Flying with the Rich and Famous: True Stories from the Flight Attendant who flew with them
Authors: Patricia Reid
Flying With
The
Rich and Famous
(True Stories from the Flight
Attendant who flew with them)
By
Patricia Reid
A new, funny, up-lifting, light hearted take on what it’s like to fly around the world with the rich and famous
This book is dedicated to the most amazing parents a girl could ever ask for. I was lucky enough to be born to parents who taught me what I needed to know about life. They taught me to love whole heartedly and to be nice. I had a phenomenal childhood and I love them dearly. Thank you mom and dad. Plus they believed in me - that I could write this book!
And to my son RJ, who I can always brag about because he always gives me reasons to brag. I call him brilliant because he is. He’s so brilliant! And we’re not British. I love you my brilliant baby. And I literally could not have done this without his brilliant brain.
And to my pseudo-brother Ross, may you rest in peace. I can’t wait to laugh with you again. Love you bro-ski.
Contents
Chapter 4: What Goes Up Must Come Down
Chapter 5: Another Day in Paradise
Chapter 6: Welcome to Life on the Road
Chapter 1: As the Prop Turns
How I Came to Be a Flight Attendant for the
Rich and Famous
I grew up in Huntington Beach, California, also known as “Surf City.” I was blessed with phenomenal parents and two incredible older sisters. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we had a lot of fun. We went waterskiing and snow skiing and camping and flying. My father is a pilot and has always had a Beechcraft Bonanza. (Dad still does “fly-bys.” We run outside when we hear the distinct sound of Sheila’s engines and jump and wave at him. He dips his wings when he sees us as if he’s waving back—we’ve been doing this forever!)
By the tender age of four, thanks to my father, I already knew what I wanted to do with my future. On Saturdays, Dad and I went flying in his four-seat Beechcraft Bonanza, nicknamed Sheila and dubbed his “mistress.” He would bring
telephone books for me to sit on because I couldn’t see out the window. When I got older, he would move the yoke (steering wheel) over to my side and let me fly. I loved flying with him.
We often took Sheila from Long Beach, California, to Catalina Island—appropriately named the “Airport in the Sky”—to have a famous Buffalo Burger. When we flew over our house and the beach, I would giggle to myself how the people looked like ants. We flew over Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm and I laughed that the people on the rides had no idea what a better ride I was having above them. Occasionally, Dad would rent a Cessna 150 and we would fly upside down and do crazy-eights, zig-zagging the sky.
We took trips as a family in Sheila, too. We would stop at a quaint, little airport called Nut Tree in Northern California on the way to see relatives. Nut Tree had a charming, multi-colored train that would take us from the tarmac to the neighboring town, through the walnut trees and the village where there were lots of
candy and nut stores—and then stop in front of the toy store! I couldn’t wait to go there or anywhere actually. It was during one of these excursions I realized what I was going to do. I was going to become a stewardess, as they were then called. I loved to get on a plane, destination anywhere, just to be somewhere else, to experience something different.
By the time I began high school, my impatience to become a flight attendant had increased. My best friend even wrote in my yearbook, “I hope your dreams of becoming a stewardess come true.” Was there ever a question? Of course they would come true. And since I knew exactly where I was headed, well, not exactly where, why did I have to wait to finish high school? I was a straight-A student, and I was in a hurry—let me out! One of my teachers told me about a proficiency test, similar to the GED. I took and passed it when I was sixteen; I was officially a high-school-proficient-adult. Although I hadn’t even reached my junior year, I begged my father to let me go to
our local community college.
At Orange Coast College they had a flight service program designed for girls like me. I desperately wanted into the program, and the sooner the better, but my father insisted I return to high school for my junior year. I harassed my poor dad constantly until he either couldn’t take my badgering or decided that college courses might teach me more than I was learning in high school—they did. We compromised: I would take mostly transferable courses and a couple of flight-service courses. I entered OCC for the spring semester. At sixteen, I was the youngest student on campus, and I was thrilled.
During my second year at OCC, a new airline was being conceived. Jet America was to utilize the underused airport at Long Beach, California. I immediately applied to be a flight attendant, but I was hired as a ticket agent. I was now eighteen and in charge of my own life, and decided to leave OCC to begin my much-anticipated career.
On a cold November morning, Jet America Airlines opened with two flights per day to Chicago, O’Hare. I spent an extra hour getting ready that day. I slept in rollers the night before, so my long dark blonde hair was all curly and wild. I put on gold eye shadow to bring out the green in my eyes and put an extra coat of mascara on my already-long eyelashes. I painted my lips red to match my blouse then squeezed my five-foot-five-inch frame into my size four navy blue tunic dress. I was ready to begin my journey.
Jet America heavily promoted the convenient location of Long Beach Airport, which was adjacent to the 405 freeway. Our first flight ticket fares were $4.05 one-way. What marketing! The return flight was $45.95. When I arrived at the airport that first day, there was a line at the ticket counter a quarter-mile long. No one knew it was going to be so popular, but people had camped out around the terminal and down the street.
Our printers were not yet up, so we handwrote tickets;
none of us were very good on the computers, so the line crawled. I stood on my feet for three days handwriting tickets, having slept in the manager’s office on the first night because people were irritable and grouchy from waiting. It was crazy, confusing, exhausting and exhilarating.
I knew immediately this was where I belonged; I loved the passengers and the interaction with them. I talked to everyone, treated my frequent fliers like royalty, and became best buddies with anyone who worked in the airport. My father taught me the value of remembering a person’s name, advice that has served me very well over the years.
