothes and is muttering toilet, toilet. I throw her into the toilet,
close the door and stand outside, guarding it.
Deb returns from delivering drinks in the cabin and I ask her to call Geoff again. I need some
pyjamas from the front of the plane, if there are any.
Geoff arrives with the last pair of pyjamas onboard. I tell him the story, and he chuckles. He is
amused but not surprised; this has happened several times before in his career.
The young girl has been in the toilet for some time now.
I knock on the door, Are you OK in there?
No answer.
Geoff also tries, but there is still no answer.
I explain to Geoff that I have given her a blanket to cover herself. Geoff knocks a few more
times, and then he decides to go in. He pushes the bi-fold door open to find the blanket crumpled
on the floor and her sitting on the toilet, fast asleep with her legs wide open.
Hello, vicar, I hear Geoff mutter as he closes the door again.
He hands me the pyjamas and says, I think you better handle this one, Danielle.
She is out cold. Although small and thin, trying to dress a collapsed rag-doll is almost
impossible. She partially comes to as I slip the pyjamas on. I help her out of the toilet and back to
her seat. Just as I am about to leave her, she throws up all over herself.
Could this flight get any worse?
In the meantime, Geoff had gone over to check on the Polynesian in the crew rest. He
approaches me just as the young girl finishes vomiting and passes out again.
Geoff really does find the situation amusing and bursts out laughing.
Not seeing the humour in the moment I ask, What is so funny?
Geoff explains, The big fellow in crew rest has just woken up and wants to go to the toilet.
When I told him he wasnt allowed to go, he has called me every name under the sun.
Once somebody is handcuffed onboard it is policy, as well as the law I guess, that they cannot
be uncuffed until they have been handed over to the appropriate authorities. The Polynesian will be
unable to use the toilet for hours.
Geoff continues, This young girl is now throwing up, and I will bet any money that she will soil
herself shortly. Why dont we make them a couple?
Unsure of what Geoff means, I ask, What do you mean a couple?
Lets put her in the crew rest with King-Kong.
Geoff does just that, and after about fifteen minutes I go to check on them. I open the curtain just
a smidgeon and take a quick peek, already sure that one or both have indeed soiled themselves. I
race back to the galley to tell Damien, You must come and see this. This will cheer you up
immensely.
Damien follows me to the crew-rest area. The young girl is lying out cold there. The man
responsible for his injuries is sitting in a pool of his urine and covered in vomit not his vomit,
but the young girls and he looks exactly like you would expect someone to look if they were
handcuffed, facing jail, hung-over and sitting in your own excrement and covered in someone
elses vomit.
Damien looks at the Polynesian and grins from ear to ear, You, my friend, have just learnt how
karma works.
mai tai madness
After what can only be described as a night in hell, we finally arrive in Honolulu. The weather
outside is in direct contrast to the storms we have endured on the aircraft.
However, before the passengers can leave, four of the biggest security officers enter the aircraft.
It is US policy that in situations like this, the cuffed prisoner must be removed before any
passengers are. The Captain has made a PA throughout the cabin, clearly explaining this procedure
and requesting the passengers to wait until the Polynesian man had been taken away. There could
be nothing more humiliating for the Polynesian man than being escorted past all the passengers,
with his hands behind his back, his eyes looking down and his clothes covered in vomit and
excrement.
Nobody should have had any sympathy for his behaviour and his predicament, but later and
this is a completely uncalled-for reaction one of the cat owners seeks out the captain and tear
strips off him, loudly and in front of everyone, about how disgusted she is with our airline for the
unnecessary shaming of the Polynesian man. She suggests that the man should have been taken
away after the passengers had disembarked, rather than having him walk through the cabin,
handcuffed and escorted, in front of the other passengers.
Even with the captain clearly reiterating that this procedure was in fact not our airlines policy,
but the law and procedure followed across every airport in the United States, her mind is probably
in her kittys litter. She continues her verbal barrage.
I will never fly with your airline again! If she is so unreasonable and short-tempered, she
might get restrained herself in the future, after a similar outburst. It is my experience that if people
are unreasonable once, they will be unreasonable again, and again. I chuckle to myself as I imagine
the irony of this woman being handcuffed (by another airlines crew) and being led through the
cabin in front of all the other passengers.
The young girl, who is a few flowers short of a bunch, has escaped being cuffed herself by the
sheer fact that she passed out and slept for the remainder of the flight. She was asleep even when
security took away our Polynesian friend. We have been instructed to not let her leave the aircraft
as Geoff has asked for a doctor to check her out. There is no need for us act as she is still passed
out.
Unfortunately we cannot leave the aircraft until all the passengers have gotten off. By the time
the doctor has come onboard, woken the young girl up, examined her and then assisted her to the
aerobridge, a further twenty minutes have expired (along with what little patience we had left).
None of the crew members have had any time off, and none of us have gotten a chance to eat. We
can barely talk, let alone function. All we want to do is get to the hotel and collapse; the
authorities, however, have other plans. We are all required to be interviewed over the Polynesian
mans restraint and subsequent arrest. Even the FBI wants to have a chat.
Our airline has also requested that we stay back for a debriefing session. Our company doctor is
on hand to assess Damiens injuries, and a psychologist has been called to assist us during the
debriefing period. We are forced to wait a further lifetime for the psychologist to show up.
Suddenly, Geoff stands up and angrily says, I think weve all had enough. He then leads us all
onto the crew bus. It is the first time I have seen Geoff so angry, and ironically he is fuming at our
employer, rather than the incidents or the people that have caused all this drama.
When we get to the hotel I hardly have the energy to push open my room door. I usually have a
shower and then set the alarm to allow myself four hours of sleep before I can hit the shops. This
time I just fall onto the bed and fall asleep.
I wake up to find myself fully dressed and lying on top of the bed. I feel like I have slept for five
seconds, but the bedside clock tells me otherwise. It reads 5:15.
5:15? Is that at night?
I look at my own watch. It is 5:15 in the afternoon.
Well, there go my shopping plans right out the door.
The crew has organised to meet downstairs at 6:00 p.m as usual. I rarely do the crew-drink
routine these days, but after the ordeals weve been through, I need a drink a damn big drink!
Every crew member turns up for drinks. Even Damien has turned up, with a plaster stuck on his
nose and with sunglasses that hide his black eyes. He has recovered from the initial shock and is
now revelling in all the attention hes getting. We all walk to one of my favourite bars in the
world, Dukes, located right on the beach at Waikiki.
I order what almost every tourist orders in Hawaii a Mai Tai. It barely touches the sides, so I
order another, and another. They go straight to my head. It dawns on me that I havent eaten
anything for over twenty-four hours.
Food. I need food! I slur to Damien.
We all stagger along the beach to another beachfront institution called the Shorebird. They give
us a crew discount. Our airline doesnt give any discounts to the Shorebirds staff, but for some
reason they, as well as a lot of other places, give us cheap food and cheap booze.
