Confessions of a Hostie Read online

  Confessions of a Hostie

  True Stories of an

  International Flight Attendant

  (Vol.1 in the Confessions of a Hostie series)

  Danielle Hugh

  Disclaimer

  The episodes featured in this book describe my experiences working as an international flight crew. To protect confidentiality, not everything I write can be taken as gospel truth. Some parts have been fictionalised, and names, airlines and locations have been changed. I have avoided revealing any information that would put my colleagues in the air at risk and, most importantly, I have disguised myself to such a degree that I should not need to worry for my job, because I don’t want to lose it and work as an ‘earthling’.

  Contents

  the joy that is jetlag

  life is a merry-go-round

  I’d be wanting

  curry in a hurry

  sometimes the greatest experiences are giving something back

  the glamour of being an international flight attendant

  shop till you drop

  home sweet home, but only for a heartbeat

  sometimes not so happy beginnings become happy endings

  i feel like a martini, shaken not stirred

  that’s what friends are for

  the walk of shame

  turning my life around

  ho ho freakin’ ho!

  let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

  these boots are made for walking

  it’s a goodyear

  sick of being sick

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

  there’s not many of the good ones left

  nothing beats good conversation

  here they come!

  lessons in human behaviour

  the bigger they are the harder they fall

  lady godiva rides again

  mai tai madness

  some couples are meant to be together, some are not

  something smells funny

  trying to remember what ‘normal’ means

  in the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight

  doctor, doctor, give me the news …

  i knew he looked familiar

  one year later

  SNEAK PREVIEW OF VOLUME 2

  A SHIN IS THE PERFECT DEVICE FOR FINDING A GLASS COFFEE TABLE IN THE DARK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  When I was eleven I fantasized about being an international hostie. I thought I had some idea about what the lifestyle would be like. I had no idea at all, however after almost 20 years of flying around the world I now have an inkling. Every story I am about to tell is true and every character is based on real people.

  Welcome to a snapshot of my world.

  www.facebook.com/Confessionsofahostie

  the joy that is jetlag

  I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m. Where the hell am I? And, more importantly, am I alone?

  Fumbling, I switch on the bedside lamp. As my eyes adjust to the blinding light I breathe out a sigh of relief – the other side of the bed is empty. My dignity is still intact.

  The room does look familiar, but then all hotel rooms do start looking alike when you’ve stayed in as many as I have. I roll out of bed and slide back the curtains, allowing the bright lights of a city’s skyline to present themselves to me.

  Singapore. That’s right, I’m in Singapore.

  I am unsure if I’m hung-over or still drunk. Jetlag is a strange sensation. Sometimes two glasses of wine have the same effect as a dozen martinis; yet other times a dozen martinis feel like two glasses of wine. I can’t be sure how the glasses of wine will affect me, yet I drink them just the same.

  ‘How do you cope with jetlag?’ people often ask me.

  ‘I don’t,’ I tell them simply.

  I’ve tried every fix I could think of, from staying on my local home-time to drinking a dozen bottles of Evian. But the only thing that remotely seems to work is having those two glasses of wine – and they don’t work at all.

  It’s 2.15 a.m.: this is the worst time of the day for someone to be wide awake. The shops won’t be open for nearly eight more hours, a real coffee is unobtainable for nearly four more hours and the only shows available on TV are either infomercials or in Chinese.

  I decide to console myself with chocolate.

  The only chocolate I find in the room’s mini-bar is a Snickers bar. I don’t really like peanuts. But Chocolate is by far my favourite food group.

  Tiredness, hunger, and jetlag can affect your judgement. It is unwise to sit on pristine white sheets and pick peanuts from a chocolate bar. It is poorer judgement to take an unexpected, but appreciated nap, to wake up lying face down on the wrapper with the half uneaten Snickers bar and the discarded nuts stuck to your face.

  While I plucked out pieces of peanut from my cheek and contemplated my stupidity, I suddenly thought of something else: What will housekeeping think of me when they discover the chocolate stains on the sheets? Oh no, what if they don’t know it is chocolate? By the time I had scrubbed out every last trace of my foolishness from the sheets – and had also left behind a substantial housekeeping tip on the bedside table – it was morning outside. Starbucks will be open soon, I console myself.

  As I walk toward the shower I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  So that’s what I am going to look like in ten years’ time!

  I look away quickly. Damn jetlag.

  * * *

  I can’t get a coffee quick enough. Caffeine is not a drug – it’s a vitamin. Comedian Steven Wright makes a joke about how he first makes an instant coffee just so he has the energy to go ahead and make a regular one.

  I want to laugh at the joke, but I cannot. Not yet. Not until I’ve had my usual double-shot latte.

  As I enter Starbucks, however, my heart sinks, for I discover a twisting and turning queue. How is it even possible for a shop that has only been open for five minutes to have a queue this long? In my state, a five-minute wait for coffee is five minutes too long.

  It is not fair that I have a genuine medical need for coffee, yet I am forced to line up behind all these so-called recreational users. I joke, of course, but I have often thought there should be an express lane for double gold-platinum frequent coffee users like myself.

