Fire extinguisher repellent is toxic. Phil donned a device called a smoke hood. It is a fireproof headpiece with its own internal oxygen supply. When a toxic material like a fire extinguisher has been let off, this is the piece of onboard equipment you really need. Phil went in, opened the oven door, and investigated. No flames, no smoke. Phil and Damien checked surrounding panels, but thanks to the quick response from the crew, any emergency was diverted. I happily relayed that information to the captain.
The smoke disappeared. Our relief was obvious, yet the job was far from done. The smell of burnt electrical equipment inside an aircraft is not the sort of thing passengers fearlessly embrace. I once had my kitchen toaster burn out. It did not catch fire, yet the burnt electrical smell stayed in my apartment for days. That's what we faced in the cabin.
The onboard manager was fantastic, making a P.A explaining the situation, reassuring everyone that everything was under control and safe. The captain did the same. The danger was averted, although we now had a service issue. This aircraft has two galleys; a small one at the front and the main galley at the back. That main galley was now out-of-action and the power won't be turned back on. Although only cooked for ten minutes (on a 30 minute cycle), the meals in the affected oven would taste like a toxic dump. With around 300 passengers, and approximately 50 unusable meals and the rest only partially cooked, we had a real problem. These are 300 passengers impatiently waiting for food and drinks. The only person at the back of the plane with a drink was the frequent flyer - only because he visited the front of the plane to top up his glass, three times at least, even at that early stage of the flight.
Only an hour into the flight our frequent flyer was totally oblivious to our firefighting efforts, the commotion in the galley, the smoke in the cabin, the P.As, and the rest of the world. Discovering he'd been guzzling wine so quickly had my alarm bells ringing louder than any emergency smoke alarms in the aircraft.
the bigger the fool, the harder they fall
Using the business class galley we managed to cook the salvageable meals, being a slow and laborious task. We succeeded in feeding most of the masses, somehow making up for the 50 meals we were short. Fortunately several passengers did not eat, yet we still searched every nook and cranny of the aircraft for the smallest morsels of food. By the time we had finished, not even a cracker was to be found in the carts.
Our frequent flyer-wine-gulping-supremo was one of those who didn't eat. He was probably too busy guzzling red wine. While we ran between galleys, he snuck under our guard, helping himself to yet more wine. We were still serving meals over four hours into the flight when a passenger brings our attention to a multi-color surprise left near the back toilets.
I think the passenger's words were: I think someone has been sick at the back toilets.
They said 'at', not 'in'.
Damien and I investigated. I wish we hadn't. The report of someone vomiting at the back toilets was a tad understated - and I am talking about the statement being understated, not the action. It was all over the toilet door, all over the wall - and all over the crew jump seat a crew member is to occupy for takeoff and landing.
Guess whose crew jump seat it was?
Mine.
The culprit was in the closest toilet to my jump seat. One didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see the red-wine-infused vomit dripping off the outside of the toilet door to know who the offender was, especially as we could hear him continuing to throw up inside. The sound of banging and crashing into the walls and door was another give-away. We then heard water splashing. It sounded like a shower in there.
As Damien tells the story: 'At least we knew he was alive. Poor Danielle and I had to clean up the results of this moron's stupidity, with him on the other side of the door while we cleaned that door. I could hear him in there - and he must have heard us. I cleaned the door - and cleaned it damn loudly. I think I swore even louder.'
It took Damien and me sometime to clean the area, yet the frequent flyer did not come out. He was either too embarrassed or too drunk to venture out. Regardless, neither of us cared by that point. Sometime later we did see the man stagger down the aisle wearing his drenched shirt, unbuttoned, his glistening pot-belly leading the way. His pants and clothes were saturated. He had obviously thrown-up on himself and then taken off all his clothes in an attempt to wash them; only to put them back on again. Being revolted, I glanced only fleetingly at the drowned rat, although I could see his shirt was all screwed up. At some point he must had attempted to somehow wring it dry - with little success.
He wobbled past the galley and back to his seat. He then collapsed in a pool of drenched misery. When Damien relayed part of the story to the onboard manager it was suggested we might take a clean blanket and a pair of pajamas to the man. Three minutes into Damien's monologue about how he and I were on our hands and knees cleaning up the man's vomit, the boss knew beyond a shadow of a doubt nothing was ever going past the business class curtains.
It was early in the evening when we landed in Bangkok.
Damien said 'Come on - we're going out!'
He took me to a bar in Bangkok's Patpong, the most famous entertainment and red-light district in the city, teaming with sex clubs, bars, and markets. I have been to the markets many times. They are great, but the truth-be-told, I have seen just one of the sex shows - and that was some years ago.
It's not really my cup of tea.
Damien tells the party-goers about some of the sex acts performed on stage in Patpong. Very few people can talk about these demeaning performances, featuring ping-pong balls and darts, amongst other things, and get away with it in mixed company. Damien can. Even if he can't, he'll say it anyway.
When Damien first started talking about Patpong, I thought he was going to tell all my friends we had a night out in a strip club, which we didn't. Damien has a wicked sense of humor. In the company of my friends I am a little nervous. I need not worry as Damien sticks with the facts.