Who am I to question why?
I have never eaten so much food in my entire life. My stomachs full of food and booze, and I
should be feeling tired, but I am not.
Lets party!
We end up at an Irish bar with the most fabulous band, and we dance the night away. I dont
know how I got back to the hotel and at what time, but I vaguely remember dancing on top of a bar
at one point. At least I managed to remember what room I was in and get back in one piece I
dont sometimes, even when I am sober.
* * *
I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m.
Where the hell am I? And, more importantly, am I alone?
I come to the quick realisation that I am alone and that I am in fact still drunk. My call time is in
less than two hours, so I need to sober up fast.
The company has a rule that we are not allowed to drink for eight hours before a flight. I think
that means eight hours before take-off, although I have heard some crew joke that it actually meant
eight feet from the aircraft. I know that technically I should be OK, but physically I am a wreck.
I get changed as quickly as my hung-over body will allow me to. I slip sunglasses over my
bloodshot eyes, grab a towel and quick-step my way out of the hotel room.
But first I need a double shot latte.
I visit my good friend Mr. Starbucks and then head to the beach. I sip out every last drop of the
lifesaving coffee-bean elixir and then throw myself into the Pacific Ocean. The crystal-clear water
makes me feel a lot better, but a lot better than extremely lousy is still pretty lousy.
I race back to the hotel and make call-time by just twenty minutes. One of my greatest fears is to
walk into a hotel foyer and see my crew waiting there. Fortunately, this has never happened to me,
but it has happened to a number of my friends over the years. In such situations, we normally go
one crew member down. I am positive that Damien wont be operating on our flight, so we will be
working with a minimum crew compliment. Should another crew member go sick or not turn up,
then we wont be going at all.
Although I would rather be sitting on Waikiki beach than working in an aluminium tube, I know I
must soldier on as, I am sure, the other crew will too. The company doctor has decided that
Damien will not operate, but instead will passenger home with us. We are down one and the flight
is full, and all I can hope is that the flight shouldnt be as dramatic and tiring as the last sector.
Whilst walking through the terminal I see something that makes me sick to the stomach. It is
Gabrielle Reiner, dressed in civilian clothing.
What the hell is Princess Gabrielle doing here?
She is obviously here on holiday, and is probably returning home on our flight. Or is she? When
crew are travelling on their staff benefits, they can do so only on a stand-by basis and allowed to
board based on the availability of seats.
After we board the aircraft Geoff pulls each of us aside and asks, As you know, the aircraft is
full. There is a staff member trying to get on the flight. Are you willing to give up a crew-rest seat
for her?
It is company etiquette to ask the crew if we are prepared to give up one or more of our entitled
crew-rest seats. If one person in the crew says no, then the crew seats are left vacant. Nine times
out of ten, the crew approve, especially if we are flying on the larger aircraft, where we have
bunks as well as three crew-rest seats. However, on a 767, this could become an issue. If we give
the seats away we have nowhere to rest and nowhere to put problem passengers.
When my turns come up, I ask, Who is the crew member, Geoff?
Geoff purses his lips: Gabrielle Reiner.
I half smile, Do you know Princess Gabrielle?
He nods then replies, I have only flown with her once, but I remember her well. She went sick
during the meal service and miraculously recovered just before we landed. She apparently has a
reputation for pulling this all the time.
I cant help but give an evil grin, Well, Geoff, I have never said no to giving up crew-rest for
staff ever before, but today I will make an exception. So, thats a big fat no from me.
Geoff couldnt be more pleased. Good on you, Danielle. Ill let the ground-staff know.
I did vow to repay Princess Gabrielle for making me work over Christmas, and repay her I
have. Revenge is a dish best served cold, indeed.
some couples are meant to be together, some are not
The flight back home is a smooth one, at least compared to the flight over to Honolulu. I did get
a break of an hour or so in a crew-rest seat and literally collapsed there. Even so, I still feel
exhausted. On the crew bus back to the base I play my message-bank, and I note that Ive received
a message from Mary, inviting me to a housewarming party at her (and Mikes) new place. She
apologises for the short notice, as the party is tomorrow night. The chances of me being home and
available for parties are usually fairly remote, but I can make this one.
I sleep forever and would have slept for longer had it not been for my phone ringing. I typically
take my phone off the hook after a trip, but I went straight to bed last night.
Hello, Danielle speaking. I am back on local time, and it is time to get out of bed anyway.
It is Mary, and she is ringing to see if I am coming to her party.
Of course, Ill be there, Mary. What can I bring?
I have lunch with Helen and tell her all about the flight to Honolulu. After listening to my stories
for almost twenty years, she has a fair idea of the highs and lows I experience on the job. I am
lucky that she finds the dramas I endure captivating, and I am more than happy to get my anxieties
and worries off my chest. We have to deal with many things on an aircraft that most people who
spend their time working on the ground dont ever have to experience. It makes for some colourful
stories, but it is often difficult for us hosties to express to people how we felt in some of these
situations. Thankfully, Helen listens, even if she cannot fully comprehend.
I find it just as hard to appreciate Helens problems when she talks about the difficulties she
faces in family life and in raising her children. Such conversations can be an eye-opener
sometimes. We often get so immersed in our own lives that we lose sight of how others live. I
know I do at times. I know Helen does as well.
I leave Helen and go home to prepare for tonights party. I am already sure that it will be a
unique and memorable event.
I arrive at Mary and Mikes apartment block.
Can someone commit suicide by jumping from the third floor? is all I can think about as I walk
up the three flights of stairs to their house.
The party is in full swing when I enter. Mary is so excited to see me and greets me with a big
hug. Although she can be a loose cannon at times, Mary really is a warm and affectionate person.
She pours me a glass of wine and proudly shows off Mike to me; he appears as keen as she is. I
can tell that both Mary and Mike have been drinking for some time. I can also tell that they both are
a contented couple.
Most of the guests are fellow flyers whom I know well. I mingle and chat as more and more
people walk in to the apartment.
I am deep in conversation when I get a tap on the shoulder.
Its Danny!
He smiles, and then he hugs me. He pulls away from me for a moment and looks over his
shoulder. There is someone I really want you to meet. This is my wife, Bernadette, he says.
From behind Danny, his wife steps out. I expected his wife to be stunningly attractive. She is
not. She is very plain.
She steps forward, Hi, Danielle, I have heard all about you. I understand you are quite the
karaoke singer.
I am taken aback that Danny has talked about me to his wife. Normally what goes on tour stays
on tour. Danny has never talked to me about his home life, yet he has obviously discussed me with
his wife. I guess I really dont know Danny that well after all.
Hello Bernadette, it is so nice to meet you too.
As I continue conversing with her, I realise that my first impressions of his wife are purely
superficial: I can see the sparkle in her eyes and the warmth of her smile, and she is becoming
more attractive by the second.
Mike has spotted Danny and races over to wrap his arms around him. Danny Boy, youve made
it!
