Confessions of a Hostie (11 page)

When I do muster the energy to get out of bed, I make my way to the shower.

When you spend as much time in the air as I do, your body is in a constant state of dehydration, regardless of how much water you drink. I drink bucket-loads. Sometimes my skin becomes so dry that I place a massive dab of moisturiser on it, and it disappears before I even have a chance to rub it in.

Flying does horrific things to your internals even when you are well. When you are not well things just get worse. If I get even the least bit run down, I often get crusty formations inside my nose. Everyone needs to pick their nose at some point, but since I started flying I've had to contend with so a lot more than boogers. Most instances, especially where blood is concerned, are too gross to talk about.

Working on an aircraft is a stressful environment for the body, and sometimes the body reacts. There is a lack of studies that expose how one's health is affected by spending thousands of hours in a pressurised tube at over 30,000 feet above the ground. Working in the cabin is akin to working on the top of a mountain. The air in the cabin is rarefied, and in addition to that, we are breathed on, coughed on and sometimes spat on by passengers from all corners of the globe, who are often in varying degrees of health themselves. If a bug enters the cabin there is a big chance it will only leave when it has attached itself to someone else.

Hygiene is a big issue with crew. It doesn't matter how many times you wash your hands or try to avoid touching or breathing someone else's germs, it is almost impossible to avoid infections. Unless the company dresses us in surgical gloves and masks and lets us carry around our own oxygen supply, getting the odd bug is always going to happen in the closed work-environment of an aircraft.

Additionally, a plane travels at great speed above the clouds. We are obviously closer to the sun than normal, and one doesn't have to be Einstein to work out that we're constantly exposed to high radiation levels.

No wonder I get sick so often.

I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman, but right now I will swallow my pride, if indeed I could swallow. I call the one person in the world who can care for me and make me feel better: my mum.

She comes over immediately. Funnily enough, while she is feeding me her cure-all chicken soup, she says, ‘Why don't you look at settling down? Surely there's a pilot out there who would appreciate a lovely girl like you?'

I sit up a little and speak from the heart, ‘Mum, I appreciate your advice, but I am not interested in a pilot.'

Then she starts with the ‘You are not getting any younger' speech.

Most things in life are a compromise. So, I tolerate my mum's nagging while she nurses me back to some semblance of human functionality.

I love my mum. In spite of all the nagging and advising, she is truly the greatest.

I drag myself to my local doctor. I am there so often that we are on a first-name basis. I know that if I don't take antibiotics, it will take me a week to get better; if I do take them, it will take me seven days. More important than the antibiotics is the medical certificate I need to show the company to prove my condition.

If one was to ask any airline company if their employees are more susceptible to health problems than those people working on the ground, the company would deny it with all their will, yet we are allotted more annual sick days than any other job I know. Is that a contradiction or a cover-up? Either way, I need those sick-leave days to recover from the stresses and strains my body endures.

Although my body screams out for rest often, I push the envelope and try to get back to work as soon as I can. That is because I love my job, and usually can't wait to go to work. Even now, I am trying my hardest to recover because I don't want to lose my next trip. It is to Narita, Japan, and my friend Danny is on the crew. If anyone can make me feel better, particularly emotionally, he can.

Soon, I am on the road to recovery. I'm almost good to go again and consider going on the Narita trip after all. Just to make sure that I truly am well enough –, which really means asking myself, ‘Do I really want to do the trip?' – I turn on my computer and check the crew list for the flight. These days we hosties can do almost everything online, from bidding for trips to doing courses and, importantly, checking who is coming along on our flights. I see that Danny Weily's name is still listed, but I also notice that the boss onboard is Carolyn Burkett. When Carolyn Burkett's name is ever mentioned, the words ‘Get a life' are usually somewhere in the same sentence. She is often referred to as ‘the pot-hole', a nickname that some of the crew have given her, because everyone tries to avoid her.

