‘The guy in first class.’
‘Well he was oldish . . . like probably married and that, but very funny. I think his name is Norman something. Devins or . . .’
‘Levins?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
‘Well then she’ll be wasting her time writing anything negative about you. That man is one of our top one hundred customers. His company spends over one hundred thousand euro on flights for him a year.’
‘How do you know?’ I’m intrigued.
‘Everyone knows,’ she shrugs, and I wonder for the thousandth time since I started flying, why everyone seems to know everything in this place, except me.
‘Good-bye, good-bye, cheerio, take care now, safe home, good-bye, good-bye, take care now, thank you, you’re welcome, thank you very much, goodbye, our pleasure, not at all, bye.’
As soon as the last passenger disembarks, I rush up to first class to see has anybody left any goody-bags on board. The goody-bags are nifty little bags that first class passengers receive when they take their seat. They contain earplugs (great if your hotel neighbours happen to be the noisy sort), razor (to do my legs when I soak in a long hot bath with a glass of wine), comb (which fits nicely into my back pocket if I go clubbing), socks (you can never have too many pairs!), perfume spray, lip balm, eye mask, etc.
Now, most first class passengers could not be bothered taking these little bags home, so they usually just use the eye-mask or say, the socks, and then dump the bag as rubbish. Of course, once a bag is opened, you can’t recycle the products, and the cleaners just take the stuff away unless I happen to help myself. This leaves me with an endless supply of earplugs and combs. Whoever said this job didn’t have great perks?
We wait for our cases and the porter carries them out for us and loads them into our mini bus. Now that I’m here I’m thrilled to be in Boston. It really is a special city and is beautiful at this time of the year, when the leaves have turned a beautiful warm golden colour. Mind you, it’s not warm here though. Not at all. The weather is freezing. That’s the thing about Boston and New York. It’s either bitterly cold or sweltering hot. They have real winters and summers here not like home, where the weather can never seem to make its mind up.
Snakely is sitting up at the top of the bus chewing the poor captain’s ear so I make sure I head down to the back. One of the stewards is already sitting beside Amy, which is really annoying because I have to ask her about Adam, and I really haven’t had a chance since my break.
I’ve got a second wind now that we’ve arrived in Boston. I think I’ll wrap up and go for a walk down Newbury Street, or maybe I’ll just go to the mall and wander around. I’m sure some of the crew will be heading out so I’ll try and find out what everybody’s doing. Of course if Snakely is planning on coming with us, you can count me out.
It doesn’t take us long to get into town. The roads from Logan Airport into town are great. Hmm. A far cry from the route from Dublin Airport into town at the moment. Have you tried it recently? One lane of traffic as you approach Drumcondra – welcome to Ireland, how are ya?
Soon we’re in the Back Bay area where our hotel is located. Everybody stares as we walk into the hotel. Imagine, this is how famous bands must feel all the time. Like fish in a tank. It’s funny the way people always stare at airline crews though, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like we’re that exciting. It must be the pilots and their caps. Women love men in uniform. Sure just look at all the attention Tom Cruise got in Top Gun. And then there was Leonardo di Caprio dressed up as a pilot in that film Catch me if you can. He looked great. Sadly, the pilots in our airline look about as much like him as I look like Gisele Bundchen.
We’re handed our room keys and spending money at the hotel reception. I rip open the envelope to make sure all the cash is there. It is, thank God. Oh, I can’t wait to go shopping now.
The first thing I do when I get to my room is light a cigarette. I don’t smoke that much usually, but after a long transatlantic flight I’m always gagging for one. I kick off my high heels, and replace them with the furry purple slippers I bring everywhere with me. I wonder whether Adam has arrived in New York yet. I wonder if he’s thinking of me or even missing me. Maybe he isn’t. After all, most men don’t go on with all that sentimental slush, do they?
After finishing my ciggie, I lie on the bed. My eyes close and I’m in danger of falling fast asleep. This is something I absolutely must not do, I remind myself. See, if I go to sleep now I will wake at two or three in the morning, which is definitely something I don’t want to do. However, if I manage to stay awake, I could sleep until six or seven American time, which would be great. After all, tomorrow night will be a long old night. Those night flights are a killer. I’m dreading it already.