We went to a bar in Patpong with the most amazing copy-cat singers, impersonating the likes of Tom Jones and Tina Turner. My personal favorite was a little old skinny Thai man who really thought he was the incarnation of Elvis Presley. Apart from the Thai accent and the fact he looked nothing like the real Elvis, he still sounded pretty good. Damien and I had a fantastic night, getting back to the hotel in the wee hours of the morning.
Sleep in our job is so very important, but nobody recalls with fondness the nights where you went to bed early.
When Damien talked of partying and sex clubs, Mary-go-round's ears pricked. She is eager to share her own stories. Mary has some saucy accounts. I know - I've heard some. To her credit she shows some decorum around her new beau, only talking of the one time she danced on a pole at a club in Patpong. I was not there, although I have no qualms that she would have done it. There would have been a guy in tow who she was showing-off to, no doubt. There usually is. I am also sure she has done far more risqué stunts than pole dancing, but for tonight at least, she keeps those stories to herself. Many of the stories I have heard about Mary, from others as well as herself, she has little recollection. The outrageous things she does are proportionate to the amount of booze she consumes. Most stories about Mary are memorable, yet she remembers very few herself.
Of the 16 guests, only four are flyers: Damien, Mary, Danny, and me. Even so, it is amazing how non-flying people are fascinated in our lifestyle and what we get up to. I would imagine Danny's wife Bernadette and Damien's partner Stuart would hear stories all the time, however the other guests are captivated. I have the feeling Danny doesn't talk much about what goes on away from home as much as I would have thought. I can see Bernadette is as attentive as everyone else to the stories.
My best friend Helen and my boyfriend Dean have been on a number of separate trips with me. As the night progresses, and thanks to some of my special cocktail drinks, they too share their own observations and onboard stories. Helen, in particular, is enthusiastic about h
er travel experiences, referring to herself as her majesty - a nickname coined by Damien of all people, who just so happened to be on a Honolulu flight I took Helen on. She's been on another trip since, but it was that Honolulu trip she will never forget. She repeats some aspects of that excursion: a passenger being arrested and then sedated onboard, a couple joining the mile-high club, being seated up front of the plane across from Ronn Moss (the former actor from The Bold and the Beautiful), and Helen and I walking in the water along Waikiki Beach by moonlight in the early hours of the morning.
The most recent trip with Helen was not as eventful, however Helen does tell one onboard story:
'The last time I went with Danielle, she was just about to serve me - I was at the pointy end of the plane you know, as Your Majesty should be' she jokes, 'when another passenger reached across and grabbed Danielle by the skirt to get her attention. As cool as you like, she said: Yes sir, that is my dress, attached to my body, and when you let go - and you will let go - I'll adjust my uniform, forget that you scruffed me, and then I will return to find out what it is you want.'
I can't recall saying those words on that flight. I might have said something along those lines. It does sound like something I would say.
Mary has her own stories about being touched, grabbed, and groped by passengers. Her responses are less diplomatic and far less sarcastic than mine. Damien too has a major input into the subject. I somehow thought he would. He can be cutting and condescending onboard, but what he says and what he really thinks are fortunately worlds apart. If he acted on how he really felt about certain situations, I am sure the obituary columns would be overflowing.
The one flight attendant who is quiet on all subjects hostie is Danny. I know Danny well. Apart from being Dean's brother, I have done a number of trips with him. Danny is one of the smartest people I know. I realize he rarely partakes in what we call galley gossip. He is diplomatic, thoughtful, and looks at the bigger pictures.
I would really like him to be involved in the conversations, as would the other guests, particularly Damien. Danny and Damien have flown together only a few times. They know each other by sight, but that is about it. I can tell Damien respects Danny.
It is Damien who actually asks Danny 'What is it about the job that really ticks you off?'
Everyone listens.
'Let's face it, the job itself can suck' replies Danny.
I am taken aback. Danny is a positive and upbeat guy, well-educated, and articulate. I know he loves his job, not being the type to begin a conversation with the words job and suck in the same sentence. I listen intently.
'We all see and put up with things that most non-airline people would have no idea we put up with, but at the end of the day I look at the time frames involved: I can spend, say, thirteen or fourteen hours in the air and granted some of it can be hell. Not all of it, not all the time, but sometimes, yet when I get off that plane I have two, sometimes three days to do whatever I want to do in a foreign land - a foreign destination. I'd put up with a few hours of pain to have a day of pleasure anytime.'
Bernadette chimes in, 'And Danny loves to travel. It's a small price to pay for him to see the world.'
As she cuddles up to her husband, he smiles to say 'And I get paid to do it.'
Bravo Danny.
As much as we hosties bitch and complain about some of the aspects of the job, we ultimately love the job and the lifestyle it can bring. Danny's words of wisdom are taken onboard only fleetingly as Mary turns up the background music to start dancing like she was on that pole at Patpong.
how does the floor taste?
Mary is getting drunker, becoming louder and more flirtatious. Craig loves the attention. He is a seemingly conservative man, yet revels in Mary's outrageous ways. He even has a dance with Mary, well, it is more like a standup lap-dance actually. Helen and her hubby dance, Dean and I dance, Danny and Bernadette dance, Damien and Stuart dance - we all dance.