  Then, suddenly, I realise that the queue is made up of airline crew: some from my airline; some from others, but all airline crew nonetheless. It is amazing how easily you can identify your fellow crew, even when they are out of uniform, and even if they belong to other airlines. There are no neon signs flashing the words ‘crew’, but you just know. Mostly from the ‘I-need-a-damn-coffee-right-now’ look on their face – pretty much the same look I have on my face now.

  I take my first sip of latte delight. ‘Ahhhhhhh!’ I let out a long and orgasmic sigh of ecstasy. I thought Meg Ryan’s fake orgasm scene in ‘When Harry Met Sally’ was quite realistic. My performance is more convincing. Now I can function properly. That first coffee always gives me the energy and the focus to make plans, at least short-term ones – I immediately make plans to have another coffee.

  Later I am catching up with one of my ‘flying’ girlfriends for lunch. Until then, I have enough caffeine running through my veins to do the one thing I do better than anything else – shop.

  Everyone needs a hobby, I’ve been told. Shopping is my hobby.

  life is a merry-go-round

  Mary, one of my flying girlfriends, has a massive problem with booze. And with drugs, as well. If you can drink it, snort it, smoke it or pop it, she’ll take it. She often jokes that she used to have a s
ubstance-abuse problem – and she still does; it’s just that she used to as well.

  Nearly twenty years ago, Mary and I were in the same initial training class. What a beautiful-looking girl she was then. She is still attractive now, but she looks at least ten years older than she really is. Mary is a great girl with a good heart and can be a lot of fun. The trouble is she is totally screwed up.

  When Mary starts partying, she never really stops partying. If most of us have had too much to drink or if we think it’s getting too late, we go home. Not Mary. The more alcohol she drinks, the more alcohol she wants, and this usually causes her to land in trouble, or in someone else’s bed, or both.

  Her full name is Mary Gomez, but most in the company, particularly the boys, simply call her ‘Mary Go-round’, because most have had a ride. A cruel nickname, I know, but also extremely apt, considering that Mary does go round and round, doing the same mistakes over and over and over again.

  The one-night stands and the drugs have taken their toll on her. Poor Mary has had as many therapists as she has had her pseudo-suicide attempts. One of her cry-for-help habits is to get totally wasted, drunk-dial someone and then cry for help in a manic-depressed slurring stupor. That ‘someone’ has been me on a number of occasions, but then almost everyone I know has been on the receiving end of that phone line.

  Mary flies in to Singapore later this morning, and we are catching up for lunch. Luckily I fly out tonight, so an all-day bender is a no-go for me. Mary will surely have a few glasses of wine, if she hasn’t done so already, and then tell me all about the latest guy to dump her.

  I already know that she has been having a fling with one of the guys from work. I know this because Mary has had flings with almost every straight man in the company. Who is the fling of the week – that’s something I don’t know yet. I guess I’ll find out over lunch.

  We meet at a little Indian restaurant not far from the hotel. In hindsight, I wish I had chosen another place. I am flying to India tonight, and I just know I’m on the road to curry overload.

  Mary looks tired and deservedly so after flying in from Europe. She, however, unexpectedly, has a big smile on her face.

  Mary gushes, ‘I’m in love!’

  Dumbfounded, I ask, ‘In love? With whom?’

  ‘Michael Lawson.’

  I know Mike Lawson. If Mary has a male counterpart it would be Mike Lawson. If Mike is not the sleaziest guy in the company already, he is certainly a strong contender of the position. He has even made moves on me, many times too, and I think I almost gave in once, some years ago. Mind you, he is rather handsome, even if he does lack sophistication.

  As we eat our curries she cannot stop gushing about how fantastic he is. Perhaps I am being far too critical, I wonder quietly. Perhaps they are perfect for each other?

  Who am I kidding? It doesn’t have a chance in hell of working out. The relationship will end in Apprehended Violence Orders, daily therapy sessions and copious amounts of booze and drugs. And guess who’ll be called upon to be the understanding, sympathetic friend?

  I look across the table at Mary and smile.

  Airline crew romances are commonplace. Some become couples, some do not. I have ‘earthling’ friends that have told me about their inter-office affairs, so I know that this is reasonably common in their world as well. But being a flight attendant is such a unique job and brings with it a unique lifestyle. We interact with so many different people, and sometimes those like Mary take interaction to a whole other level. Office affairs just can’t compare to what we have going on for us: we could go away with someone for days at a time and not only work together with them, but get a chance to be with them in different countries, to stay in the same hotel, jetlagged and partying.

  And if someone like Mary does decide to have a little onboard romance, it’s not that big of a deal. In a regular nine-to-five job, you are going to have to see that person day in and day out; in our job, there’s a very good chance you may not see that person again for years.

  Some crew, but not all crew, have what I have heard described as ‘Goodyear relationships’: it is all over as soon as the plane’s tires have touched down on the ground back home. What goes on tour stays on tour, as they say.