The phone rings and Amy is wondering what I’m up to.
‘Not much,’ I tell her. ‘I’m thinking of maybe just wandering around the Prudential Centre ’cos it’s bitter out there. Then I’ll go downstairs for a bit of a sauna and swim and then I dunno . . . are you going out for something to eat?’
‘I rang some of the others and they say they’re just taking it easy.’
‘Taking it easy? The boring sods. I can’t understand people who come to America to stay in their room watching telly. You can do that at home.’
‘I know,’ Amy agrees. ‘Well, let’s say we meet at seven?’
‘Okey dokey.’
Right. First things first. I take off my uniform and fling it on the floor and then head into my huge en-suite and run a hot bubble bath. I had thought of going downstairs to the leisure centre but my stomach feels kind of bloated after the flight and to be honest, I’d feel a bit self-conscious wandering around in my bikini. Suppose I met the captain in the jacuzzi and had to make small talk with him with only a few bubbles between our bare skin and us? Don’t laugh – it’s happened before!
I lie in the bath soaking my tired feet and almost regret that I’ve arranged to meet Amy now. The hot water just makes me feel sleepy. What I’d love now is a nice glass of red wine and maybe a video. I could watch a video in my room. I must see what films they’re offering and I don’t mean the XXXrated ones. I mean, who watches them anyway?
Speaking of X-rated videos, wait ’til I tell you about one overnight I had in Amsterdam. I couldn’t for the life of me get to sleep, so I decided to watch some TV. I couldn’t get the TV/video to work and by mistake (I swear to God) I ended up playing a graphic porn film. I was shocked out of my mind by what I saw and believe me; I didn’t come down in yesterday’s shower. But seriously, how do people really do this yeuch stuff to each other? Anyway once I’d got over my initial shock, I rang reception immediately and asked the porter to come up and help me switch the film off. You see, I wanted to let them know there and then that the porn film was a mistake, because I didn’t want to be arguing the matter of payment in the morning in front of my fellow pilots and cabin crew.
The young porter came upstairs and I tried to explain what had happened. I pointed to the TV screen and said ‘This is a mistake. I do not want to watch this.’ The porter turned to the TV screen and we both looked mortified to see two women and a man er . . . well basically I don’t want to go into it too much, but none were wearing clothes and there was no real ‘acting’ going on if you know what I mean.
The porter didn’t bat an eyelid and said he would get someone to fix it straight away, and I asked if it could wait until the morning. Frankly I had seen enough and wanted to see no more thank you very much. There was nothing erotic about the three fat white naked bodies I had just seen, complete with tattoos, body piercings, dodgy haircuts and even dodgier accents. Can you believe businessmen entertain themselves by spending money on that crap?
And wouldn’t you feel sorry for the people who make these awful films? I always believe that the, ahem, ‘stars’, are drugged up to their eyeballs anyway.
Speaking of Amsterdam, the last time I was there, my friend insisted we go down to the red light district. It
was really awful with women sitting in shop windows touting for business. Some were just knitting or reading a book or whatever, and you could see into the room.
It was all a bit horrific really. I know the Amsterdam red light district has become a tourist attraction in Holland but it’s depressing to see human beings treated like pieces of meat by lager louts on stag weekends.
I told my friend I couldn’t bear it any longer. It was like being in a zoo only worse. In zoos you’re not allowed touch the animals. Anyway we went off to a club and had a laugh, and then when it was over at 2.00 am, I remember thinking I knew the way back to the hotel.
‘You just follow the canal,’ I told my friend.
Two hours later, at 4.00 am, we ended up back outside the door of the nightclub again. We had basically walked around Amsterdam in a circle. My friend was livid and . . .
My hotel phone rings suddenly, and as there’s conveniently a second phone in the bathroom, I reach over and pick it up.
‘Hey, it’s me.’
