Confessions of a Hostie Page 3
My guess turns out to be correct. This guy is indeed a pesky, drunken passenger. When we walk up to him to serve him his meal, he clumsily spills a glass of red wine and then leaves his seat to go to the toilet. On his return he proceeds to eat, and then throw up all over himself. In my experience, the number of red wine drinkers who throw up outweigh those who drink white wine – or maybe it seems this way because red is more apparent than white? In any case, my drunken-vomiting-mess-of-a-passenger mumbles something about how I had to clean him up and then passes out. I move those around him to other seats and return to see the man still passed out, with vomit dribbling down his chin.
I discover from our passenger list that this guy is a manager of a rather large company. I consider taking a photograph of him; I could send it to his company with the caption: ‘This is how your manager behaves on flights.’
With utter disdain for the man, I grab a blanket and throw it over him, and then spray the whole area with disinfectant. As gross as he is, at least he is comatose now and is resting in an upright position. I’ve faced similar situations where people have fallen asleep on their backs, and we’ve had to constantly monitor them for fear that they may choke on their own vomit. It is very hard to be compassionate towards someone who has self-inflicted afflictions. And who has abused the crew and made our life a misery in the process. However, we are professionals, and we must do what we must do. Besides, the paperwork I’ll have to do if this man dies on me is a complete nightmare.
I walk down the aisle, and another passenger directs my attention to a nearby toilet, the same toilet my now comatose man had visited earlier. The passenger points to a little surprise on the bulkhead and floor outside the toilet. The Indian man had not actually made it to the toilet but had thrown up all over the wall and floor before thoughtfully returning to his seat and deciding to share the contents of his stomach with those around him.
It takes me nearly an hour to clean up his vomit from around the toilet area. It takes me longer to recover from the horror.
The perpetrator sleeps through my cleaning hell, and when he does finally wake he presses the call button. With dried vomit on his face he demands, ‘Clean me up.’
My reply is not something I can repeat here.
I am constantly baffled at how rude and ignorant some people can become on an aircraft. I don’t know of anyone who enjoys rudeness. I also don’t know of any crew member who likes to be touched by passengers (whilst in the cabin, at least). Thank goodness I don’t suffer from aphenphosmphobia, which is a fear of being touched, particularly by a stranger. Even so, I am still not fond of being touched by strangers, especially if it is avoidable.
When I’m in a dress shop, and that does happen a lot, I have never gone up to a sales assistant and tapped them on the shoulder, let alone poked or prodded them to get their attention. Yet some people think it their given right to sit in an aircraft seat and do everything from grabbing the nearest flight attendant on the arm to tapping them on their backs.
No, we are not completely deaf. If we are close enough to touch, we are obviously close enough to be talked to.
Once, a woman, whom I knew spoke English, poked me so hard I shrieked out in pain. Then, I lost my cool.
‘You might think you have the right to jab your finger knuckle deep into my ribs, but sweetheart (a word I only ever use when I am angry), I’ve got news for you! There are better ways to get my attention, like a polite ‘excuse me’ or even pressing the call bell.’
Did I find out what she wanted?
No.
After years of being treated like a human pin-cushion by passengers, I’ve had enough. I make compensation only for cultural ignorance or being accidentally touched, but apart from that, I draw the line.
One male colleague, frustrated with this whole prodding-and-touching routine, decided to give it back to his offenders. Whatever a passenger does to him, he does back, and he does it back twice as hard.
When they stare back at him with an alarmed expression he responds, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t like that either?’
I’ve even heard of some flight attendants threatening these overly touchy-feely passengers with arrest or being met by airport security once they land. In some cases, the crew overreact a little; in most cases, they are justified. In all fairness, most passengers are polite and respectful, but the ones who lack basic manners are no longer tolerated. If I wanted to be touched all the time and have strangers put their hands all over me, I would work in a strip club, and would probably get big tips for letting that happen.
