Confessions of a Hostie (13 page)

The most bizarre relationship story I have heard was about one of our captains. He was having an affair with a woman in one of our layover ports overseas. As he was senior he'd do the same trip all the time. He would pack his bags for the eight-day trip and go away, and spend time with his overseas girlfriend; he would then return home and do it all over again. This apparently went on for years without the wife ever finding out.

Unbeknown to his wife the captain retired, but rather than tell his wife he continued to pack his bag, put on his uniform and kiss her goodbye to return eight days later. He would drive to the airport, slip out of his uniform and then passenger on a flight to see his girlfriend. When he returned he would put his uniform back on.

All was going to plan until there was a tragedy in the family, and the wife rang the company to pass on a message to her husband. The company replied, ‘But he left the company over six months ago.'

One can only imagine how many times she would have slammed the George Foreman grill into his testicles.

I am sure Danny is not the only married man in the company to stay faithful to his wife, but for now I am really enjoying his forthrightness and honesty. We finish our coffees and decide to walk-off the caffeine before heading back to the hotel for some rest.

nothing beats good conversation

Working on a cart with Danny on the flight home is again a joy. As the flight is a night sector, once we have wrapped up the meal service, we turn the lights off and let everyone sleep. Half the crew go off on a break, which thankfully includes Alex. They disappear to the crew-rest area and the others, like myself and Danny, are left on. This must be the night where all the stars are aligned in perfect symmetry as Carolyn is also off on the first break.

‘This is the easiest flight ever,' I think to myself as I draw the galley curtains and take up a seat next to Danny. Apart from the occasional call-bell interruption, Danny and I chat for hours. It feels nice to talk to a man on an intellectual level, rather than a romantic one. Although most of my girlfriends are intelligent, all I can pretty much talk to them about is shopping, guys, shopping and shopping. That is probably of my doing.

The more I listen to Danny, the more attracted I am to him – not just physically, but emotionally.

I wish he had a twin brother.

I actually think about asking him if he did, but then think better of it.

I think Danny knows how much I admire him, but he is so cool about it. I would love to be able to bid for some trips with him, but that would be inappropriate. It is a bit of a shame that straight women and straight men struggle to maintain innocent relationships.

I have several girlfriends who have a gay guy as their best friend, but I don't know of any girl who has a straight man as her best friend. One of my friends, Jackie, is best friends with an outrageous gay guy, Damien. I like Damien, but trouble and Damien go hand in hand. He is a funny man, but some people do take him the wrong way. Damien is actually going to be on my next trip, which should be interesting. It won't be as much fun as working with Danny, but Damien's caustic tongue often has the sting of a stand-up comedian.

That is why I like Danny so much – he is funny but not at the expense of others. Most people who fly are hypercritical. I know I am, and I wish I wasn't so. I notice that Danny is only judgmental of those who are judgmental. He doesn't gossip like most do in the galley. He talks about social issues, about places, about life, and I am enthralled by the conversations I have with him.

I usually wait for most flights to be over, but not this one. When we touchdown, I feel a sense of disappointment, for I know it will be a while before I get to see Danny again. A flight attendant's job is indeed unique because you work with a group of people for a number of days but then you may not see some of them again for years. Some of them, you may never see again. Sometimes that is a good thing, I think as I say goodbye to Alex and Carolyn. Sometimes it is not, I think as I hug Danny.

One of the onboard rituals we go through, particularly at the end of longer trips, is to walk around the aircraft and thank each and every member of crew for that trip. Those we like, we generally kiss. Those we don't, with them we shake hands. I shook hands with Alex and Carolyn. I know I hugged Danny for too long, but it saddens me that spending time with interesting people such as Danny is all too rare.

It is hard to explain, but I feel like I have just ended a relationship: there is a longing for that person's company but also the realisation that they are not going to be there with you.

Get a grip, Danielle!

When we land and after we clear customs, we jump on a company bus that will take us back to our base, where our cars are parked. As everyone gets on the bus, in unison, the phones come out of pockets; then on, what was a quiet environment before turns into a churning conversational sea of hosties trying to speak over each other.

Many listen to the soothing voices of their loved ones, while I listen to my message-bank.

I am not too proud to admit that I have chosen the seat behind Danny. While I pretend to listen to my messages, I eavesdrop on his conversation with his wife. I can't help but feel jealous of her.

I bet she is gorgeous.

I can tell that he is pleased to talk with her. I also come to the unfortunate realisation that the brilliant conversations he has shared with me for the past days are not exclusive to me.

When Danny hangs up, I replay my messages and listen more carefully to them. My first message is from Mary. She has broken up with Mike. Surprise, surprise.

The second message is also from Mary. She and Mike are back together again.

Then, there is a message from my mum, checking that I am feeling OK.

There's another from Mary, telling me to disregard the first message.

There's a message from my bank, politely reminding me that I have missed a credit card repayment.

Then, there's yet another message from Mary. She and Mike have found an apartment and are moving in together.

I am shocked.

Moving in together? I hope their apartment is not on the top floor. Lord help them if it has a balcony.

When we arrive at our work base, most of the crew scatter quicker than a school of fish in barracuda-infested waters. Danny doesn't. He takes the time to turn around to say goodbye, and before he leaves he gives me a little peck on the cheek.

As I drive home, I realise that every song on the radio is a love song. I am not in love with Danny, but I am sad because I am not in love with anyone. Even Mary has found someone.

My life has so many high points, but without someone to share those with, it can be very lonely. I walk onto my apartment, and it just doesn't feel as inviting as it normally is.

Perhaps I am lonelier than I thought I was. Perhaps I am feeling so melancholic because I was sick only a few days ago. Perhaps it is because I am premenstrual.