‘Adam!’ I’m startled. How the hell did he get my room number?
‘You told me the name of your hotel, remember?’ he laughs. ‘The operator was able to trace it for me.’
I frown. Did I really give Adam the name of my hotel? Oh so I did. I’d forgotten.
‘How’s your head?’
‘Fine, fine.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m in the bath, daydreaming.’
‘Wish I was there.’
‘Um it’s not really big enough for two.’
‘I meant in Boston, you saucy minx.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t help smiling to myself.
‘So, are you just taking it easy? Having a nice early night after last night?’
‘Well no actually I’m not. I almost wish I was though ’cos I’m pretty wrecked but I’m going to wander around the Prudential Centre and do a bit of window-shopping. Then I’m meeting one of the crew for a drink.’
My words are tripping over each other in a hurry and my voice doesn’t really sound like my own. I wish I sounded a little cooler.
‘One of the pilots?’ he asks immediately.
‘Don’t be daft. I’m meeting one of the girls.’
‘I see.’ He sounds relieved. I’m kind of pleased that he wants to know whom I’m going out with. It shows he cares, doesn’t it?
‘Well don’t stay out too late.’
Christ, he sounds a bit like my mum.
‘And be good,’ he adds, in a much softer voice.
I wonder what he’s thinking. Does he think all air hostesses get up to all kinds of wild antics on trips away? Good Lord, if only life were that exciting! It’s funny the way a lot of people perceive cabin crew to be a bit mad, with a man in every airport. God, nothing could be further from the truth. But actually I don’t want to reassure him too much. Keep ’em guessing, that’s what I always say. Never be an open book.
‘Well goodnight so,’ I say because I want to be the first one to get off the phone. I don’t want him thinking I’ve no life, and am hanging on to his every word.
I put down the phone and feel warm inside, even though the bathwater is getting cold and my skin is going all wrinkly. As soon as I step out of the bath, the phone hops again. It’s Amy, wanting to know if I’m ready.
‘Just give me ten minutes,’ I say, before wrapping myself up in a huge fluffy white towel straight off the piping hot towel rail.
I meet Amy in the hotel lobby and she looks an absolute vision with her hair down. As we wander past reception, men openly turn and stare. They can’t help it. She’s typical of most of the cabin crew. They’re mostly tall, very slim and glamorous.
As I’ve said before, there’s a good incentive for remaining slim in this job. You see when you’re doing the safety demonstration, you have to lift your arms high in the air as you show passengers how to buckle their seat belt. The last thing you want is the passengers staring at your stomach while you’re doing this. Seriously though if you had to stand in front of strangers every day with your hands in the air, you’d also think twice before scoffing that extra muffin.
When we leave the warm hotel, the icy temperature attacks the bare skin on our faces. The air is so freezing it numbs the skin. I wrap my scarf tightly around my face so that all that’s showing are my eyes. We head straight for the Prudential Centre. As soon as I get in, I feel a rush of excitement. I have an obsession with American malls.
How do I describe shopping malls in the States? Well, for a start you can’t compare them to our own shopping centres. In Ireland the shopping centres always seem to be packed. There are always people smoking despite the ‘No Smoking’ signs. Young haggard mothers always clip your heels with their trolleys, and young teenage boys in tracksuits stare at you menacingly. In Irish shopping centres, people just seem to hang around. Not so in the States.
The Prudential Centre is so clean you could quite easily eat off the floor. Everybody walking around here is well dressed and the window displays are to die for. The smell of fresh coffee wafts from the various coffee shops and handmade chocolates from the pretty little delicatessens are calling out to me. But I won’t succumb. I am being very self-disciplined.
Amy wants to visit the Warner Bros. shop to get a present for her little nephew’s birthday. I oblige ’cos I’m just a big kid anyway. Seriously though, when I went to Disney World I went on the Peter Pan ride no less than five times and I still wanted to go on one more time. My mother and father put their foot down eventually, saying enough was enough. I was twenty-five at the time.