Later, after Mike has walked away to talk to the other guests, Danny tells me that he and Mike
trained together.
Mary was in my training class, I volunteer.
Smiling, he replies, What a small world, eh?
I have the best time at the party. Seeing Danny is a real bonus. I really must have a malicious
streak in me because I had hoped for Dannys wife to be glamorous, pretentious and even a little
dumb. Bernadette, however, is one of the nicest people you could ever meet. I somehow am
disappointed, but I am starting to understand Dannys obvious love for her.
At one point, Mike comes back to chat with us. He is very drunk now and starts telling a story
about a Paris trip that he and Danny worked on together. I know Danny is a fun guy, but I have
always seen him as sensible and responsible. I listen to Mikes story with intrigue.
It was about ten years ago. We knew we were on this Paris trip together, and the Cannes film
festival was on then, so we decided to get some cheap airline tickets and go. Danny here brought
along his own red carpet.
Red carpet? I enquired.
Mike continues, Yes, he brought like a red hallway runner. Anyway, every place we walked
into, Danny would roll out the carpet and wed make a big grand entrance. And then hed roll back
the carpet, put it under his arm and we would go to the bar. We got smashed. Apparently we met
all sorts of celebrities and supermodels, but still cant remember a thing. Lucky we took a few
photos, otherwise we would have had no idea of what we had done.
Danny continues with the story, We are not sure how we got there, but we ended up waking up
on Monaco beach.
Lying on the carpet! Mike laughs hysterically.
I turn to Bernadette, Did you know your husband was such a party animal?
He has his moments, she laughs, as she cuddles up by his side.
I am having a great time, but as the night gets longer, Mike and Mary are getting horribly drunk.
The loving couple that greeted guests only a few hours ago are becoming jealous conspiracy-
theorists that look like they are about to accuse each other of the most heinous of crimes.
I am not the only one that can see the writing on the wall. Most of the guests, including Danny
and his wife, prepare to leave the party.
Before leaving, I lock the balcony door. You just dont know what Mary is capable of doing.
And from what I have seen of Mike, he might be just as capable of doing something stupid.
Danny, Bernadette and I leave together. As we walk down the stairs I ask Danny, What do you
think are the chances of Mike and Mary actually making it as a couple?
Danny is normally the ultimate diplomat, but he turns around candidly to say, None. None
whatsoever.
I just know that I am going to get a phone call from a crying and distressed Mary in the morning.
I do.
something smells funny
My next trip is a day trip, which means I can get back home tonight. As an international flight
attendant I dont do many of these trips, and to be honest I am not overly fond of them. When I go to
work I usually get excited about the destination, not the journey. Today is all about the work. Not
about shopping, not about five-star hotels and not about crew drinks.
My liver could use the break though. Some of my friends have an alcohol-free month every now
and then. They usually choose February as it is the shortest month. Others choose dry July. In all
seriousness, I think I know more crew with drinking problems than without them.
As Mary always says, If you are not an alcoholic in this job, you are just not taking full
advantage of it.
We hosties have access to a lot of cheap or free booze. Most of the hotels give us a free drink
voucher, as well as food and drink discounts, on check-in. Also, duty-free shops at international
terminals have alcohol so much cheaper than at home; they give us additional discounts as well.
Theyll be no chance to buy duty-free today though. That is probably a good thing as my kitchen
cupboards have more alcohol in them than anything else. Even if I became a raging alcoholic for
the next twenty years, I wouldnt be able to finish all the bottles I already have.
I havent bothered about looking up the crew-list this time as it is just a day trip.
Wouldnt it be so awkward if Princess Gabrielle came long on the trip? I panic for a moment,
then realise that she is probably still stuck in Honolulu.
At our work base, there is a lounge area where crew can meet and mingle before going to our
briefings. I see my friend Sue, the gym-junkie, there. She looks awful. Since the last time I saw her,
she must have visited quite a few plastic surgeons, for her face looks Botoxed, full of collagen and
hideous. I think she is pleased to see me, but it is hard to tell because her face has just the one
expression. Her lips look like a pouting Daffy Duck with a fat lip.
Using my best Daffy Duck impersonation I chuckle to myself, You look despicable!
I know that it is hard for an aging woman to keep up with the young girls of this generation. We
are forced to look at magazines that feature fourteen-year-old models who have flawless
airbrushed skin and fatless stick-insect figures. Sue is, or was, a naturally attractive woman, but
she has gone way overboard. If she were my best friend, I would probably tell her about how
ridiculous she looks. She is not, so I decide to keep my feelings to myself. She obviously thinks
she looks fantastic so maybe I should not offer my criticism.
Sue is not on my day trip. She is off to Buenos Aires in Argentina, and even though her face is
unable to change expression, I can tell she is excited. She is a very good salsa- and tango dancer,
and regularly goes to South America. I think the good-looking Latino boys might have something to
do with this.
I hug Sue and say goodbye, as her briefing starts five minutes before mine. I generally only give
light hugs as I do on this occasion, but I cant help wondering whether Sue might have had a little
breast enhancement done as well. They feel like rocks.
If she were wearing a Guess t-shirt, I think I would have answered Implants.
I go into my own crew-briefing and am reunited with one of the most colourful characters in the
whole company: Jane Easton, better known as Jane E or Janie, one of the funniest girls I have ever
met. Her home is a suite in a hotel, with no cooking facilities. She goes out on the town every night
she is home and is the ultimate party girl. She is friends with rock stars and a host of celebrities,
and if there is a major party happening, you can bet that Janie will be there. I love Janie. Hell,
everybody loves Janie.
Janie is the sort of person most of us would like to be. She is not pretentious, not afraid to say
what she thinks and she doesnt give a damn about what other people think. In saying that, she is
always in the office for those very reasons.
I have done a few flights with Janie over the years, and every one of them has had something
memorable happen. I wonder if today is going to be any different.
Janie and I are working on a cart together in zoo class. She has the passengers eating out of her
hand. Janie doesnt just dispense meals but dispenses fun; when she laughs, she really laughs. She
not only laughs loud, but her whole body laughs along with her. I am having so much fun.
Back in the galley she randomly begins a conversation about flatulence and about how flying
does horrific things to gas-expansion within our bodies. Most women I know dont talk about
flatulence. But then, Janie is not most women. She mentions something about crop-dusting, and I
have no idea what she is talking about.
Janie is in disbelief about my ignorance, You dont know what crop-dusting is?
I shake my head in embarrassment.
She explains, You know, when you are out in the cabin and need to fart. Not by choice, but out
of necessity. Well, if you let it out all in one go, that could be a problem. So what you do is crop-
dusting, you know, just little quiet ones sprayed over a big area. That way even if they smell, the
passengers dont know where it has come from and you are long gone by the time they can blame
you for it.
