Confessions of a Hostie (17 page)

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, I'll 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 don't 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 Helen's 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 tonight's party. I am already sure that it will be a unique and memorable event.

I arrive at Mary and Mike's 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.

It's 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 don't 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, you've 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 Danny's 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 Danny's 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 Mike's 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 we'd make a big grand entrance. And then he'd 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 can't 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 don't 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 don't 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.

They'll 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 wouldn't be able to finish all the bottles I already have.

I haven't bothered about looking up the crew-list this time as it is just a day trip.

Wouldn't 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 can't 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 doesn't 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 doesn't 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 don't 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 don't 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 don't 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 Janie's explanation is funny, but because it is true. It doesn't 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 didn't need to be Einstein to smell the stench and see my mortified red face, and put two and two together.

‘I'm
so
sorry,' I whispered to him and ran out of the galley.

What else could I do?

A hostie's nose is probably the most violated of all the sensors. I've smelt things that one just shouldn't 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 won't 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 can't 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 didn't 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 he's finished with his business, and we crew members in the galley are forced to hold our noses, turn away and groan.