Confessions of a Hostie 3
More true stories of an International Flight Attendant
By Danielle Hugh
Copyright © 2014 Danielle Hugh
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CONTENTS
introduction
sleep is at the top of my list of places I'd like to go back to
the party is smokin'
the bigger the fool, the harder they fall
how does the floor taste?
now listen here...
for some, knowledge comes and goes, but wisdom lasts forever
zoo stories
not all alarms are false
changing times
don't expect a gold watch and lavish send off
when you want something bad enough...
knowledge may be having the right answers; but intelligence is asking the right questions
knowledge is knowing tomatoes are a fruit, but wisdom is not putting them in a fruit salad
a positive attitude
those who can laugh at themselves never cease to be amused
sometimes sleep can come at a cost
digging a hole for yourself
some are accidentally more foolish than others
in the eye of the storm
sometimes you are too busy to contemplate just how busy you really are
hop to it
anger can be a cowardly extension of one's own bitterness
kill them with kindness
every now and then I wish I was wrong
breakfast travel stories
children's rights
don't lose sight of the bigger picture
chase down your passion like it is the last bus of the night
introduction
When I was eleven I fantasized about being an international hostie. I thought I had some idea of what the flying life would be like. I had no idea at all. After twenty years of flying around the world, I finally have an inkling. I'll even share my experiences from when I first applied to the airlines (unsuccessfully). Every story I am about to tell you is true and every character you are about to meet is based on someone I know or have met.
Welcome to more snapshots of my world.
sleep is at the top of my list of places I'd like to go back to
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 have awoken in many hotel rooms around the world not knowing which city I am in. To me, there is nothing unusual about that, but what is most disconcerting is realizing I am in my own bed. Could there be a more defining moment for someone who spends so much time away from home to not know my own bed?
I once said hotels are my second home. Maybe my second home is actually my own home? Surely one day I'll wake in the early hours of the morning, tired and hungry, grab the phone and attempt to ring hotel room service - only to realize I'm in my own apartment. Don't get me wrong, I love hotels, well, good hotels, it's just I love my own home more.
My home is my sanctuary. After working a sixteen hour night-day-night-again-day, four hours of sleep is not nearly enough, but I am in my apartment; in my own bed.
I make a note to myself: Dear sleep; I know we had a few problems when I was younger, but I am so in love with you now.
I bury my head into my favorite pillow to vegetate.
That's what being home is about: a day may be lost, but a soul has been saved.
The hard thing about arriving home early in the morning is sleeping while the rest of society is awake, including friends, boyfriend, and family. I have some 'earthling' shift worker friends, knowing what it is like to sleep during the day. The big difference between their life and mine is: jetlag. Jetlag is a beast - raising its ugly head - wrapping its tentacles around your world - gripping oh so tight. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
I love the word irony. Trying to explain to someone just how horrible and intrusive jetlag is, while you are actually jetlagged, is a verbal recipe for disaster. That's irony. It is like someone going to a psychiatrist and being diagnosed with hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.
What, you say?
I'll explain: Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia, which yes is a real phobia, means: having a fear of long words. Imagine being diagnosed with this condition - while the doctor was halfway through telling you what the condition was, you'd be totally freaking out.
That's irony.
My girlfriend, Helen, tells her own lovely irony story: When her kids were very young they were in a bath together. The youngest child picked up a bottle of Johnson & Johnson No More Tears and hit the other one over the head with it.
That's irony.
Please note that being jetlagged is like being hit with every Johnson & Johnson product repeatedly.
Not every trip I do is so invasive, yet often I'll suffer jetlag from one trip and not fully recover before doing another. The jetlag is accumulative.
Someone once asked 'When you are in other countries, why don't you just stay on your own home local time?'
It sounds good in theory, but rarely works in reality. My flying rosters are all over the place, both in where I go and at what times I work. Sometimes I start work at midnight, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the day - often in countries having no time correlation to my home.
In the last month alone I have traveled to five different continents; all with different time zones and weather conditions. I've been north, south, east, and west - on the equator, to the northern hemisphere and the southern. My routine is no routine. Sometimes the very chaos I love becomes the chaos I most detest. I don't know one international flight attendant who doesn't whine about something - and that something is usually sleep deprivation or jetlag (usually both). I love my job, but not all aspects. Most who love their job would say the same.
When I'm with friends and family I rarely complain about jetlag and exhaustion. They see it, they know. Those neighbors seeing me come and go, and don't know I am an international hostie, must think I am either a drug addict or I have a twin sister who always looks drained and disorientated. These are the two faces I must wear.
Finding enough days to have usable time at home is a rarity. This is one of those rare times. I have a whole week off. Yes, I've paid my dues, but a whole week? Yay.