I laugh hard, not just because Janies explanation is funny, but because it is true. It doesnt
matter whether someone is royalty or a homeless person, everyone has to fart, and on an aircraft
there is nowhere to hide. The well-mannered ones on an aircraft usually have the courtesy and
intelligence to choose their moment and location to rip one out. And even then, things can go
horribly wrong. The most embarrassed I think I have ever been in my flying career, fart-wise at
least, is when I hid in an empty galley once and, after I thought the coast was clear, I snuck out a
fart that was far more violent than I had anticipated. At that exact moment, a male crew member
stepped in. He didnt need to be Einstein to smell the stench and see my mortified red face, and put
two and two together.
Im so sorry, I whispered to him and ran out of the galley.
What else could I do?
A hosties nose is probably the most violated of all the sensors. Ive smelt things that one just
shouldnt have to smell. Apart from flatulence, my nose has had to tolerate the stink of vomit,
cheap aftershave, aviation fumes, smelly socks, bad breath and, my absolute least favourite, bad
body odour. There was once a man with such foul body odour that I could not serve him. I wont
use the word refuse as I would have been happy to serve him, but I physically just could not. He
had no idea how putrid he smelled. It is obvious that people with bad body odour do not know
how bad they smell or they would do something about it.
What does one do in this situation? Do I make up some excuse about why I cant come near him?
Do I stay away from him? Do I tell him the truth?
I told him the truth, albeit from a distance. I suggested that he use the soap in the toilets, and
while he was gone I grabbed some air-freshener we carry onboard and sprayed his seat and its
surrounding area. I had emptied the contents of the whole bottle to subdue his stink, and every
passenger in that area thanked me for it.
In the galley, Janie tells me that she didnt crop-dust in the cabin this time, and I thank her for
sparing my senses as I would have been the one to walk through it. She then goes on to demonstrate
to me another thing she does on an aircraft when she really needs to fart. I watch her as she
approaches the toilet located just outside the galley this is an unfortunate place to locate a toilet,
as we often discover when a passenger has opened the toilet door once hes finished with his
business, and we crew members in the galley are forced to hold our noses, turn away and groan.
Janie points out that the toilet is unoccupied now: the door is not latched, and the placard on it
says unoccupied. Janie backs herself into the bi-fold door and sticks her backside into the toilet
area. I hear an almighty farting noise, and then Janie steps forward, allowing the bi-fold door to
automatically close behind her.
Thats the way you do it, Janie boasts as she walks into the galley.
Just as I am about to burst into laughter, that same door opens and a little old lady emerges from
the toilet. She was obviously in there and hadnt locked the door.
I never thought I would see the day where Janie would be embarrassed and regretful about
anything, but I was wrong. Today is that day. The little old lady is so disgusted, and Janie is so
apologetic.
I dont know how Janie explained the situation to the manager onboard, but somehow she gets
the little old lady upgraded and gives her free bottles of champagne and anything else she can get
her hands on. When Janie finally makes it back to the galley, she burst into uncontrolled fits of
laughter, and doesnt stop.
trying to remember what normal means
It is unusual that Im dressed in my uniform and walking into my apartment, yet not feeling like
hell. Sure it has been a long day, but it has also been a fun day, thanks to Janie. I am feeling so
good that I slip into my pyjamas, make a G&T and stay up and watch educational TV well, its
just regular TV, but I call it educational because it teaches me that I should have gone to bed much
earlier.
It is during moments like this that my body yearns for some semblance of normality. It has been
so long since I have had a regular nine-to-five job that I have forgotten what it feels like to not be
tired and jet-lagged. I turn the TV off and try to remember what my life was like before I began my
flying career. I do remember, and it was horrible.
I pick up my roster and study it. In the last month or so, Ive had a white Christmas in Germany,
a shopping spree in Singapore, gin and tonics by the pool in India, drinks on the beach in Hawaii,
and gyozas with Danny in Japan.
That was such a wonderful night. Danny. I wish I could meet a nice guy like Danny. Before I
start getting too melancholic I remind myself about the good life I have. I travel the world and stay
in five-star luxury. I meet the most fascinating people and work with some extraordinary crew. I
have seen things I would never had the chance to see if I had been doing something else. I have
forged some amazing friendships and been able to share so many travel moments with them.
My next trip is to Johannesburg, South Africa, but simply referred to as Joburg. Most people
would give their eye teeth to go to Africa. And the best part is that I am getting paid to go there.
Sure, it is horrid work on the way, but even though I spend fifteen torturous hours inside an
aluminium tube, on this trip, I do get three magical days off when I get there. Three days!
Some of my most memorable trips have been to Africa. I have been on safari many times, down
to Cape Town on several occasions, and Ive been to Durban, Port Elizabeth and Sun City. I was
in Joburg for the start of the 2010 soccer World Cup, although I am not such a huge fan of
watching men run around and fight over who gets to kick a ball. However, I would love to go on
another safari; watching animals is something I can do all day. It all depends on what the other
crew members are up to. Africa trips are a lottery. It is one of those places where it is too
dangerous for a single girl to do anything on her own, so my plans depend on what the other crew
members want to do.
I get online and check the crew list, and I realise that I dont know a single soul. Sometimes that
is a good thing, because if the crew are junior and havent been to Africa very often, then they will
be keen to get out and explore. Sometimes it is not such a good thing. Often the crew do nothing. I
cannot fathom being in an exotic location like Africa and staying back at the hotel, staring at the
walls, if my crew chooses to do just that.
This has happened once before, and it is no fun at all. On that trip, most of the crew that came
along were straight guys who knew each other, and they went off to play golf every day. They had
an absolute ball. I did not.
I might just have to spend my time in the room watching TV, if I have to. And as far as South
Africa is concerned, it doesnt matter what sport is being played or telecast, South Africans will
watch it. South African TV consists of about ten channels. One channel has local soap operas in
Afrikaans, while the other nine channels broadcast different sports or news programs that feature
sports. There is no way I am going to sit in a stuffy hotel room for three days, in the middle of an
African summer, watching cricket.
I jump onto the internet and see if there are any two-day tours or even day trips in or around
Joburg. I wont book anything just yet, but I better have a back-up plan in case I am confined to the
hotel grounds. There are a couple of options available, so I jot down the details and congratulate
myself at being so well-organised. I am normally not so efficient. I sometimes joke that I would
like to do a time management course, but I am just too busy to do so.
I pack clothes that will fit all possible scenarios, and I wait for the taxi to pick me up. On really
long sectors, like today, the company provides us with free transport, both to the airport and back
home. They obviously know that wed be too exhausted to drive a car safely.
I arrive at our briefing and meet some of the crew. They are pleasant, and although I hadnt
recognised any of the names on the crew-list, several of the faces do look familiar. Without
appearing to be too needy or too pushy, I ask some of them what their plans are for Joburg.
Nobody seems keen to get away. It is just as well I have a back-up plan.