Like the others, I don't have Carolyn on my Christmas card list, but I do love working with Danny. I wrestle with my conscience and my health, and soon tip the scales in favour of Danny.

I'm off to Narita! And I haven't been to Japan for ages.

Knowing it is going to be Frankfurt-like freezing in Japan, I pack my suitcase accordingly.

No wheelie-bag this time around. No fuschia gloves or grandma-pants either.

I have some beautiful clothes in the winter wardrobe section of my closet and relish the opportunity to choose warm clothes that are functional as well as fashionable. I drive to work totally satisfied that I have packed to perfection and am doing a trip I really want to do.

Although it has been over a year since I have seen Danny, it feels like it was only yesterday. It is so good to see him, and we agree to try and work together in the cabin. Danny and I are similar seniority so if we work down the back of the aircraft, we know we should be able to work together. This will also keep us as far away as possible from Ms. Pothole.

Carolyn's briefings are painfully long. Just as passengers reveal their true selves during the boarding process, our bosses reveal their true selves during briefings: the more anal the boss, the longer and more detailed the briefing usually is.

With the world's longest briefing thankfully behind us, we finally get on the aircraft. Danny is so funny onboard. Nothing is a hassle when I'm with him, and he is as easygoing with the passengers as he is with fellow crew. When we start the meal service, we have the usual beef or chicken choice, but Danny calls the chicken everything from ‘chicken-ooh-la-la' to ‘Kentucky-Fried Chicken Japanese-style'. He has so much fun with the passengers, and they enjoy the interaction as much as Danny does. Sometimes crew get so caught up in getting the service done as quickly as possible that they forget how much fun can be had in the process.

Even when I complain about one of my overly demanding passengers, Danny only laughs and says, ‘She is only putting the fun back into dys
fun
ctional.'

I wish I could do every trip with a guy like Danny.

Danny is married with two kids. He rarely talks about his home life. I guess he has so much on his plate back home that he uses every second of his time away to enjoy himself.

All flight attendants have their own problems, their own demons. The same goes for passengers, of course. Most people tell you their problems, but not Danny.

As Danny says, ‘A positive attitude may not solve all problems, but it annoys enough people to make it worth the effort.' It is truly refreshing to work with someone with an optimistic outlook.

As positive an attitude as Danny has, it is barely enough to ward off our manager's misery. Carolyn is what I call a ‘career hostie': she should have chosen a career in corporate banking yet somehow ended up becoming a flight attendant. I guess she began flying with the intention of balancing her innate serious nature with an intention to have fun, travel and meet guys. I deduce that the fun and guys just never worked out for her.

As relationship after relationship failed, and she spent more time on her own, she gravitated toward the only thing she still had left in her life, her career. Carolyn picks on the smallest of things usually. On this trip, that thing happens to be the smallest woman – not me, thankfully, but an equally painful girl called Alex.

Although is the first time I am working with Alex, she feels comfortable enough to complain to me about everyone and everything, particularly about Carolyn. Danny has noticed Alex's negativity as well.

In his analysis and understanding of Alex, Danny shows to me a side of himself that I haven't really noticed before. As he explains, ‘People like Alex have low self-esteem, and by running others down, she misguidedly feels better about herself.'Although Alex is not exactly like Carolyn, she does see in herself some of the same traits she hates in Carolyn, and therefore complains about the latter.

This intellectual, almost philosophical, side to Danny becomes more obvious as we carry on with the meal service.

On most flights we have 50-50 meal choices loaded at the back of the aircraft. Unless there is some sort of miracle, we always get to a point where some people are going to miss out on a meal choice – and boy do these people get angry at not getting the meal they wanted. I've been to so many lavish and properly organised weddings that had a 50-50 meal choice and missed out on my choice. Yet, these people, with a ticket that costs less than what I paid for my last pair of shoes, feel they have been personally victimised if we cannot offer them the beef choice.

Danny teaches me an ingenious little trick on this flight to deal with such passengers. When we offer a woman a chicken meal, instead of the beef meal she prefers, she rolls her eyes and makes faces because we have not given her the choice of meal she wanted. You could have sworn that we had just asked her to donate a kidney.