While I deliberate changing professions, another girl on the crew tells me something that makes all my current suffering fade to insignificance. She says something so profound and so enlightening that it reaffirms my decision to become a hostie.
‘Did you realise that the Great Singapore Sale is starting today?’
The thought of going to the biggest sale in what is already a shopping Mecca puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
This is not your everyday run-of-the-mill Singapore sale, after all. This is the Great Singapore Sale.
shop till you drop
Like most girls, I love to shop. Unlike most girls, I have the chance to go to exotic locations and only enough time to do little else but shop.
I’ve always been a shop-till-you-drop style of girl, but when I first started flying, shopping initially took a back seat (well, more like a side seat really) to other things, particularly playing tourist. I was just so excited to visit all these different countries and explore their sights, the different cultures, the cuisines and the shops. But after seeing Singapore for 146 times, there are only so many times you can play tourist.
I don’t really need an excuse to shop. I choose to shop over doing almost anything else even in mega-touristy places like Europe. Shopping can feel so damn good – a much-deserved relief from limited slip times, jetlag and sleep deprivation issues. Besides, even if it’s Paris, if you’re visiting the city for the fifteenth time, even the Eiffel Tower begins to start looking like a rusty old piece of scrap metal. The shops, however, look shiny and new.
Some people are born to play sports, some to dance, some to be diplomats. I was, ladies and gentlemen, born to shop. I have even made up a nice little way to use shopping as a way to work out and keep fit.
I call it ‘retail aerobics,’ and it involves walking really fast for twenty minutes, with my heart rate getting faster and faster as I approach the shops. It is not the walking that gets my blood pumping, but the possibility of snagging a bargain. After two hours of patrolling aisles and lifting hangers, I head back to the hotel carrying bulging bags on my arms like dumbbells. Retail aerobics is a fantastic workout, and it really does help lose weight: my purse does weigh substantially less after a round of retail aerobics.
When I am in a foreign country, shopping is the only activity safe enough for me to do on my own, is in air-conditioned comfort, is available in every major city and, most importantly, is a lot of fun. The world is really a small place. A shopping mall in Singapore is essentially the same as one in Los Angeles or Sydney or Johannesburg. They all have Guess, Ralph Lauren Polo, Armani, DKNY and, of course, my complete and undivided attention.
The unique thing about Singapore is much of their shopping is available underground. You can go from shopping centre to centre and, using a series of linking walkways or the train system, you can spend all day shopping, and not even glimpse the outside world. This works perfectly, especially when those tropical storms roll in as they do most afternoons. Once, I had been shopping all day in Singapore and didn’t even know there had been a massive storm outside, until I had returned to my hotel room to open the curtains.
This time I am arriving in Singapore and the weather is fine. I open the curtains, admire the view, and then contemplate my movements. I am tired, and I know I should go straight to bed. But then, I also know that the sale is already on, and the prospect of a life-altering-bargain is too big
a temptation for me to refuse. I freshen up and then immediately race downstairs to get my Starbucks coffee to go. It’s time to begin my retail aerobics with coffee-fuelled gusto.
Jetlag and lack of sleep can make you delirious. Usually this state of delirium is not something I look forward to, but this time I am deliriously happy as I head underground, armed with a double-shot latte in one hand and a handbag filled with credit cards in the other.
Soon, I am in retail heaven. Sure, there are people everywhere. Sure, my body is functioning on pure adrenaline and nothing else, but all of this fades into the blurry background when I spot a rack of Dolce and Gabbana jeans being offered at a 70% discount.
‘A 70% discount!’ I scream inside my head. They are almost giving them away.
My retail-aerobics session moves from cardio to weights as I carry around bags of pure joy. Should I go back to my hotel, I wonder when I’m almost done. Should I drop these bags off in the room, have a quick power nap and come back for more? Or should I just be satisfied with my efforts and call it quits?
I decide to go with Plan C. I grab another Starbucks coffee and soldier on. If only I had this much determination and dedication when I had studied at university, I would have topped all my courses. Sadly shopping wasn’t a course option offered to me.