The boss is about the same seniority as myself. It is unusual that I havent flown with him before
as we tend to do most of our flying with those of similar seniority. His name is Ryan, and he seems
nice enough, quite enthusiastic.
The flight is fairly full. We prepare for a long day ahead, for it daylight all the way to Joburg. I
am working at the pointy end of the plane, which is a nice change from my last few flights in cattle-
class. Business-class passengers can be demanding, but on a long sector like this we have plenty
of time, so there is no need to rush.
As the passengers board, I hang up their coats, assist them to their seats and deliver pre-take-off
drinks. The passengers all seem lovely, at least until a South-African couple, Mr. and Mrs.
Vandenberg, come onboard. Mrs. Vandenberg, in particular, should have been wearing a tiara.
Within seconds of entering the aircraft, she has picked, criticised, condemned and critiqued: the
plane is too old; the seats arent wide enough; the overhead lockers arent big enough; the
champagne glasses dont have long enough stems. I am sure that if she were to walk around the
tarmac, she would comment that the tires dont have enough tread.
The great thing, for me, is that she is on the other side of the aisle, and I will not have to be near
her for most of the flight. The other great thing is that a really cute guy is sitting in Seat 4J, and that
is on my side of the aisle.
He looks a little familiar. Where have I seen him before?
I do notice that he is not wearing a ring and that he has beautiful manners. When I ask him if he
would like a drink before take-off, he replies, No thank you, but thanks for asking.
Sitting just behind my nice guy is an elderly gentleman in 5J. He looks a bit pale.
Are you OK, sir?
He nods, but I get the distinct impression he isnt. I voice my concern to Ryan, and he has a chat
with the man after boarding is completed. Ryan assures me that the man is alright. His name is Mr.
Weiss and he has been suffering from a virus, but he is feeling better now. Ill take their word but
am not entirely convinced. The gentleman still looks ill to me.
I do my safety demonstration on my side of the aisle and, as is usually the case, no one is
watching except for Mr.4J. He not only looks at me, but also smiles in acknowledgement. I think
he knows that he is the only one watching; however I am appreciative that he is respectful and
courteous towards me.
As I walk past him, I whisper, Thanks for watching the demo. I havent had a Business Class
passenger pay attention since 1995.
He smiles at me with a warmth that could melt a polar ice-cap.
in the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight
There was a time when the boss onboard only did managerial duties, but with cost-cutting and the
resultant minimal crew, they are now required to help out during the meal service as well. Ryan is
on a cart with me. He is hard working and nice to work with. I am fairly sure he is gay. Not that it
matters, but I usually have good gaydar and take pride in identifying a gay guy easily.
What are you up to in Joburg, Ryan?
He tells me that he is going to the gym every day and he might do a little shopping.
There you go. Hes surely gay.
Mr. and Mrs. Vandenberg are not on my side of the cabin, yet she waves her arms at me to get
my attention. Unfortunately for me, the first row where they are seated is easily accessed from my
side of the cabin. She complains that the beans on her plate are not hot enough.
Are the other vegetables OK?
She says, Yes, just the beans.
All the vegetables are cooked together and are therefore the same temperature when plated,
including the beans. However, I cant tell this to Mrs. Vandenberg. She is clearly the type of
woman who would think that someone has handpicked the beans for her and cooked them
individually, has then tested their serving temperature three seconds before it is delivered to her
throne and deliberately made sure that they are not hot enough as the vegetables on her plate.
I know the beans are not cold, and I know exactly what someone like Damien would say to her.
But what would Danny say and do in such a situation, I ask myself.
I then apologise profusely for our chefs mistake and take her plate away, offering to return with
a new dish and hotter beans. I take the meal back to the galley and pick out the beans from the
plate, throw them in a bowl of hot water. I then return the beans to the original plate. They are now
hotter than everything else and Mrs.Vandenberg is much happier. It all about the attention she gets,
with a woman like that.
I have no such troubles with Mr. 4J, and I cant help but return the sweet, warm smiles he offers
me every time I walk past him.
The boss gives us a print-out of the passengers names in our zone, but unfortunately the ink on
my copy of it is smudged and I cant quite decipher his name. I can make out that his first name
starts with a D and his last name ends in ly, but thats all I can make out. I am initially too
embarrassed to attempt his name, but after I have referred to the passengers next to him as Mr.
this and Mrs. that, I decide to be come right out and ask him.
I am sorry, but my copy of the passenger names is not very clear. How do you pronounce your
name, sir?
Im pleasantly surprised when he extends his hand towards me, Just call me Dean.
Nice to meet you, Dean. My name is Danielle.
I shake his hand and he politely replies, Very nice to meet you too, Danielle.
I am little flustered, but in a good way.
For the rest of the meal service, he uses my name and I use his. Having a passenger call me by
name usually makes me a little uneasy, but in this instance it feels so natural. It is very rare for me
to feel this comfortable with someone so quickly, but I do.
I have greeted, served and interacted with hundreds of thousands of passengers over the years
and have worked with thousands of crew. So much so that I have developed the knack of making
snap judgments about people and their personalities; I can count the number of times I have made a
wrong judgement on one hand. There are a small percentage of people whom I dislike straight
away. Conversely, there are a small percentage of people to whom I take an instant liking. Dean is
in the latter category of people.
Mrs.Vandenberg is definitely in the former category. She has badgered every crew member who
has gotten within ear-shot of her. It also seems likely that her call-button would short-circuit within
moments due to overuse. The crew have begun referring to her as Her Majesty. As I stand at our
bar area, pouring yet another champagne for Mrs. Vandenberg, Dean approaches me. He is on his
way to the nearby toilets.
He says, Hey, I see Her Majesty is having another bubbly.
Embarrassed, I reply, How did you know we call her Her Majesty?
He looks surprised, but then smiles. I didnt.
After I have delivered the drink to Her Majesty, Dean has returned to the bar area, where I just
so happen to be. I ask him about the purpose of his trip to Africa, and he tells me he is off to
Tanzania to work as a volunteer in the missions.
Are these religious missions?
He shakes his head, No, I have a little time off work, and I thought Id help out.
I am impressed by how generous and thoughtful he is. How long are you going for?
Only a few months. It is not much, but it is something I have wanted to do for some time. How
long do you get in Johannesburg?
I deduce that this is his first time to Joburg as he has referred to the city by its full name.
Nobody who has been there calls it Johannesburg.
Three days, I reply.
I tell him about possibly going on a safari and how much I love watching animals. He tells me
that he has never been to Africa before (I try to act surprised) but will be staying in a village not
far from the edge of the Serengeti, so he plans to do number of safaris in his spare time.
Wow. That should be so exciting.
He agrees. First and foremost I want to help the local villagers, but I would be lying if I said I
didnt want to see some lions.
I love lions, I gush.
On every safari Ive been on, I have been lucky enough to see lions. Of the African Big Five
game animals, leopards have been the most elusive. I have seen a leopard once, but it was up in a
tree, some distance away. I tell Dean that if none of the crew members are going on safari, I will
do a day trip to a lion park just outside Joburg where they have cubs.
