Confessions of a Hostie Page 4

  I always point out to her that my job and lifestyle are not as glamorous as she thinks it is. She can see for herself the physical signs of jetlag and fatigue on my body, and how difficult I find it to cope with my exhaustion. She can also see for herself that make-up and five cups of coffee are no disguise for the weariness that seeps through every pore of my body.

  Yet, Helen does not like to hear about how tired I am – nobody likes to hear about it for that matter. What Helen does like to hear about are some of my travel stories and about any celebrity encounters I’ve had on my trips.

  I put on my new D&Gs, my new boots and one of my new tops and make my way, almost by instinct, to our favourite little café. One of my little quirks is that if I buy something new, I have to wear it straight away.

  ‘New clothes? Very nice. I love the boots as well. Oooo! Who are the jeans by?’ chirps Helen when she walks in and sets eyes on me.

  I am not surprised at her observation skills. After all, she knows me well enough to know that I wear something new every time I see her.

  Trying not to rub in my good fortune too much, I tell her a small and white lie. ‘I think they are Dolce and Gabbana, but they are only cheap Asian knockoffs. You know, copies. They’ll probably fall apart next week.’

  I’ve used such white lies on many occasions. I’m sure she doesn’t believe me, but appreciates my intention just the same. Poor Helen would love to have a wardrobe 1/100th the size of mine, but I know that grocery shopping, school fees, the dog’s vet visits and making sure that her kids have clothes that fit take priority over her own fashion wants.

  As we sit down to our regular table she asks her usual question, ‘Did you have any celebrities onboard this time?’

  I almost want to make up something so as to give a glimmer of excitement to the mundane existence she thinks she lives. One white lie at a time, I decide, and so I shake my head. ‘No, not this time.’

  While Helen envies my lifestyle, I envy hers. She has a loving family, normal sleep patterns, a normally functioning body clock, set routines, a nice house and the world’s cutest dog.

  All I have is a goldfish and no normality at all.

  sometimes not so happy beginnings become happy endings

  When your body clock is all over the place, the three days at home feel considerably lesser than three days. They feel like three hours. I can only find solace in the fact that my next trip is only a four-dayer, and I get just as much time off at home when I get back. The other saving grace is I’m going to Manila, and I love Manila. When I get there, I intend to shop, shop, get a massage, shop and then shop some more. I had a look at the crew list and found that I know one of the girls on the crew. Her name is Gabrielle Reiner, and I know she is the type of girl who loves to shop. At least, I’ll have someone to share a taxi with.

  From memory, Gabrielle is a bit of a princess. But then, it is not really safe to walk around on your own in the Philippines. Though two is not that big a number, it is more than one. And though Gabrielle can be a little painful, hanging out with her will still be better than hanging out on my own.

  The flight to Manila is fairly uneventful, albeit hard work. I realise en route that my ‘princess’ memories of Gabrielle are indeed bang on. She is extremely lazy and snooty on the aircraft, and I begin to reconsider my decision to hang out with her. ‘You are just going shopping with her, not inviting her to become your new best friend,’ I scold myself. I decide not to over-think this.

  We get to the hotel quite late at night. Some of the boys on the crew head straight into town. I am not really sure what they get up to in Manila, but I do know they are up to no good.

  I have a good night’s sleep, a good workout in the hotel’s gym, and a great breakfast. I rarely use a gym at home, but when you are awake in the early hours of the morning and the gym is just downstairs, it is so convenient. The workout justifies the indulgent breakfast I have just eaten. I feel justified and fantastic. I meet up with Gabrielle, and we hit the shops with gusto. The first shopping centre we land in sells fake copies of things. Gabrielle buys a few latest release DVDs, as well as sunglasses and watches. I grab a couple of things too – Christmas is only ten days away, and I win the title of ‘favourite aunt’ every year for a reason.

  As this is the first year in a long time that I will be at home for Christmas day, and I will get to see my nephews and nieces opening their presents before me. The thought only adds to my excitement.