Because I was so good with the passengers, I was put in charge of lost luggage. I didn’t even mind if people were screaming at me when we had indeed lost their luggage. Nor did I mind when someone asked me for the fifth time that day what time our eight o’clock flight left the next morning. We had a trailer for the holding gate, and if the flight was late, I would play
games with the passengers. They loved it, and I loved it.
While happily working away at Jet America, a passenger came through my ticket line, and my gregariousness impressed him. As usual, the flight was delayed, so I was playing games with the passengers in the holding gate. He struck up a conversation with me and then he asked me if I had ever thought about becoming a flight attendant. Are you kidding me? Yes, yes, yes, I had thought about it! He asked if I would be interested in flying for a new airline, Regent Air. I could barely contain myself.
Regent Air was a first-class-service-only airline with three Boeing 727s reconfigured with only thirty-three seats. They had two daily scheduled flights from Los Angeles, California, to Newark, New Jersey. On Saturdays, there were no flights. The concept was to compete with American Airlines, TWA, etc., for first-class passengers, except that Regent Air was vastly more lavish and opulent, like a whole new class of service, where the
affluent were treated with the utmost care and respect. Regent Air intended to spoil their guests to the
nth
degree.
The passengers were collected at their homes and chauffeured to the airplane via limousine. On arrival at their destination, they were again chauffeured to their hotel or other destination in New York or Los Angeles. The same service was done in reverse for their return. There was no terminal, no security, no waiting; the luggage was loaded in the limousine at their homes and unloaded directly onto the airplane. It was a novel idea.
Each plane was exactly alike. There were six club seats and a couch in the first section, then the bar-galley section with three club seats and a love seat. The last section had a row of four club seats across, and behind them were four private staterooms. Each of the staterooms contained four club seats that converted into beds, and there were curtains at the entrance that could be drawn closed. Beyond that, a barber’s chair sat across
from an extra-large, very plush lavatory—that lav was used for an array of things beyond just a toilet. Because it was so big, many couples went in there for hot sex, keeping it locked for far longer than need be. It was also a popular place to light marijuana joints, snort lines of cocaine, swallow pills and/or whatever else the passengers had with them. It was well used, as were the staterooms.
The interior of the airplanes were luxurious and exorbitant, yet soothing and comfortable. There were swarms of deep burgundies, mauves, and royal blues throughout the club seats and headliners. The carpet had variant shades of burgundy, mauve and grey that swirled around in a flowing pattern. The bar was brass with burgundy leather, and the etched Plexiglas mirror behind the bar flaunted peacock feathers. The partition between the bar-galley section and the last club seat also sported etchings of peacocks posed in opposite directions. The outside of each aircraft was painted blue on top and white on bottom with two
gold stripes. The insignia on the tail was back-to-back gold Rs with a gold crown on top.
The cuisine and amenities were as exclusive as the passengers. The menu included Maine lobster, Beluga caviar, and Taittinger champagne. We used real silver cutlery, fine Irish linens, delicate Spode china, and Baccarat crystal stemware, all done with flair worthy of the rich and famous.
Each flight attendant was hired for a specific position. The chief purser was in charge of the cabin and the other four flight attendants. The food and beverage specialist worked behind the bar, pouring and mixing drinks and preparing the food. The cosmetologist was to give haircuts and manicures. Finally, the executive secretary took dictation and assisted businessmen if they chose to work onboard.
I was hired, after three interviews, as a secretary, although I never once did anything remotely similar to a secretary. With great pride and anticipation of what lay ahead,
we all wore black tuxedos with burgundy bowties and cummerbunds.
The first few flights were not very full, but we took no notice. We would arrive in Newark after gorging ourselves on all this incredible food, which was intended for the phantom persons who had yet to discover Regent Air, and head straight into New York to party like the rock stars they assured us would be forthcoming.
As word of mouth spread, things started to liven up. We amassed a guest list of film stars, television stars, rock stars, singers and songwriters, politicians, publishers, sports figures, producers, Wall Street gurus, and prominent businessmen. Every flight was full, and every flight was an adventure with the rich and famous. I looked forward to each takeoff with such anticipation that nothing could have dampened my spirit; this is what I was meant to do, and I was having the time of my life.
Regent Air never charged enough to sustain itself, so it
was only a matter of time before the numbers didn’t add up; inevitably, bankruptcy ensued. After being laid off, I did stints of waitressing and went back to school. (Dad was right. I needed something to fall back on.) Eventually, I became antsy being grounded and looked for a way to get in the sky again. I considered commercial airlines, but I was a first-class flight attendant. How could I do the “chicken or beef” gig? I went to airports and knocked on doors in search of elusive private jets that I had overheard the passengers on Regent Air talking about. I went on a mission to land myself on one or hopefully, many.
I eventually discovered a woman who offered a service like a brokerage for private flight attendants. The clients would call her for a flight attendant for so many days; she would supply the flight attendant and take a percentage of the daily rate. I was tenacious and would not take no for an answer. She finally acquiesced to my relentless requests and gave me a chance to prove I could do this, and do it well.
I spent the next two decades flying around the world on an array of different jets for an assortment of corporations and individuals. Some years were very busy, and I was never home. I missed holidays—I awakened one Christmas morning alone in a suite in Hawaii; I also missed any number of weddings, milestone anniversaries, and cherished family vacations. Some years were slow. I would have to subsidize my income any way I could, usually by driving limousines.