You can even pat and play with the cubs, I say with childlike excitement.
Just as we are deep in safari-conversation, there is a bing and the call-light indicator lights up
blue. I look down the cabin, though I already know whose call light it is. So does Dean.
I guess you better see what Her Majesty wants this time. We can chat later if that is OK?
Sure, weve only a mere ten or so hours to go, so there might be time for talking, I joke.
As he walks away, he turns to whisper, Good luck with her royal painness.
Finally. Someone with the same biting wit as myself.
doctor, doctor, give me the news
Dean did come back to the bar for a chat, and I must say it was delightful.
He is now having a snooze. The crew having the first break are in the crew-rest bunks, leaving
Ryan and I to manage the front. I am keeping an eye on Mr. Weiss in Seat 5J. He has barely eaten
anything and has been asleep for most of the flight. Even in deep sleep, he looks unwell.
I realise that the call-light hasnt gone off in some time. Could it be?
I sneak out into the cabin and flash my recently whitened teeth when I see that His and Her
Majesty are sound asleep. He is snoring, and her false teeth have slipped a fraction.
She doesnt look so regal now, I chuckle to myself.
I grab a magazine and sit down on my crew jump-seat for a well-earned reading session. I never
read gossip magazines at home, but relish the opportunity to do so on aircrafts. At 35,000 feet, for
some reason, Im really interested in finding out which Hollywood celebrity is doing whom. I have
only flicked a few pages when I hear a guttural groan from the cabin. I jump to my feet and see Mr.
Weiss clutching his chest, right where the heart is.
Oh my God, oh my God!
I yell out to Ryan at the top of my voice and then rush to help Mr. Weiss. I have no idea if Ryan
has heard me or not, but I step straight into First-Aid mode.
Can you speak? I ask Mr. Weiss.
He cant, but he makes it extremely clear that he is in excruciating pain. I bring his seat a little
more upright and start unbuttoning his shirt buttons, whilst turning around to see if Ryan is
anywhere to be seen. He is on his way.
Thank God.
When he arrives I dont need to explain the situation as it is obvious.
I take charge and bark, Get the defibrillator, and see if there is a doctor onboard!
We have a heart defibrillator onboard these days. Apparently if the heart goes into defibrillation
this machine is the one device the patient needs. Forget all those TV medical shows where the
patient clutches their chest, stops breathing, has no pulse, and a few thumps on the chest is all it
takes to magically bring the patient to consciousness. Thank you for saving my life, Doc, the
patient would then say. The chances of that happening in real life are about the same as the actor
portraying the patient winning an Academy Award for his performance.
Ryan races away as I try to make Mr. Weiss as comfortable as I can. He is still conscious, I tell
myself, trying to feel strong.
Just then I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see the concerned, yet reassuring face of Dean.
Danielle, I am a medical doctor. Ill take over from here. Let your manager know I am here.
Please do bring the defibrillator, but hurry back because I need your help.
I dont have time to think. I scurry toward Ryan.
We return to Dean sorry Dr. Dean and find him kneeling next to Mr. Weiss, talking to him in
a soft and reassuring voice whilst checking his pulse. Dean subtly acknowledges our return and
continues to monitor his patient. Mr. Weiss appears to no longer be in pain, but is still clutching
his chest and looks exhausted.
Dean turns to us, I am positive he has had a heart-attack, but it appears to be over now. Please
keep the defib handy. If you could bring me an oxygen bottle and some extra blankets, that would
be great.
I jump in, Ill get them.
When I return I assist Dean in hooking up the oxygen to Mr. Weiss while Ryan places the
blankets over him. Ill see if we can get onto Global Lifeline, Ryan tells Dr. Dean and then
leaves.
Global Lifeline is, as the name infers, a medical response organisation that we can get in touch
with in situations just like this. Dean has obviously liaised with Ryan to inform the flight deck of
the state of affairs. Ive been in a couple of medical emergencies before. Each time we have
diverted to the nearest airport, making sure that the appropriate medical facilities are nearby. This
time we are in the middle of nowhere. A million different questions are going through my mind. I
could ask any one of them to Dean, but instead I just sit by his side. Although I am not really doing
anything, I am there. If he needs my help, he will ask.
Ryan returns to tell Dean that the flight crew is trying to call Global Lifeline and that they will
relay the information when they have an answer.
I just need to pass on some additional information to the pilots. Now, Dr. Weily, you are a
medical doctor?
Dean replies, Thats right. Im a GP, a general practitioner.
Ryan continues with a series of questions, obviously intended to cover us legally and ethically.
I see that Mr. Weiss is very drowsy, but appears stable, so I duck away to get a glass of water
for both Ryan and Dean.
While I am away, I go to the bosss work station and look at his copy of the passenger list.
4J Dr. Dean Weily.
I know the name Weily is reasonably common, but I have usually seen it spelled Wiley,
Willey, Wyley, and Wylie, but rarely Weily, the same spelling as Dannys surname. I am so
curious to ask Dean whether hes related to Danny, but I know that now is not the appropriate time
to ask.
Dean and Ryan decide to move the passenger in 5K to 4J, so Dean can sit next to Mr. Weiss and
monitor him as well as keep an eye on the oxygen cylinders. Each bottle lasts for just over an hour,
and we still have a number of hours left to finish with this trip. With Dean sitting in the window
seat, it makes it very difficult for me to communicate with him, although I give him all the
assistance I possibly can in making Mr. Weiss comfortable. I even forgo my time-off to help.
At one point the call-light comes on, and I investigate. Mrs.Vandenberg wants to know what all
the noise and commotion was about. When I tell her that a man has just had a heart attack, but he
seems OK now, she says, without one morsel of empathy, Can you keep the noise down then?
When we do another meal service before landing, I contemplate doing something evil. I think
about getting some eye-drops and putting a few drops in Her Majestys meal. I have heard this has
no long-term health effects, but acts as one almighty instant laxative. As wicked as some of my
thoughts can be and as intense as my disdain for this woman is, I just cant go through with it.
i knew he looked familiar
Ryan has chatted with Dean throughout the flight and been updating the techies about Mr. Weisss
condition. Dean chooses not to eat and continues to keep a constant vigil over his patient.
I really want to ask Dean if he knows Danny Weily, but Im feeling just too awkward to ask
under the circumstances.
Do you need to make a connecting flight to Tanzania tonight? is all I can muster when I do get
a chance to talk to him.
No, I am staying in Johannesburg tonight and then fly out in the morning. I am actually staying at
your crew hotel.
How does he know where the usually stay? I think, but still dont ask.
Damn it, ask Danielle, ask!
I ponder momentarily, before my curiosity gets the better of me, How do you know about our
crew hotel?
He is also trying to be mindful of Mr. Weiss, but answers anyway, My brother organised it, and
he is
I interrupt him, Danny Weily? Oh my God, you are Dannys brother!
