Confessions of a Hostie (8 page)

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 world's 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 doesn't 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, I'll 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 don't 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 I'm 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 Valentine's 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 won't 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 they'll send me for New Year's 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. I've been waiting for years and years to do that. Now that's 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 can't 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 hotel's 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 he's 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 I've 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, ma'am?' 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 didn't 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 won't 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 don't 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 hasn't 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 don't 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 don't 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 other's 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 that's all she's 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 crêpe. 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. There's 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 can't, 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 I've 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.

Here's another: how can you tell that a Captain is at a party? Don't worry – he'll 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 don't know what most pilots do in layover ports, but I'm 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 doesn't 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 don't 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 I'll 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 doesn't 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 can't help but notice that he spends most of his brief visit talking to me. I even sense a hint of flirtation.

Maybe this trip won't 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 don't 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.