I take a break to plot my remaining shopping strategy. I’ve just bought two dresses, three tops, a new handbag, some jewellery and those killer pair of jeans. What should I get next? Shoes! I need a new pair of tan-coloured boots to go with my jeans.
It is funny how ‘I have to have’, ‘I must have’ and ‘I need’ have come to mean the same thing to me now. At university, if I said ‘I need a new pair of shoes’, it meant that I really did need a new pair of shoes, that I would be going to classes barefoot otherwise. Yes, I do need to have a reality check soon, but all I want now is a pair of shoes.
I do find my dream shoes soon enough. They aren’t as heavily discounted as some of my other purchases, but then what are credit cards for? Anyone who lives within their means suffers a distinct lack of imagination, I say.
My next trip is to Manila, another shopping wonderland, and I know this will give me an opportunity to scratch my shopping itch very soon. I decide to call it quits for the day. Fully satisfied, I return to my hotel room. Although I should sleep straight away, I am still buzzed from all that shopping and go through a little routine I often do when I’ve had a magnificent shopping day. I take all my purchases out of their packaging, lay them on the bed and then stand back, looking at them in admiration.
I stand with a smile on my face for about five minutes. I then realise that I’ve tried on all the items before buying them, but I haven’t tried on my new boots – not with the jeans, at least. I barely have the energy to keep my eyes open, but I do find the will to wiggle into my Dolce and Gabbana jeans and slide into my boots before standing in front of the full-length mirror.
Damn, I look good.
I have noticed that most guys refer to their jeans as simply ‘jeans’. Girls, however, usually refer to their jeans by the name of their brand. While deciding what to wear, we usually think, ‘Will I wear my Armanis? Or my Luckys? Or my Calvins? Or my DKNYs? Or my Guess jeans?’
To my list, I can now add these D&Gs.
I carefully fold my new purchases and put them back in my suitcase. Once, the bed is free again, I proceed to do what I should have done hours earlier: sleep. Tomorrow I’ve to get back on the aircraft, but I’m happy that I’m going home. And I’m going home with a suitcase filled of joy and a face beaming with a bargain-hunter’s grin.
home sweet home, but only for a heartbeat
The flight home is a night flight. This means that after the meal service, most of the passengers would fall sleep. They sleep, yes, but we don’t. After twelve or thirteen hours of working, through the night, bogged down by jetlag and fatigue, I stagger into my apartment. My body is screaming for sleep. The trouble is it is 9:00 in the morning, and my unit is bathed in bright, cheery sunlight.
I have become accustomed to sleeping on almost every type of bed available, but nothing compares to the reassuring comfort of my own bed. I could sleep for a week, but the trouble is I only get three days at home before my next trip. After deducting all that sleep-time, walking-around-like-a-zombie-time, washing-time, drycleaning-time and repacking-time, I am left with no time for myself.
I hit the pillow with a thud. My body says ‘sleep’, but my brain doesn’t agree. Even with thick curtains helping plunge my bedroom into darkness, my brain still argues with me, ‘I know it is light outside. You can’t trick me!’
Like almost every flight attendant I know, I use sleeping tablets by the bucket load. I wish I didn’t have to, but I do.
The tablets I take now knock me out – for four hours exactly. Sometimes four hours is the right amount of sleep time, sometimes it is not.
When I wake up, I contemplate my limited time at home and my not-so-limited chores to do. There are bills to pay (particularly my expanding credit-card debt) fish to feed, family to phone, friends to catch up with, rotten food to throw out and fresh food to buy (which has to be thrown out again after I get back from the next trip).
What’s the point of buying food at all? I decide to not go to the supermarket. At least that is one time-consuming task I can strike off my list. Eating out is easier anyway.
Keeping a track of what goes into your fridge and what needs to come out of it can be such a pain. I can’t remember the last time I bought a container of milk and didn’t throw out most of it; unfortunately they don’t sell fresh milk by the thimble. My freezer is full of food I have tried to save. Usually, by the time I find something I need in the freezer it’s already time for me to throw it away.