Dean smiles, but tries to be restrained, You know Danny?
This is not really the right time or place for me to jump up and down and yell Oh my god! I just
dont believe it! I simply and coolly say, I know Danny very well. Listen, well talk later. Have
you made transport plans to get to the hotel when we land?
He shakes his head.
Ill arrange for you to come with us on the crew bus.
He is appreciative. Before I walk away, I direct my attention to Mr. Weiss. He is still on oxygen
and very weak. He can understand what we are saying, but does not have the strength to speak.
I talk with Ryan and inform that Dr. Weily is staying at the same hotel as us, and Ryan is more
than happy for him to catch the crew bus if the captain is OK with it. Ryan also tells me that he has
already gifted Dr. Weily a nice bottle of champagne, as thanks for all the help he has done for us. I
dont tell Ryan, but I had also slipped Dean some French and a fine bottle of red as well. Dean is
going to walk off looking like a pack horse.
As soon as we land, medical staff are on hand, and with the assistance of Dean, they leave with
Mr. Weiss before any of the other passengers can disembark. Dean returns to pick up his bag (and
additional bags, compliments of the airline) and I tell him to wait by the luggage carousel for me.
From there, I can direct him to our crew bus.
I notice that Dean offers to let all the crew sit down before he has boarded the bus. Dean
appears incredibly savvy with regard to crew etiquette. When I wait back with him, he insists that
I sit down first. Although there are other spare seats available, he chooses to sit next to me.
Youve been on a crew bus before havent you?
He smiles, How did you know?
I notice things. Have you been on any trips with Danny?
Several.
As a crew member we get fantastic staff travel benefits. We are also allowed to nominate one
other person to receive the same benefits. Ive had my mum on my staff benefits for a few years.
However, she has been away with me only once, and I am considering offering the benefits to
Helen instead. I am mindful of the fact that Helen is a mother of two, which makes it difficult for
her to get away, but I know how much she would love it.
Dean is on Dannys staff benefits, but based on what he is saying, I gather he has only recently
taken these trips.
I do some calculations in my head: he has only recently started travelling the world; he is
probably three or four years younger than Danny, he is going to Africa for a few months doing
volunteer work; he has no ring on his finger. I deduce that he is recently separated or divorced.
I probably shouldnt try to play amateur psychologist, but I would bet my still new D&G jeans
(which are now my favourites) that he has only recently become single.
When we reach the hotel, some of the crew members are going down to the bar to unwind and to
take advantage of our free welcome drink. Dean asks me if I am going too. I wasnt, but I am easily
persuaded once I find out that hes planning to go.
Most of the crew turn up at the bar; this is a bit unusual as many say they will, but rarely do they
come. This is surely antisocial behaviour, but after a seventeen- or eighteen hour working day and
enduring numerous time-changes, sometimes you have all the right intentions to be social, but cant
follow through; fatigue hits you like a sledgehammer before you even make it to the shower.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, after a massive day your body overtakes your mind and you
hit the wall. This time I push through that barrier, and feel surprisingly good. The company helps;
Dean is as witty and charming as his brother. There are similarities, but they are very much
different people. We spend some time at the bar, and then he asks me if I am hungry. I know he
must be famished so we leave the rest of the crew and walk to a sensational steak restaurant near
the hotel. I am beginning to suspect that all of the restaurants in Joburg are steak restaurants.
But no ones complaining about that: the steaks in South Africa are awesome. Dean brings along
the bottle of red wine I gave him onboard, and the restaurant has no problem with us drinking it
there. My filet mignon is to die for. I much prefer quality to quantity when it comes to meat and
men; as for my meat, any steak that can be cut with a butter knife is my type of steak. This steak is
the best I have ever had, and the company is even better.
Dean is divorced, like I had already guessed, but doesnt like to talk about his personal life too
much. He doesnt have children, and from what I gather, that was the marriages problem. She
wanted kids, but Dean didnt.
I am a bit like Danny, in that I like to explore and travel. I had all those years at medical school
and then I got married and set up my own practice Life just seemed to be passing me by.
Our conversation flows effortlessly and although I have been awake for over twenty-four hours
already, I somehow wish the night would never end. I get the impression that Dean feels the same
way. Before he has finished his steak, which is the biggest I have seen anyone eat, he reiterates
what a great time he is having and coyly asks a question.
Is it is OK for me to call you back home? When I return from Tanzania?
I am so excited, but reply as nonchalantly as I can, Are you asking me out on a date, in two
months time?
If I could, I would ask you out on a date tomorrow night.
I smile. Tomorrow night works for me.
one year later
We had that date, and many more after that.
The last twelve months have flown by. Life is so good. Dean and I have been seeing each other
since his return from Tanzania. Yes, we are very much in love, thank you very much. Though there
has been talk of us moving in together, for now we both are enjoying our own independence. He
has been on a trip with me, quite recently any guesses who was on the crew with us? Danny, of
course.
I always dreamed of celebrating New Years Eve in New York, and I finally got my wish this
year. Spending New Years in Times Square with Dean and Danny and Bernadette was
sensational.
Danny has easily embraced the fact that I am dating his brother, so much so that we bid for some
trips together. It was actually Bernadettes idea to do so.
All my stars must have been aligned this year, as I also had a Christmas at home this year. Dean
and I had lunch with my family and dinner with his, including Danny and Bernadette. Dean is going
to Tanzania again and has asked that I visit him during my holidays, which start soon. We are even
planning to go on safari together in the Serengeti.
I put Helen on my staff-travel benefits, and she has done three shorter trips already. I think her
husband is starting to regret the decision as Helen has really taken to the life of travel and fancy
five-star luxury like a duck to water. In other news, I heard a rumour that Princess Gabrielle has
apparently quit flying. Mary broke up with Mike, got back together with him, broke up again, made
up, broke up, patched up and finally broke up for good that is all Ive heard this week at least.
Work is still as hard and as taxing on my body as it always has been. I still struggle with the
jetlag, the fatigue, the dehydration, the illnesses and the bumps and bruises from working at 35,000
feet in an aluminum tube. Would I rather be doing something else?
Not a chance in hell.
sneak preview of volume 2
More Confessions of a Hostie: The Second Sector by Danielle Hugh Chapter 1
a shin is the perfect device for finding a glass coffee table in the dark
I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m.
Where the hell am I?
I try searching for the light switch, but then give up. I roll out of bed and make my way toward
the window. It is then that my shin discovers the glass coffee table with ferocious force. I clutch
my throbbing leg, screaming out things that would make a seasoned sailor blush.
If I wasnt so jetlagged, deliriously tired and hopping about like a one-legged rabbit, I would be
far more excited that I am in Hong Kong.
Who am I kidding I am still excited!
