Confessions of a Hostie (10 page)

I trudge through the snow again until I finally find a shoe shop that suits my needs. It has beautiful shoes, is reasonably priced and has the biggest heaters I have ever seen in a shop. I take off my leaking sneakers and my soaking Christmas socks and sit down close to one of the heaters. With a shop-assistant looking curiously at me, I lift my legs up and dangle my naked blue toes in front of the heater.

I turn to the disapproving shop-assistant, ‘It's alright, I am going to buy some boots, and I will take any pair of socks you bring to me as long as they don't have the words ‘Ho Ho Ho' written on them!'

I try on a gorgeous pair of black boots that seem to run right up to my armpits.

The more they cover my nana-pants, the better. ‘I'll take them,' I tell the assistant.

I spend another half an hour thawing-out in front of the heater, before I slip on a pair of fresh socks and my new boots. With renewed vigour I venture back out into the sub-zero torment. I find a supermarket and decide to grab as many supplies as I can carry, so that I don't have to leave the hotel for the next two days.

Most German supermarkets have more bottles of wine than anything else, so I take my time and choose a nice bottle of French wine. My carry-basket bulging with enough supplies to last me the whole of winter, I trudge through the sleet and snow and make my way back towards the hotel. I find that my new boots are fantastically warm and fully waterproof. You just can't beat leather!

However, the problem with wearing new leather soles is that they are smoother than a baby's bottom, and it feels as if I were walking on what is effectively a sludgy ice-skating rink with freshly waxed mini-skis on my feet. As I concentrate hard on each and every little pigeon-step I am taking, I suddenly remember that I am meeting Brad for dinner tonight. I also remember that I don't have any clean underwear.

I am so cold and desperate to get back to the hotel that I even contemplate washing the underwear I have already worn and reusing it.

Here I am trying to impress a new guy and I can't even make the effort to get some nice underwear? No, I don't need nice underwear, I decide. What I need is sexy underwear.

‘Damn it,' I turn around.

I hope Brad appreciates all the effort I am putting in for him.

it's a goodyear

Brad and I have a lovely dinner at the hotel. Conversation flows effortlessly. He even tells me that he really likes my new boots.

If he likes my boots, then he is going to love my red lacy lingerie.

I do however take note that he is wearing the same clothes as the night before. This bothers me and yet intrigues me at the same time.

He had a suitcase in his room, didn't he? What the hell is in it?

We both still seem to be sexually uncomfortable and don't talk about the night before or about the 2:15 a.m. ‘sleeping pill' he gave me. We drink some more, and then it is time to get the bill.

Although I like to think of myself as a modern woman, I am taken aback when Brad asks for two separate bills. The waiter frowns, and so do I.

Brad finally realises the situation and tells the waiter, ‘It's OK. One bill is fine.'

Thank goodness, I think.

Brad turns to me, ‘I'll sign for it in my room, and you can pay me your half of it later.'

‘Later? Later! You are such a bloody techie. I made every fantasy of yours come true last night, and you won't even pay for one lousy dinner!' I want to scream.

I don't even care that I am paying half (maybe I will, maybe I won't), but just the fact that he didn't offer to pay it all himself offends me.

I now know he is cheap, and I am not even sure if he is wearing clean underwear. At this point my sex-urge is almost hitting rock-bottom, and I regret spending half of my allowance on new lingerie.

Totally unaware about how upset I am, he looks across the table at me and asks if I would like to join him in his room for a drink.

He smiles, ‘I bought a nice bottle of wine.'

Perhaps I misjudged him? Perhaps it has been very long since he has been out on a date and he has forgotten how to be a gentleman? Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt?

Even so, I decide to show some dominance, some strength.

‘No. Bring the wine to
my
room.'

I get up from the table and whisper, ‘Room 216. See you there in five minutes,' then confidently leave.