  I usually try to avoid going out with a fellow flyer. I did have a fling with one colleague some years ago. We tried to keep it a secret, but no one really cared, except for me.

  I am surely not like Mary, but I am not a prude either.

  I just like to be a little more discreet. Also, I like to stick to my principles – at least, most of the time.

  But I can understand why crew members are drawn to together. Someone who spends all his or her time flying around the world requires a very special and understanding spouse. Not everyone can handle their partner, boyfriend or girlfriend being away so often. Moreover, not everyone can handle a partner who returns home jetlagged or tired or sick or just wanting to be left alone.

  When you are seeing someone who doesn’t fly, it can be a difficult thing, asking them to respect your wishes of being a post-trip hermit. When you arrive home you want to say, ‘Hi honey, I have missed you. Now get the hell away from me.’ After all, the task of being all smiles and seeming like the epitome of hospitality elegance for fifteen hours at a stretch on an aircraft will wear anyone out. The last thing you would want to do when you get home is to pretend to be Miss Congeniality. In fact, I usually wrap myself in a (security) blanket for twenty-four hours when I get off work: during this time, I see no one and talk to no one. I barely have the desire or energy to have a monologue with myself, let alone a dialogue with someone else.

  Mike and Mary can share their post-work tiredness with each other, I think to myself. They can share their grief, share their built-up aggression and, finally, share their hatred. They are doomed, of course.

  As Mary tells me about how she and Mike have their next trip together, and as she describes it to sound so romantic, I wrestle to push down the cynicism building up inside me. And although I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that their relationship is a train wreck about to happen, I smile. I give her only replies of support and cheer.

  ‘You look so happy’, I say.

  ‘You are so lucky.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you.’

  As I walk away from the restaurant and a gushing Mary, I know it’s almost time. I have to get ready for work now. I have to put on my uniform and then paste on my fake smile.

  India, here I come.

  I’d be wanting

  The flight is full, full and full. We have just handed out our 747th special vegetarian meal, and my patience is beyond shot: it is shot, buried and already has its headstone covered in overgrowth.

  I feel a tug on my uniform. I have felt hundreds of tugs on my uniform. Most tugs, I simply ignore; some tugs, I manage to pull away from, sufficiently enough to break their grip; a few tugs, however, I cannot shake off no matter how hard I try, for they hang on for their dear life.

  ‘I’d be wanting another Scotch.’ The tug grows more impatient.

  I try really hard to not give in to the temptation to grab this man by the scruff of his neck and scream, ‘I’d be wanting to take your fingers, which are so rudely pulling at the seams of my dress, and place them on a George Foreman grill!’

  I grimace, and then flash him a half-smile, displaying acting skills that should win me an Academy Award, or at the least a nomination. I tell him I will bring him a Scotch soon. I have not even finished my sentence when another tug interrupts me. ‘I’d be wanting …’ another man yells.

  By the end of it, I have promised to serve passengers twenty-four Scotches, fifteen wines, twelve packets of peanuts and a partridge in a pear tree. I hide in the galley, take a deep breath and make myself a cup of tea.

  I just can’t go back out there. Not now. Not yet.

  As I sip my tea and contemplate the horror of stepping back into those fires of hell, the unthinkable occurs: I get my period.

 
; I am not due for several more days, but this job messes with every possible body function. I am not even sure I know what my actual menstrual cycle is anymore – or if I even have a menstrual cycle anymore. What I do know is I need to get to a bathroom. Now.

  It feels as if Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier are fighting inside my stomach, using my uterus as a punching bag. As I sprint to that elusive available toilet, several hands reach out to block my path and to grab my uniform, but I dodge them all with the precision of a professional footballer. One hand almost grabs my arm, but I roll my wrists and follow up with a karate chop that would have made Bruce Lee proud. Ahead of me, a large man is standing in the aisle and although the laws of physics might dictate it impossible for me to pass him, I contort my body around him, passing him without breaking stride. A steely look in my eyes, I make it to the toilet area.

  Thank God! There is a toilet free here. I push open the toilet door with the urgency of a fireman.

  ‘Stay dry. Stay confident’ claim a popular tampon brand. I’m now dry, yes. But confident? The only thing I am confident about is that the next six hours are going to be the longest of my life.

  Flying at 35,000 feet, cramping and sleep-deprived, with craters on my face from falling asleep on peanuts, I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus. Don’t kill someone, don’t kill someone, I keep repeating to myself.

  I was sure that jails and detention centres around the world were full of women that suffered from severe menstrual pain, lack of sleep and jetlag.

  God help the next passenger who gets on my wrong side.

  As I slink back toward the galley, someone grabs me by the arm. ‘I’d be wanting some potato crisps.’

  ‘Don’t kill him, don’t kill him,’ I tell myself again, although I am ready to scratch out his eyes and force them down his own throat.

  He lets go of my arm.

  I take a deep breath and reply, ‘We don’t have crisps, only peanuts.’

  He doesn’t give up. ‘Do you have crackers?’