There are so many cute things to buy at the Warner Bros. shop, and clearly Amy has her heart set on buying half the merchandise. There’s no point me splashing out here though as I’ve no kids, and the chances of me having any in the near future look pretty slim at the moment. If I end up marrying Adam however . . . oh stop it Katie. Aren’t you just jumping the gun a little bit? You’ve only gone on one date with the poor lad. I quickly banish any notion of settling down with Mr Kirrane any time soon, and just hang around waiting for Amy to pay for her purchases. Jet lag is setting in now and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.
Amy comes away from the checkout laden with clothes and toys for her nephew. Lucky little boy. I can’t remember ever having had an auntie who went shopping for me. She says she wants to go back to the hotel to leave the stuff in her room, as she doesn’t want to be carrying it around all night. She’s also forgotten her passport, she tells me.
‘Oh God, you’d better get that,’ I agree heartily.
It’s not like Amy looks particularly young or anything but anyone under fifty gets asked for ID in this city. She runs off and I decide to pop upstairs to have a browse in Banana Republic. I usually pick up something nice in that shop and it’s great ’cos you normally won’t see anyone back in Ireland wearing something you bought there. I pop into a coffee shop, grab a coffee-to-go and head up the escalator. In the Banana Republic shop, the assistant goes ‘How are YOU?’ with such a wide smile that for a split second I’m convinced I must know her. But then I remember that most shop assistants in the USA greet you like this so I just answer ‘fine thanks’ with an equally big smile. I think it’s kind of nice that they’re so cheerful. In Ireland sometimes the shop assistants look at you like they’re doing you a HUGE favour when you ask them to get you your right size.
Mind you I don’t like assistants to be too enthusiastic. Like when they follow you around the shop and stuff. That’s not really on.
I can’t really afford anything here because I only have my overnight allowance with me and I have to have drinking money for tonight and pay for breakfast in the morning. Do you know how expensive breakfast is in the States? Ok, I know they give you huge portions but still.
I can’t go home with nothing though so I get myself some cute underwear and wonder if Adam would like it. God, stop it Katie. Get that man out of your head. He’s obviously got women who’d kill to share his bed. You
gotta be different. See? I’m thinking in an American accent already and I’m not even here three hours. It’s just a habit I have. If I’m in London I start talking with an English accent. Hell, if I meet a Cork person on the street I start singing in a Cork accent!
Very pleased with my new purchases, I wander around a bit more. I’d better not go too far though or Amy won’t be able to find me. I head into a little newsagent to get some Peppermint Patties. Oh I love them so much I’m addicted.
They used to sell Peppermint Patties in Ireland when I was a kid and I loved them. Therefore I was devastated when they were taken off the market. So you can imagine my absolute delight when I first saw them in the supermarket here. I nearly screamed with joy as I stumbled across my favourite childhood treat. Hence any time I’m Stateside I make sure to stock up.
While I’m in the shop giving into my sweet tooth, I pick up People magazine to catch up on all the gossip. I haven’t read anything about Julia Roberts and J-Lo and co. in over a week and am in serious need of a fix. The assistant puts the magazine and chocolates in a bag. It’s great the way they still give you plastic bags here for free.
A tap on my shoulder. It’s Amy. She’s changed her clothes. What is it about cabin crew and clothes? They can never make up their mind about what to wear. I blame the fact that we’re forced to wear a uniform all week. It gets so boring wearing the same old thing day in day out. But at least our uniform is very nice. It’s designer, well-cut and flattering. And at least we don’t have to wear a hat like some other airline crews. I must say I’d feel a bit silly wearing a hat or a flowery skirt.
‘Ok, where will we go?’
‘I’m starving,’ Amy pats her washboard stomach.
‘Let’s go up to the food hall,’ I suggest. ‘So if you fancy Italian, I can always have Chinese. Food halls are just the best invention, aren’t they?’
We make our way to the food hall. Amy really is so thin, I envy her. She’s not scrawny or anything but just has a perfect waist, long legs and slim arms. She’s like a friend of mine, Kerry, who is always ringing me up to go for meals.
Mile High Guy Page 10