Five minutes later, there is a knock on my door, and I let Brad and his bottle of good wine in. He hands the bottle to me, which in itself is a no-no. Maybe I have read too many romance novels, but my idea of a strong, passionate man is one who walks through the door, heads straight to the bottle opener, opens the wine and pours it while saying, ‘Here's looking at you, kid.'

As I take the wine, I glance at the label. I remember seeing this wine at the supermarket earlier. I also remember that it was being promoted there with the all-enticing sales pitch of ‘The cheapest wine in Europe.'

‘There are so many beautiful wines in this part of the world, and most are not expensive. Who on earth would buy a bottle of Portuguese paint stripper for less than two Euros?' I had asked myself then. I've got my answer now. Brad, that's who.

I open my bottle of French and guzzle it. Although he is as cheap as the wine he has bought, he is making an effort to be romantic. He sits next to me on the bed, and with every sip of the wine he becomes increasingly attentive. He comments again on my new black boots.

By the time we have finished my good wine and some of his paint stripper, I am still wearing my boots and my expensive lingerie. But that's all I'm wearing. With great relief, I discover that Brad had indeed changed his underwear. Same ugly style, same ugly brand, but a different ugly colour.

Thank God he's changed it at least.

By the time my new boots come off, we are exhausted and staring at the ceiling in contented bliss. I begin to doze off, but I am aware that he is still awake. I catch him looking at the bedside clock.

‘Are you OK?' I lethargically ask.

‘There is a replay of the last F1 GP in ten minutes.'

‘What's a F1 GP?'

‘Formula One Grand Prix. You know, motor racing.'

The techies use more acronyms than we do. On a trip, I once made the mistake of agreeing to go to dinner with three techies. As the other crew failed to turn up I joined the pilots as the sole cabin representative. They were polite and included me in their conversations for the first five minutes, but once one of them started talking about aircrafts, the acronyms began to flow. They spent another five minutes explaining their techie-talk, but after a while they forgot that I was even at the dinner table. I did say that I made the mistake ‘once'. I have never made it again.

I have found that pilots are fine if you talk to them one on one, but once you put two or more pilots together, it might feel like watching a foreign film without subtitles.

Brad hasn't mentioned the words ‘vector' or ‘V2' once over the past two days, so I must cut him some slack. Still, lying in bed with a beautiful woman who you have known for only two days and wanting to watch car racing – that's just wrong.

I want to say sternly, ‘Well then, you have ten minutes to get out and watch it back in your room.' But I decide to be more diplomatic.

‘I am so tired. You've worn me out! Why don't you watch it in your room? It is OK. There is no need to feel obligated to stay. We can catch up in the morning.'

I don't need to tell him twice as he is out of my bed before I have finished speaking. He at least has the decency to kiss me goodbye.

The next morning, I wait for him to call me. He doesn't call. I am now caught in the horrible dilemma of ‘Should I call?' or ‘Should I wait?'.

I want to call him, but then don't want him to see me as desperate or needy.

I can't remember who said who was going to call whom last night. All I can remember is we said we would see each other in the morning. It is almost midday. We go to work tonight, so maybe he is sleeping late?

The hotel gives us an automatic wake-up call before checking out. Ironically, the cabin crew are called an hour before we need to leave the hotel while the tech-crew only get 45 minutes notice. The company has made the automatic realisation that pilots don't need as much time to get ready as us hosties.

For Brad, ten minutes would be enough to get dressed and ready. He could use the extra thirty-five minutes to watch car racing.

It is a long sector tonight, so most crew will try and get a few hours sleep prior. As for Brad's routine, who knows?

What if he is thinking the same thing as I am, I suddenly wonder. Maybe he is expecting a call from me? Should I leave a note under his door? Should I leave a message for him on the phone?

Most hotels let you leave someone a voice message without having their phone ringing. The message light flashes, and the guest can then retrieve their messages when they are awake.

Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll leave a voice message.

I choose my words carefully: ‘Hi Brad, it's Danielle. I am not sure if we are catching up today. It is around midday and I should be in my room until about two. Call me if you can. Otherwise I will see you at sign-on.'