My stomach is tied in knots. If I had some sort of menstrual regularity, then I should be due in three or four days. With jetlag, sickness, pre-menstrual tension, my actual period, and post-menstrual tension coming one after the other each month, the window of normality in my life can be measured not in days but only in minutes.

here they come!

Every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I seek out a healthy dose of reality from my best friend, Helen. I tell her about Danny and how I miss having someone to share my life with. In turn, she tells me about some of the problems she has to deal with on a daily basis, and I eventually pull my head out of my self-absorbent sand and realise that the grass is not always greener on the other side.

Helen asks, ‘Where's your next trip to?'

I almost feel too embarrassed to say Honolulu.

I just know that will get her into the all-too-familiar ‘Oh, how I wish I could…' speech.

She does.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So is life. Most people, like Helen, would give anything to spend even a few weeks in my shoes. I sometimes lose sight of that.

I pack for my Honolulu trip. I am only there for a day or so, and the packing is easy: swimming costume, sun-screen, sunglasses, an outfit for a night out, my Macy's shopping card. Also, I know my routine before I even get there: I will have a nap, wake up, go to Waikiki beach for a swim and some sun, then go to the Ala Moana shopping centre.

Just before I zip up my wheelie-bag, I check the internet for the Honolulu weather forecast. It seems perfect, just like it always is when I am there. I double-check my choice of clothes for the trip and confidently close my wheelie-bag again, knowing that I have packed well and even have room to bring home a Macy's purchase or two.

We are working on a mid-sized aircraft, a 767, and even though there are only seven of us working on the trip, it is still a rarity to be with a crew where you know everybody. Apart from Damien, I don't know the others very well, but the boss, Geoff, I remember as an experienced and a straight-down-the-line type of guy. The crew seems great though, so all is good so far, except for the fact that I just had a visit from ‘Auntie Flo'. At least, I have got my period before I got onto the aircraft, thus giving me time to prepare myself, even if my internals do feel like they are tumbling in a washing machine.

Honolulu flights are generally hard work. The planes are usually full of holiday-makers, so booze flows freely and, as many aren't regular flyers, passenger expectations are fairly high. I find that those who travel regularly know how to behave and what to expect on a flight. With them, drama happens only if they don't get what they are used to. However, the passengers who only travel once every blue moon have no idea of what really goes on and want everything, and want it yesterday.

Both sectors to and from Honolulu are listed as full. I am allocated to work on a cart with Damien in cattle class – I would much rather be working up the front. Considering that work positions are chosen based on seniority of positions, and both Damien and I are the most junior crew on this flight, we don't have a say in where we work.

Damien and I stand on opposite sides of the aisle, chatting as we await the throng of holiday-makers to board. We talk about our mutual friend Jackie. As I had suspected, she is still single. I have heard the term ‘fag hag' being used frequently, both in the airline industry and outside. A fag hag is a girl who associates predominately with gay men. Jackie tends to spend most of her time with Damien and his gay friends. They are classy men, dress immaculately, indulge in the finer things in life and are highly critical of those who don't. No straight guy can measure up to their lofty standards, and Jackie has adopted the same expectations. She is a stunning woman and attracts more than her fair share of admirers, but picks holes in every man she ever meets. A man who dates Jackie must be prepared to be a duck in a shooting gallery, and most are not.

Damien does tell me that Jackie did have a date with a passenger she met on a recent flight. Damien was also onboard then. In Damien's words, ‘He was quite nice, but was wearing the most hideous shirt. Really, who wears shirts with diagonal stripes these days?'

I like Damien, but he can be very caustic and condescending. Lord help you if you get on his bad side. Damien speaks out what most of us think, and that's what gets him into trouble. He will pick holes in everyone and everything, and tell people about it too. Thankfully he doesn't do it to me.

Having said that, I do know he has a really good side to him: I have seen him sit down during his break with a little old lady who was fearful of flying. He held her hand and reassured her that everything was OK.

Now, as we watch the first group of passengers walking up the aisle, towards us, he turns to me, ‘Oh God, here they come, and this is going to be hideous'.

It becomes quickly apparent to me that this is going to be no ordinary flight. The first twenty or so passengers are middle-aged to elderly women, each travelling on their own, each frowning and each standing in the aisle and waving her arms frantically to get our attention.

Oh great. There must be a cat owner's convention in Hawaii.

I am quite sufficient at handling one boarding problem at a time, but not twenty. Rather than talk individually to a mob of bitter and twisted single, older women who are complaining about the same thing, I decide to nip it in the bud and talk out loud to all of them. Hopefully anyone else queued up and ready to complain listens as well.

‘May I have your attention everyone? This is a full flight, so if anyone has a seating issue, we cannot change your seat during the boarding process. If you could take your assigned seat, we will verify your check-in sequence number and deal with the issue after take-off. Thank you.'

Damien has heard (and thoroughly agreed with) what I have announced and tells several cat owners on his side, ‘You heard her, luvee. Sit down.'

Most of the cat owners reluctantly sit down. One however marches toward me with fire flaring from her nostrils.

She snarls condescendingly, ‘If I cannot have an aisle seat, then I need to get off this plane!'

I don't get paid enough to deal with loonies like this, so I don't argue with her and instruct her to grab her in-cabin bags and come with me to the front door.

She probably didn't think I was going to react this way, and although I can't really tell if she is bluffing, I make my way with her against the flow of boarding passengers toward the front door. A huge Polynesian man is blocking our path, so I slide into a vacant seat to let him pass. He reeks of alcohol, but it is hard to tell if that's why he is staggering through the cabin; he is so large that he hits every seat on his way through anyway.

I step into the aisle again and feel like a salmon swimming upstream as I wiggle my way through the oncoming passengers. I finally get my queen-of-the-cat-owners to the front door, where our boss Geoff is doing the boarding.