'I am so sorry, ma'am,' Danny jumped in, noticing that I was getting frustrated with the woman's drama. ‘We have been unable to give you your choice of meal. It is obvious that this upsets you, so this is what I can do. Being in the air, it is impossible for us to conjure up a hot meal for you; however, they do load a meal for all crew members, and though it is not much – we only get a sandwich – I'd be more than happy to give you my meal if that means you will be satisfied.'

Much to my surprise and horror this woman accepted Danny's offer and was prepared to take his sandwich.

Danny smiled and politely said, ‘Here's your tray. I will return in a moment with the sandwich.'

When we got back to the galley I was furious.

I turned to Danny, ‘I know we get loaded a hot meal for ourselves, but how could you reward that woman by giving away your crew snack?'

Danny just smiled and said, ‘Watch this.'

He unwrapped his sandwich and removed all the filling from it, with the exception of a pickle and some sprouts, before wrapping it back up. He took the almost-empty sandwich back again to the cabin and handed it to the woman. ‘I am sorry that this is not much, but they don't feed the crew as well as they feed the passengers.'

When we got back to the galley, he grinned mischievously at me. ‘You see, that is the art of diplomacy – telling someone they can go to hell in such a way they think they'll enjoy the trip there.'

turning japanese, i think i'm turning japanese, i really think so

We arrive in Narita early in the morning and on time. It is cold, but, unlike my last trip to Frankfurt, the skies are clear and there is little wind. There has been snow overnight and the village looks beautiful. Narita is Tokyo's main international airport and is only an hour away by fast-train from downtown Tokyo. It was originally a small farming community, but once the airport had been built, Narita was transformed into a bustling metropolis of hotels and shopping centres. Although it still retains the traditional Japanese architecture and aspects of its humble beginnings, it is now a major destination for transiting European travellers and airline crew.

At any given time there are dozens of different airlines crews staying in Narita, so the village specifically caters to them. Richard Branson has his own pub dedicated to his Virgin crew, called the Barg-In. It was meant to be called the Virg-In, but the locals had trouble pronouncing the V. There is another bar called Flyers along with a number of karaoke bars, specifically aimed at drunken crew with bad singing voices. The most infamous of these karaoke joints is The Truck – why it is called that is anybody's guess. The Truck is made up of two old shipping containers joined together with a bar at one end and a stage with a microphone at the other. It is located in the middle of nowhere, and has portable toilets, without lockable doors, placed outside it. Sounds gross? It is. But it also a lot of fun.

I haven't been to The Truck for years, if indeed it still exists in Narita. I won't be finding out on this trip, although I am sure the crew will end up partying somewhere tonight.

For now I need some sleep. Then, I plan to catch up with Danny for lunch and the rest of the crew later. The standard sentence that we crew exchange in hotel lobbies, when given our room keys is, ‘See you for drinks at six.'

I have a sensational sleeping-pill induced nap before my alarm rings, and then I get ready to go downstairs to meet Danny. I know he likes to walk a lot, so I have worn my most comfortable boots – the pair also happens to be one of my favourites. I think I even wore these boots on the Rome trip I did with Danny years ago.

If these boots can handle the cobblestones of Rome, then Narita is going to be a cinch. I head downstairs, singing the words to Nancy Sinatra's ‘These boots are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do…'

Danny and I get some lunch first. We go to a little crew haunt called the Student Noodle. I have never actually seen a student there though. It satisfies every crew dining criteria. It is clean, the food is good and it is cheap.

Every crew that ever ventures into Narita has the same thing for starters: gyozas. Danny calls them little dumplings of joy.

I order six, Danny orders a dozen. He would like to order more, but shows restraint as plans on having a gyoza-fest later again that night. The gyozas run down our throats faster than a Tokyo bullet-train. Then, we have ramen, which is a soup-and-noodle dish.