  When I’m done picking out my gifts, I am happy to pot around while Gabrielle does her thing. I notice that Gabrielle, unlike me, is serious when it comes to shopping.

  Although I’ve never been shopping with Gabrielle before, I quickly discover that her princess attitude spills across effortlessly to the retail world as well. Haggling can be so much fun, and the Filipinos are such friendly people; Gabrielle, however, is brutal. I become embarrassed at her discourtesy and lack of warmth as she speaks and haggles with them. Unable to watch the mean girl anymore, I want to walk away. At least for a while.

  ‘How about I meet up with you in two hours? At the coffee shop at the entrance of the shopping centre? If you need to stay here longer, we can take it from there?’ I ask.

  She agrees. I slink away to the only department store in the complex.

  It has been a while since I’ve been to Manila, and I’d forgotten about the large number of sales staff allotted to the stores there. Every single one of these shop assistants wishes me as I walk by: ‘Good morning, ma’am’.

  It sounds incredibly pleasant – at first. For the first fifteen times, during which I’ve barely cleared two aisles of the shopping area, I smile and happily return the ‘Good morning’. For the next fifteen, I simply return a slightly more reserved, ‘Morning’.

  I’m still not anywhere near the fashion section. Then, come the next fifteen ‘Good mornings’, and I meet them with a sweet smile and a simple nod of the head. After this, all I want to do is nod my head, without the smile.

  I can see where this is going, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. Before another sales assistant can wish me a ‘Good morning, ma’am’, I approach an aisle and jump in, shouting out loud, ‘Good morning everyone!’.

  A group of perplexed assistants look back at me, but then they recover quickly. They all smile back, collectively wish me a good morning, then get back to their business.

  Bingo.

  I finally reach the ladies fashion floor, and I just start looking through one of the clothes racks when I become aware that a shop assistant has snuck up behind me. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  Damn it.

  Still, I smile at her and say, ‘Good morning.’

  She peers over my shoulder while I try to concentrate on the job at hand, and I feel very uncomfortable. I move racks, but she follows me. For every step I take, she takes one. She has become my shadow. I try to ignore her and take a dress from the rack.

  She says, ‘Dress, ma’am.’

  I turn and give her a smile, out of sheer politeness. I really just want to be left alone, my eyes scream. I put the dress back and move to another rack. I take a shirt from one of the racks.

  ‘Shirt, ma’am.’

  I feel like saying, ‘Thank you for pointing out this is a shirt, for clearly, if you had not done so, I would have thought I was holding a rabbit!’

  I turn and try to be as inoffensive as I can.

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t need any help at the moment.’

  However, as I turn away, towards the rack, I know she is still there. I just know.

  I am not an impatient person, and I do give people the benefit of doubt, especially with regard to cultural and language differences. So, I put the shirt back on its rack and sneak away to another section. It is only when I know for certain that the persistent shop assistant has left me that I walk over to another rack. As a pre-emptive strike, I say to the nearest shop assistant, ‘Good morning. I don’t need any help at the moment, thank you.’

&nb
sp; Thankfully, in Manila the only retail annoyances are the ‘Good mornings’ and the shadowing staff. In countries with more aggressive attitudes to customer service – mostly countries with large Chinese communities or in the Indian subcontinent – the sales staff attempt to anticipate your every move. One only has to glance sideways for a nanosecond, and the salesperson will jump in and grab the piece of clothing at which they thought you were looking. Usually, they go on to shove this piece of clothing in your face, and usually, this piece of clothing is not only the wrong outfit but probably the second most hideous thing you have ever seen – the shop assistant is usually wearing the first most hideous thing.