Even taking into account jetlag (and a day or two of looking like my fictitious twin sister), I still have plenty of days to practice my favorite pastime - nothingness. Nothingness is underrated.
How many jobs, when you're not on holiday, can boast having seven successive days off?
The bliss.
Of course I cannot do nothing for a whole week, so it's time to roll out Danielle the Entertainer. It's been so long since I had a dinner party and I've been told I host a very good party. I only need to invite a handful of people, as often the more intimate the occasion, the more fun had.
One of the real drawbacks of my lifestyle is not being able to plan too much in advance. I am rarely home, and even if I am, how am I going to feel? Consequently, most things are done on short notice. I have come to nickname myself: Last minute.com.
My last minute social networking skills kick into overdrive
. First call is to my boyfriend Dean, as it usually is. There is no point having a party to show-off the love of my life if he can't make it.
Good news - he can make it. Even better news is he thinks a party is a great idea.
With notepad in hand, I place my first tick next to Dean's name. Next I ring my best friend Helen, inviting her and her hubby. Helen also thinks a party is a great idea.
Tick two.
Next to contact is Dean's brother Danny, a fellow flyer. I'm reluctant to phone other flight attendants, never knowing whether they're in the country or, if they are at home, they might be sleeping or jetlagged. When I'm jetlagged the last thing I feel like doing is chatting on the phone. I send a text, inviting Danny and his wife Bernadette.
Two ticks, two wait-and-sees.
My next text is to my good friend, the promiscuous and emotionally unstable Mary Gomez. Mary's nickname within the airline is Mary-go-round (because every guy has had a ride). I think she has just started seeing some guy. That was about three weeks ago, so she may have had several new boyfriends come and go since then. One never quite knows with Mary. I know she is away on a trip so I don't expect to hear from her straight away.
To my surprise Mary texts back within minutes.
She returns from her trip the day before my scheduled party. Mary is still seeing the same guy - I think. She mentions his name in the text: Craig. I can't be positive if Craig was the name stated three weeks ago. Mary is always mentioning guy's names, yet experience has taught me to remember lots of things in life, but rarely does remembering Mary-go-round's many dates feature prominently. If Craig is indeed the same fellow, then she received my text, in a different time zone, contacted Craig, he responded back, and then she has replied to me - all within five minutes.
Three ticks, two wait-and-sees
Several more texts to other hostie-friends return differing results. I haven't caught up with my friend Sue for some time. I didn't think she would make it. She can't, yet I feel better for inviting her. Sue is good friends with another flyer, Damien. We have done plenty of memorable trips together. Only a month-or-so ago Damien and I had a great trip, yet, like most of the flights he is on, there were dramas-a-plenty. Even so, I really like him. I send him a text.
Damien responds, being able to make my little party. I'm aware Damien has a partner, I recall his name is Stuart. I haven't met him, although I know he doesn't fly. I text my address details, who is likely to come, and invite Stuart. Damien texts back, confirming his partner would love to come.
Four ticks, eight people, two yet to respond.
Now I have some party decisions to make: eight or more people are too many to sit down and dine in my small apartment. It looks like it will be a standup affair. Finger-food was always going to be the easier option - now it's a no-brainer.
Whether eight, ten, or more, I am really looking forward to the opportunity to relax with my friends. I might even see if Dean wants to invite any of his friends. I may even invite my neighbors.
I can't wait.
the party is smokin'
One small apartment - 16 people - six days of planning - two days of cooking - two glasses of wine.
I'm ready to party.
Danny and his wife Bernadette have come, as too friends of Dean, even my next door neighbors have joined the fun. I have met Mary-go-round's new beau, Craig - and he is really nice. Most of the guys Mary date are handsome, yet within a millisecond of meeting them I can tell there is something wrong; some demons, some damage. Craig seems normal in every sense - and he adores Mary. She is a tad drunk, she was when she walked in. Mary is always drunk socially. Often her moods swing like a pendulum, but tonight she is in the zone; funny, quirky, and, by Merry-go-round's standards, even a little bit reserved.
She must really like this guy.
They say opposites attract. Craig is a tad shy. As a nine-to-five worker, he is fascinated by our hostie lifestyles. I doubt he has met someone like Mary-go-round before. If he is spellbound by Mary's flying stories and behavior, he is absolutely gob-smacked by the flamboyant antics of Damien, being loud and gregarious. Damien's partner Stuart is quiet and unassuming, yet listens intently every time Damien speaks.
'Danielle and I were on a trip to Bangkok, what, two or three weeks ago?' says Damien.