This is so awkward. I hate that I am at Brad's beck and call. I hate that he is the one with all the control. I hate this early stage of a relationship.

Relationship? What relationship? We've slept together twice – that's not a relationship.

I remember having a few drinks with some of my girlfriends and discussing our two favourite subjects apart from shopping: guys and relationships. It was pointed out that a guy will sleep with you the first time out of curiosity. If he sleeps with you again it is because he likes you. If he comes back for a third time that is a relationship.

The phone rings.

‘Hello, this is Danielle,' I say in my sexiest voice.

It is Brad. ‘Hi. I am going to get some sleep before call. How about we meet downstairs for a coffee?'

‘OK,'I reply.

He says, ‘Ten minutes?'

‘Sure.'

Why did I agree to ten minutes? Although I am already showered I need at least half an hour to get ready. He has got me wrapped around his little finger, and he knows it.

When he says ‘meet downstairs', does that mean we are having a coffee in the hotel or are we going into town? Do I need to wear every layer of clothing again?

I decide to show some strength, again. When I get to the foyer, I will insist that we have coffee here at the hotel. I manage to get ready within the ten minutes, but deliberately delay leaving my room for a few more minutes. Then, I walk down to the foyer with confidence.

He is not dressed to go to the Arctic circle, so it is obvious that he didn't intend to leave the warm confines of our hotel. It is also obvious that he is more vulgar than I ever imagined, as he is wearing the same clothes he did for the last two days.

What the hell
does
he have in his suitcase?

We sit down in the hotel's restaurant, which is the only place to get coffee in the complex. We indulge in some idle chit-chat before he drops the bombshell. He tells me something so unexpected, so shocking and so disturbing. He tells me something that is worse than saying, ‘I am sorry, but I have to tell you that I am married', or even ‘I have a girlfriend back home'. He tells me something that is as terrible as saying ‘I am gay.'

He looks at me and says those horrid words that no girl wants to hear, ‘I'd like to let you know that I have only recently ended a long-term relationship, and I am not looking for anything serious at the moment.'

You condescending pig! Did I ever tell you that I was after a serious relationship? What gives you the right to sit in front of me, in the same clothes that you have worn for three days straight (and possibly more) and treat me like a piece of dirt? You've had your fun for a couple of days, so now you decide to tell me that you are not looking for anything serious? You've made me feel cheap, and you've made me feel like a whore. So this is what you guys refer to as a ‘Goodyear relationship'. Now, you'll be able to brag to all your techie friends about the good-looking hostie with the big boots and the sexy red lingerie that you had a fling with in Frankfurt.

I would have liked to tell him all this. Instead, I roll over like a puppy and say, ‘That's OK. I am not looking for anything serious either. I'll give you my number on the plane, and if you want to see me when we get home then you can.'

I know that the chances of him calling me are about the same as me doing a trip on Christmas day by choice, but I still want to be polite and try to end things on a civil note.

And you never know, he might just call.

The day I start fully believing my own justifications is the day I will ask Mary for her therapist's phone number.

sick of being sick

Moving on, from a Goodyear to a New Year. January one, a new year, a new beginning.

But first, I must get some sleep. I spent another New Year's Eve in the air and have just returned home. I have worked through the night: I am exhausted, jetlagged and have a runny nose.

God, please don't let me start off the New Year with a cold.

I fall into my bed, unshowered and without the strength to even slip on my pyjamas. I wake up a day later, blow my nose, cry out ‘God, I feel like I am going to die' and go back to sleep.

Could there be a more defining moment of one's depressing solitary existence than when you are feeling so sick and so tired that you don't have the energy to call someone for help?

If jetlag, fatigue and hypoxia (the lack of oxygen) are not enough to contend with, the fact that I am one day on the equator, wiping sweat from my brow, and the next day near the Arctic, snapping frozen icicles off my eyebrows, is something my body cannot cope with sometimes. Today is one of those sometimes.