  Markets in those countries are not a lot of fun. There, vendors often try to yank you into their shop or stall. I get enough pushing and pulling on the aircraft to tolerate being physically harassed by hoards of aggressive vendors in Shanghai. A little trick I have learnt is to walk around such markets wearing earphones or headsets. They don’t even need to be connected to an iPod, but just pretending not to hear these hostile hawkers at least limits the verbal harassing I receive, even if it doesn’t do much to stop the arm-grabbing.

  What these people haven’t realised is that most Westerners will buy a lot of thing if they are just left alone and not manhandled. At least, I know I will.

  After two hours of shopping – mostly walking around and dodging sales assistants – and little to show for it, I decide to head to the coffee shop and wait for Gabrielle.

  As I walk there, I already know that Gabrielle is going to require more time. I also know that she will be late, which is why I chose to meet at a coffee shop. Two slowly sipped lattes later, Gabrielle arrives, without any remorse for being late. As predicted, she tells me she isn’t done shopping there. I immediately make the bold decision to cut Gabrielle loose and move on to another shopping centre. I jump into a taxi and take my chances solo. And I end up having a ball.

  I shop. I get a massage. I shop again. I even stumble upon a dental clinic and decide to enquire about getting my teeth whitened. I had a complete whitening procedure done in Bangkok, but that was years ago and my coffee addiction has left some telltale yellowing on my teeth. I don’t have the time or the money for the full procedure now, I tell them. They suggest that I get a briefer and cheaper treatment, which is almost as effective as the laser whitening procedure. Although they give no guarantees on the results, they could fit me in straight away. ‘That will do,’ I tell them.

  Teeth whitening is so expensive back home. In fact, any sort of dental work costs a fortune there. In Manila and Bangkok the dentists are usually trained in the U.S., do a good job, but charge local rates.

  When the dentist is done with my teeth, I check in the mirror and realise that he has done a terrific job. My pearly whites are actually pearly white again.

  I flash him a bright, beautiful smile, then thank him and make it back to the hotel, alive. Happy with the day I’ve spent so far, I dump my shopping bags and head out to get a massage. Massages in Asia are generally cheap and unbelievably relaxing. I’ve heard a number of the male crew talk about ‘happy endings’. When I first started flying I was so naïve that I thought a happy ending was just a really joyful and therapeutic finish to a standard massage. What I did not know, at the time, was that ‘happy ending’ is actually a sexual term. On one of my first trips to Bangkok, I was getting a massage done and the masseuse asked, ‘Would you like a happy ending, madam?’

  Pleased at the prospect of getting more pampered than I already was, I said, ‘Yes.’

  Imagine my shock when I discovered what a happy ending really meant.

  Did I let the masseuse finish?

  That is a secret I will take to the grave.

  i feel like a martini, shaken not stirred

  After my massage I go back to the hotel. Often I try and have a little nap before attempting to work through the night, but my massage was so good I opted for an extra session. When I walk into my room, I notice that there is a note under my door. Also, a light is flashing on the bedside phone.

  This can’t be good news.

  I am informed that my flight has been delayed by several hours, and thus going to work has also been postponed by a few hours. That’s not enough time for me to leave the hotel or to have a quick nap. At least I have the comfort of staying in my hotel room, whereas the passengers would have to wait at the airport. And Manila’s airport is not the world’s most modern place. The terminal is so antiquated that it doesn’t even have a Starbucks. How uncivilised, I mock; if the passengers are anything like me, and need coffee as much as I do, they are going to be furious.

  The flight back home negates all the good that the day of shopping and massage has done for me. As well as being late, the plane is full of rowdy drinkers. Also, to make thing worse, we experience constant turbulence. Gabrielle is playing princess games again, as I had expected, and is sitting in our crew rest area, pretending to be sick. She pulled the same trick the last time I flew with her. She sat down for the whole duration of the meal service and joined us when all the hard work was already done.

  The rest of the crew barely have time to bitch about Gabrielle as we are swamped with drink orders. Moreover, the turbulence is becoming more severe, and walking straight is becoming an almost impossible thing to do.