For my current brief interlude at home, I decide that the freezer will be opened only if I have to get some ice for a stiff gin and tonic. But not tonight though. Not on my first day home: I am very careful not to drink alcohol on the first day I’m back from a trip, for I am already in a zombie-like trance and having a drink will only put me over the edge. The other thing I need to be careful about is what I eat. I get so hungry after a trip, and although my body craves sweets or junk foods, my conscience and my waistline cannot tolerate the guilt of giving in.
The real disadvantage of eating in as many restaurants and cafes as I do is keeping tabs on how much fat and carbs I consume, and of the highs and lows of my glycemic index, depending on what kind of diet I am on at the time (and I am always on a diet). I often joke that on my last fourteen-day diet the only thing I lost was fourteen days.
I usually want to make time to go to the gym, but never really find the time in the end. I get to spend only a few days at home, after all. I even signed up for a six-month membership package at my local gym, desperately hoping that I would find the time and the energy to get myself fitter. Predictably, I’ve never set foot in there. However, I will eventually end up paying for another six months – guilt, New Year’s resolutions and optimism will kick in.
Some of my flying friends fight real battles with weight. It is a lifestyle that does not lend itself to routine. It is a lifestyle that only lends itself to convenience and compromise. Some crew’s bodies handle it, some don’t. I am lucky that I don’t put on weight easily. Unfortunately, ‘easily’ is not the same thing as ‘never’.
Some hosties make huge sacrifices to look the way they do. A flying friend of mine, Sue, is what I term a gym junkie. She eats the right things, follows a strict exercise regime and forces herself into some sort of routine in a job and lifestyle that really doesn’t allow it. At the end of it all, Sue looks sensational.
Sue lives on her own and is extremely strict about her schedule, and as a result has become very selfish with her habits and her time. She has no problem getting dates, but she cannot keep a guy. Her body might be flexible, but her time is not. No man will put up with such a rigid woman no matter how good her body is. It is not just guys who get annoyed with Sue,
but friends as well. If you want to hangout with Sue, you’ll have to fit yourself into Sue’s timetable.
On the other hand, I make a real effort to keep in touch with my close friends. Yet, there are times when I realise that I haven’t seen a friend in months, or even in years. I make calls, I text, I email, I tweet, I facebook, and I even leave nice and long voicemail messages. I do all I could possibly do, yet to get face to face, particularly with another flight attendant, is not an easy task.
After sleeping for the obligatory four hours and after my mandatory wake-up coffee, I potter around my apartment in a jetlagged daze and do all the menial chores I need to do. I contemplate ringing a friend, but I just don’t feel like talking to anyone. Not just yet.
The one major flaw in my plan of not going to the supermarket to buy food and opting to eat out is that I actually need to go out and eat. That means getting dressed and actually communicating with people. I would rather wander around my apartment, dressed in my flannel pyjamas and comfy slippers. It’s horrible that we have to eat to survive.
If I have to eat, then I may as well try to be social at the same time. I phone Helen, my best friend, who couldn’t care less that I am verbally incoherent and have a preference to be a hermit. Although she is not a fellow flight attendant, Helen understands what I am like after a trip and is non-judgmental about it. That’s probably why she is my best friend.
Thank god, Helen is free for lunch. As dysfunctional as I feel, I always look forward to catching up with Helen. The one thing I try to do around her is to not talk about my trips so much. To boast about the exotic places I go to, the lavish sights I see, the people I meet and all the shopping I’ve done to a mum who has two kids, a hard-working husband and a crippling mortgage would be selfish and inappropriate. Especially because I know Helen is jealous of me. ‘I wish I could stay in a five-star hotel just for one day. No kids. No stress. I would get room service. I would get a massage. I would be in heaven,’ she often tells me, and I know exactly what she thinks of my life.