I know I ought to be putting some ice on the already darkening bruise, rather than making
perceptive but useless observations about how the bruise is ironically taking the shape of Hong
Kong Island. However, thoughts of shopping in a hosties wonderland far outweigh the ones about
the bruise on my shin. All I can think about is buying shoes.
Hong Kong is a single girls shopping Mecca. Here, East meets West, and girl meets shoes. It
would be nice if I could manage getting a few more hours sleep though. The flight over was a
nightmare. We were nearly two hours late departing, thanks to a storm that hit the airport whilst the
passengers were boarding. The sky turned black, and the winds were very strong. Even a massive
aircraft like the jumbo 747, although sitting on the tarmac, rocked quite a bit. When the last
passenger had boarded, all I had been able to see out the window were flashes of lightning and
pouring rain.
The captain had immediately made a PA to inform passengers that due to the severe weather
outside, particularly the lightning, the loading of their baggage into the cargo hold was momentarily
suspended, until the lightning was gone.
Ive had some dumb things said to me in my twenty years of flying, but one passenger wins the
blue ribbon in that category.
How long will the lightning delay the aircraft? a woman asked me.
I replied, I dont know, maam. That is up to a higher authority to decide.
She doesnt understand my tongue-in-cheek response. They say lightning never strikes twice in
the same place, but people who ask silly questions do strike repeatedly.
With a very serious expression, she asked, So, who does know then?
No, no, no! Dont make me say it, I think to myself.
So your question is basically this: How long will the lightning last? I have already told you that
I dont know. We already know the captain doesnt know. The ground-staff dont know, the airport
doesnt know, the airline company doesnt know and Im guessing that if Albert Einstein were still
alive he wouldnt know. Only one person knows thats God. G.O.D., the Almighty! is what I
would have loved to scream out, but how can you be sarcastic to someone who would lack the
basic commonsense to understand sarcasm? Albert Einstein himself once said, Two things are
infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and Im not sure about the universe.
Instead I tell the woman that weather conditions are out of the airlines control and that the
captain will be told by the ground staff when it is safe to continue loading bags.
In addition to the irritable passengers and the extra hours we had to work, it proved to be an
eventful flight. A woman collapsed in her seat, and we spent much of the flight treating and
monitoring her condition. Fortunately there was a doctor onboard (as there usually is). It was
diagnosed that the woman had a severe twenty-four-hour virus. With oxygen and some onboard
medication the womans condition improved slowly, but we still needed to monitor her, which
added to our already heavy workload.
Elsewhere in the cabin, an elderly woman had lost her necklace. This woman had been brought
onto the aircraft in a wheelchair and she had been so feeble. If she were my mother or grandmother
I would never have allowed her to travel on her own. I had helped prepare her tray during the meal
service and had then helped her eat as well; I had done everything except spoon-feed her. Not long
after we had cleared the tray she discovered that her necklace was missing. I prayed she hadnt left
it on her tray as the chances of finding it amongst hundreds of dirty trays were almost none.
It had probably fallen between seats or under her cushion, I guessed. I helped her up from the
seat, so that I could search in and around the seat. As I lowered my head to her seat the smell hit
me at the exact moment as the wetness of the seat cushion oozed through my fingers.
She had urinated in the seat. Gross, gross and triple gross.
I donned gloves, removed the cushion and replaced it with the only spare seat cushion available
on the plane.
I eventually found the necklace where I had suspected it would be found. I also found that it was
a piece of very cheap costume jewellery and had a broken clasp, which effectively rendered it
useless anyway.
Was all my discomfort and effort worth the effort? Nope.
The smell of urine lingered in my nostrils for the remainder of the flight and through the bus trip
to our crew hotel. On reaching the hotel, the first thing I did was run into the bathroom and give
myself a long, hot shower. Then, I had the choice of either crawling straight into bed or to go out
for crew-drinks and treat myself to a couple of glasses of wine, and unwind with the crew.
I went with the more sociable option. I might be still paying the price for those few wines, with
a hangover (and now a bruised shin) but thoughts of shopping have put back the spring in my step
or in my hop.
Whoever said money cant buy happiness didnt know where to go shopping. Sadly, shops
arent open in the early hours of the morning, so after watching infomercials on TV for several
hours I decide to have another long shower and then hit the gym. Id like to say that I love going to
the gym, but I dont. Guilt is my motivator and boredom my vindication.
Airline crew hotels are a sea of treadmills in the early hours of the morning, with hostie after
hostie pounding the conveyer belts. The girls all have the same steadfast expressions on their
faces, as if to say, Theres only a few more hours before the shops open. At least, thats what I
am thinking when I run.
I am sure that most of the girls on the treadmills will end up going to any number of markets
available at Hong Kong. My favourite place is Stanley Market. It is not just the shopping there that
makes it great, but it is also the markets location. I remember the first time I ever came to Hong
Kong and some of the crew took me to Stanley. The bus ride there was spectacular, and after
shopping we ended dining in a superb restaurant on the waterfront. This restaurant has had a few
name changes over the years, but it is still there. I have lunch there every time I go out shopping in
Stanley Market, which is pretty much every time I come to Hong Kong. I am sure today will be no
exception.
I never tire of doing fantastic things. My philosophy for life is quite simple really: I sleep when
I can, work hard when I have to, and I have fun because I want to.
More Confessions of a Hostie: The Second Sector by Danielle Hugh is
available from major ebook retailers worldwide. Grab your copy now and
follow the adventures of Danielle.
about the author
Ive worked for twenty years as a flight attendant, and I still enjoy meeting new people and
travelling to exotic places. Id love to hear your comments about my hostie stories. You can also
send me your own hostie stories. Send me a message on my Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/Confessionsofahostie.
copyright
First published in digital form in 2012 by Monsoon Books
This updated edition published in 2014.
ISBN (ebook): 978-981-4358-63-7
CopyrightDanielle Hugh, 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise make
available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital,
optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission
of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be
liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Cover vector imagea-codes (iStockphoto)
Disclaimer
The episodes featured in this book describe the authors experiences working as an international
flight crew. To protect confidentiality, however, the publisher and author assert that not everything
the author writes can be taken as the truth and neither party shall be held responsible for any
claims of misrepresentation. Some parts have been fictionalised, and names, airlines and locations
have been changed. The author has avoided revealing any information that would put colleagues in
the air at risk and, most importantly, the author has used a pseudonym and has obfuscated the
character of Danielle Hugh to such a degree that the author need not worry about dismissal. The
author has taken liberties, and has had some fun, with the facts regarding the personal life of
Danielle Hugh to keep identities secret, but the conversations and incidents recounted are based on
the truth.
Monsoon Books Pte Ltd
71 Ayer Rajah Crescent #01-01
Mediapolis Phase
Singapore 139951
www.monsoonbooks.com.sg
Visit www.monsoonbooks.com.sg to learn more about all our books.
Follow us on Facebook at www.monsoonbooks.com.sg/facebook to find out about our latest news,
forthcoming events, new released, and special discounts.