It was actually a smidgen further back than that, however it is one of the things we flight attendants struggle with: the concept of time. I can tell you what I did twelve years ago in intricate detail, but ask me what I was doing two months ago and I need to stop and think. Other crew have said the same.
Damien and I had the funniest night out in Bangkok, but the flight there was no fun at all.
In Damien's words: 'If you look up the dictionary meaning of the word hell you'll find a description of our flight to Thailand.'
I know from experience the dramas that can play out on an aircraft. One of my worst flights, passenger-wise, was a trip with Damien to Honolulu. A passenger head-butted Damien, spreading poor Damien's nose from one side of his face to the other. Damien does not mention this flight during the party, although I am positive the story has been retold many times at host of social gatherings.
On our Bangkok trip we had two separate and unrelated incidences. Damien is an exceptional storyteller, so when he tells of the events everybody listens. It was a full flight with Damien the galley operator at the back of the plane and me working with him. Just after takeoff he turned on the ovens. While the meals cooked we set-up carts and looked after the usual requests in the cabin. One of the company's major frequent flyers was onboard:
'A gold, triple premium, platinum-wrapped, diamond-studded, we-must-give-you-everything frequent flyer.'
These are Damien's words, not mine.
'Anyhow, we kissed this guy's butt, racing up to the front of the plane to serve him the finest red wine a vintner can make' tells Damien.
Sometimes the most important corporate clients, including frequent flyers, are not who you would imagine. This man was middle-aged, casually dressed, and a little rough around the edges. Damien used more insulting dialogue in his descriptions, but realistically the man looked and acted just like a typical passenger - at least initially.
In the galley the crew prepared drinks, readied carts, and waited for the meals to cook. All of a sudden thick smoke billowed from one of the middle ovens. The thick smoke and the smell of electrical burning hit our noses at the same time. This was major. This was dramatic.
Damien was closest to the oven. He turned it off, then instinctively, and as per procedure, he turned off the power to the whole galley. We saw smoke, but no flames. As crew we are trained to fight fires, implementing basic fire drills. The first person on the scene, after isolating the power, fights the fire. The second person acts as a communicator, and the next crew member becomes a backup firefighter - and so on. I was standing next to Damien. I became the communicator.
If you're at home and something catches fire in the kitchen, you turn off the power and fight the fire. The big difference between a house and a plane is: if you are at home, and the fire gets out of control, you can always call the fire brigade and get out of the house. You can't do that at 35,000 feet. You have to fight the fire and put it out. There are no other options.
We still had not seen flames, which is reassuring, however Damien barked 'Get me a fire extinguisher.'
As I pick up the nearest crew phone, one of the other crew, Phil, grabbed an extinguisher to hand to Damien. I made an emergency call to the whole crew, including the flight deck. From where I stood, and with the phone having a long flexible cable, I could see most things going on. My job was to communicate clearly and effectively the situation to all crew, particularly the flight crew; in this case being the captain who has seen the flashing oh-this-can't-be-good button and picked up the phone.
In relaying the story, Damien is animated and theatrical. In reality it was a lot of smoke and potentially catastrophic, yet we had everything under control, howe
ver the way Damien tells the story: we were engulfed in toxic fumes and ready to die.
The first thing I told the captain was we had thick grey-white smoke pouring from and around an oven and the smell of something burning - an electrical burning smell. Damien had switched off the galley power and was about to investigate. I was very careful not mention the word fire. On an aircraft it is the worst case scenario. Nobody wants to hear the F word. Several of the crew from the front of the aircraft, including the boss, venture down the back to help while I stayed online with the captain.
I must say that Damien handled the situation brilliantly. Although the power was turned off, the smoke was still coming from in and around the oven. Phil had retrieved some firefighting equipment, including thick fire-retardant gloves and a fire extinguisher. Damien slipped the gloves on, telling everyone to stand back as he came in low, as to avoid smoke and possible flame, to open the oven door, not fully, just enough to see in. The last thing you want to do if there is a fire is allow extra oxygen to fuel the flames. Damien knew this.
Not as much smoke came out of the oven as one might as expect - and thankfully no flames. Most oven fires occur from the ignition of food (usually oil) or some other item, like paper, which shouldn't have been in the oven. This was not the case here.
Damien pulled the oven racks, loaded with food, from the oven. He threw them on the galley bench. He could still see smoke oozing from the back of the oven, through the vents where a fan generates the oven heat. Damien made an instant decision to fire-off the extinguisher into the back of the oven. I relayed this information to the captain. Although the captain agreed, Damien began doing it anyway. He squeezed the trigger, emptying the whole contents into the oven, with the door only ajar enough for the extinguisher nozzle to poke in. He then shut the oven door. The smoke began to dissipate.
Confessions of a Hostie 3 Page 1