  As I stagger through the aisle, carrying every imaginable combination of alcoholic drinks on the menu, I feel as if I’m the ball in a pinball machine. I bounce off the seats. I bounce off the bulkheads. I bounce off passengers’ shoulders, elbows and knees. Yet, somehow, I manage not to spill a drop.

  Aircrafts are designed for making maximum revenue. Seats are crammed into a small vessel, and the aisles are narrow. Moreover, the average seat has been designed to comfortably fit an eight year old. As most of the passengers are surely larger than an eight year old, body parts spill out into the aisles.

  I can understand that some people cannot help but take up more space than others. What I cannot understand, however, is how some passengers lack spatial awareness and stick their elbows, knees and feet out into the aisle. If the cart bumps into them, it doesn’t hurt the cart. I am, however, not quite as sturdy as a metal cart.

  There are usually two of us on a cart, so the odds are you end up spending half your service time walking backwards, and going backwards makes it all the more difficult to dodge passengers. Flight attendants, therefore, train themselves to get really good at walking backwards. If they ever introduce a backwards-walking obstacle course at the Olympics you can bet that a flight attendant will take home the gold medal.

  Walking through the cabin with a cart or a tray of drinks is difficult, yes, but add to it the additional challenge of a moving, vibrating, shaking floor and it becomes almost impossible. Much of the time we use the cart like a walking frame, to keep ourselves standing and stable in these turbulent times.

  Unfortunately, turbulence has been rough and persistent for most of this flight. I actually feel a little squeamish, and I know I can’t be the only one. Onboard are dozens of men who have spent many days getting drunk in sleazy Manila bars, and are now continuing with this habit on the aircraft. Add constant bumps and shaking to the alcohol intake and something has got to give – and it does.

  It takes only one man to start the show: one man throws up, then another, then another one, and so on. It is like someone lined up a row of bicycles and pushed one over, for it to fall into the next and push it over, which then falls over. Once it starts, it never stops. The drunken passengers are going down like flies.

  I have never thrown-up onboard before, but this flight might change that. I have cleaned up vomit more times than I could care to count, yet, I feel I’ve never felt this way before. I’m sure that even if I do as much as see a stray carrot, I would lose control. I am not the only one feeling this way, I discover. Most of the crew are feeling the same way. ‘What do we do?’ we wonder nauseously.

  Only one thing can prevent the passengers from drinking, we s
oon realise, and this one thing will also prevent us from cleaning up messes while we are feeling sick ourselves. We call the flight deck and ask the pilots to turn on the seatbelt-sign.

  I scurry into my crew seat quicker than a rat does up a drainpipe. I am so thankful for the break. This turbulence is not severe, but just extremely relentless.

  I have been in severe turbulence before; it is sudden and unexpected, and clinging onto something usually helps in such cases. One time I was out in the cabin, handing out meals from a cart, when sudden turbulence hit the flight. Before I know it, I am flung to the ceiling. When I crashed down to earth again, I fortunately landed on what was possibly the world’s fattest passenger.

  ‘Sir, would you like a lap dance with your dinner?’ I almost blurted out.

  It is easy to laugh off things when you avoid serious injury by sheer luck. Sadly, on that same flight, several other crew members were not so lucky. One guy broke a bone in his wrist, another hostie hit her head and several passengers also sustained minor injuries.

  Ever since that flight, whenever I feel that little shudder, which indicates that a major jolt is about to follow, I wrap my foot under the nearest support bar located under the passenger’s seats and hang on for dear life.

  Though I am confident that this flight won’t be as turbulent, I am not looking forward to facing the vomit-drenched masses when the seat-belt sign goes off.

  I’ll get the disposable gloves and the spill kit, and then hand them over to Gabrielle, I think to myself.

  I have a little chuckle as I imagine myself approaching Gabrielle and saying, ‘You’ve had a nice little rest, haven’t you dear? Now get your lazy butt out there and clean up all that vomit!’