The evening is a great success. The only near-hiccup is when Mary starts getting a little shaky on her feet. While in the act of pole dancing on an invisible pole, she slips and falls over.
'I didn't fall. The floor just needed a hug' she says giggling, face down on the carpet.
Craig really likes Mary. He has never met anyone as outgoing and outrageous as Mary-go-round. There is no doubt he is smitten.
Will the relationship last?
I hope for Mary's sake it does, yet I've had hopes many times before.
Parties and Mary are synonymous. She is always the last to go home. The only exception is when she gets so trashed she either passes out or someone takes her to bed. When I say 'takes her to bed' it has two meaning, both being relevant. Tonight is different. We have all partied late, yet Mary and Craig are the first to leave. Mary is drunk, although by Mary's usual standards, she is stone-cold-sober. Sure she fell over, sure she is loud, but Mary is showing a new sense of responsibility seldom seen. She must really like this guy.
Sometimes parties have high points and low points. There are no low points at my little gathering. After the last of the guests leave, Dean wraps his arms around me to say 'Wow, what a great night.'
The next morning I barely have time to reflect on the previous night as I fly out in just over 24 hours. I hadn't even thought about my next trip. I've done all the usual mundane duties like washing, cleaning, and paying bills, but I've yet to even contemplate going back to work or where I am even off to.
Actually, where am I going to?
I joke. I do know, but sometimes my life is so chaotic I need to stop and think for a moment. Sometimes it is hard enough to know where you've been, let alone where you are going to. This is where a paper copy of my flying roster comes in handy. I have a copy held onto my fridge door with a magnet. I quickly glance at it.
I'm off to Singapore.
I knew it was going to be somewhere in Asia.
Most times I have a flying roster, so I know what trips I am doing in advance - in theory anyway. Often trips are changed, delayed, or cancelled. What is in black and white paperwork under my fridge magnet can look very different by the end of the roster period. There are times, however, where I don't know what trips I am doing. As airlines need to have some additional crew as a back-up to cover flight changes, sick crew, and unforeseen events, there are always a percentage of crew on a standby arrangement. I need to do this standby thing every so often. I find it no fun at all.
For a spirited soul, not knowing where you are going until the last minute sounds like a good thing in theory: I receive a phone call, often with very short notice, to go somewhere in the world. It is a lottery.
'How exciting' my non-flying friends say.
The big catch is the short notice. I can't venture far from home - and I could be in the middle of something, like having coffee with Helen (as I was last time). I received a call to scoot out the door mumbling 'run Forrest run!' Then I needed to pack. I usually have something packed already, but how can you prepack properly when you have no idea where you could end up? I could be going to the equator or I might end up in the snow - and how long will I be away for?
Even when I do find out the destination or destinations and how long I am to be away, the clock is ticking. I literally need to drop everything and run. I remember some years ago being called out on a ten day trip, which, with disruptions, ended up with me being away from home for over two weeks. As I had been on a standby arrangement, not knowing whether I would be called out or not, I had fresh produce in the fridge, including seafood. A girl still needs to eat. I had not been called for several days, being on standby all that day, without a call. I had less than an hour to go.
'They won't need me' I rationalized, so I bought a nice piece of fish to have for dinner. Just as I turned the oven on, the phone rang. I turned the oven off, rushing to get ready. The fish was still in the fridge, yet it was the last thing on my mind.
When I returned home, after more than two weeks away, I was unaware that the
building's power was shut off for some of the time I was away. I opened the fridge door... I wish I hadn't.
One other standby story I'll share is from some years ago: I was on a 12 hour standby arrangement, from 10.00 a.m. until 10.00 p.m. This means the phone could ring at 10.01 in the morning and I could be off somewhere or it could ring at 9.59 at night. I'd had two days of this procedure, not being called to go anywhere. On day three at 9.57 p.m. I opened the fridge door to remove a bottle of wine, singing 'Just three more minutes to go, just three more minutes to go.' The inevitable occurred. As I reached up to the cupboard to remove a wine glass, the phone rang.
I was to operate a 13 hour flight. I do this all the time, but, in this instance, I had been awake since early in the morning. How can you sleep throughout the day on the off-chance of being called in to work? I can't take a sleeping tablet - and without it I can't sleep in the daytime anyway, besides, I could be called in the morning or at night or not at all. This standby arrangement is a lottery - and I was screwed.
I later explained to Helen about how unfair the system is. Helen is a (part time) school teacher, so I put it in terms she could relate to: Imagine you have been awake all day, doing your normal chores and routines, you've put the kids to sleep, and you are about to have one glass of wine before going to sleep when the school rings. They want you to race into work to teach a classroom of children until two o'clock the next afternoon. Add a lack of oxygen in a pressurized tube and 400 passengers to the mix and you get some sort of idea how I felt. By the end of the flight I had been awake for over 30 hours - and I'd had a good night's sleep the night before. Often I don't.
Confessions of a Hostie 3 Page 2
