Confessions of a Hostie Read online

  Our brief conversation must have made Brad realise that he will be spending the next three days in hibernation with us hosties, so he comes down the back of the aircraft to meet the rest of the crew. He looks about the same age as I am.

  Yay! Finally, I can talk to someone who doesn’t have the persistent need to use the word ‘like’ and ‘whatever’ in every sentence.

  Brad is also quite good looking. And he is not wearing a ring. I can’t help but notice that he spends most of his brief visit talking to me. I even sense a hint of flirtation.

  Maybe this trip won’t turn out so bad after all.

  We discuss crew drinks at the hotel, and although his words are directed at the crew, I get the distinct impression that he is really just talking to just me. As he leaves, his eyes meet mine and I can tell that he is interested. I don’t normally get interested in techies. Some girls do. Some chase pilots with the ferocity of a lion hunting down a wounded gazelle. We call this type of hostie a TCM – a Tech Crew Mole.

  Most TCMs who have actually managed to snare a pilot get pregnant as soon as they get married and then wave goodbye to the job forever. They obviously couldn’t wait to get out of flying, yet at dinner parties with friends they always look back on their life of flying with fondness and are only too eager to share stories of ‘there was this one time in Rome…’ or ‘the gyozas in Tokyo are just superb…’ or ‘I was chatting with Mel Gibson…’ or ‘Europe is so pretty when it snows…’.

  In each instance the woman has manipulated her husband to be just a shell of the man he used to be. The wife has tried to turn her husband into the type of man she really wanted, which of course doesn’t work. What she does have is the beautiful house, the all-wheel drive car in the remote-controlled garage and private-schooled children in designer clothes. For these women, this is all they need. For some this life hasn’t worked out, but then again all relationships have a fair failure rate regardless of whether they are airline crew or not. At least, if your husband is a pilot and is getting a fat pay-check, you’ll get a fat alimony when it’s all over.

  Brad soon heads back to the flight deck, leaving me again in the galley-kindergarten. I find myself wishing he had stayed a little longer.

  One of the crew looks at her watch and says, ‘It is midnight in Frankfurt – Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas? I thought it was tomorrow?’ I ask, surprised.

  She assures me, ‘No, we get in Christmas morning.’

  This job is hard to keep up with time. We are always crossing time zones, and it is so easy to lose track of time. I have just realised that we will be arriving in Frankfurt on the one day of the year that all the shops will be shut there, including the supermarkets, malls and the shoe shops.

  The shoe shops! Oh my god!

  I am going to be spending Christmas dressed like a homeless bag-lady. I have a cute techie to impress and I’ll have to do that while wearing neon-Christmas socks and a pair of poolside sneakers.

  let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

  It is early in the morning and still dark as we land in Frankfurt. The further north one gets in Europe, the shorter the daylight hours become in winter.

  I won’t be surprised if I need to use a miner’s hat with a torch to see things at midday.

  It is snowing and everything is covered in a thick white blanket. The place is freezing, but it does look beautiful.

  We make our way on the bus to the hotel. I spend the whole ride listening to the kindergarten-crew discuss what high jinks they intend to get up to in the next three days. Considering that everything in town will be shut today, the Captain proposes that we all meet at his room for a few drinks later in the day.

  After a sleeping tablet-induced four hours of deep sleep, I awaken to contemplate how I could possibly conjure up an outfit from the bits and pieces inside my wheelie-bag that can only loosely be described as ‘clothes’. At least we won’t be leaving the warm confines of the hotel, so dressing like an eskimo is one thing I don’t have to worry about. I decide to wear my sundress with my new grandma-pants, the dress tucked into it. I look in the mirror, and although the pants are dreadful, the exposed part of the dress does look like a top.

  Not too bad – at least from the waist up.

  With much regret I slip on my Christmas socks, but rejoice in the fact that my nana-pants cover them, at least when I stand. I cover their remaining gaudiness with my sneakers. I know I don’t require my new scarf tonight, but it is the only piece of new clothing I have bought that looks remotely classy, so I wrap that around my neck. I look in the mirror and try to convince myself that I really don’t look that bad. Yet, I know very well that I look hideous.

  At least my hair and make-up are perfect.

  The party is in full swing when I arrive at the skipper’s room, and the kindergarten-crew are already a little tipsy and boisterous. In fact I could hear them halfway down the hallway while I was walking to the room. I am sure the other guests will be forgiving. It’s Christmas time, after all.

  I pour a glass of wine, say ‘Cheers everybody’ and head to the quietest corner of the crowded room, which just so happens to include Brad, who is standing with our two second officers. Both second officers don’t look old enough to shave, let alone drink, but who am I to judge?

  ‘Cheers boys.’

  I place myself in the best position to talk to Brad. I can tell he is pleased to see me.

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to make it?’ he smiles warmly.

  Trying to act prim and proper, I lie to him, ‘I don’t normally do the whole room-party thing, but it is Christmas.’

  Brad flashes me another warm smile. I take this opportunity to take a good look at him; this is the first time, I’m seeing him out of uniform. I am dressed dreadfully by circumstances. Poor Brad is dressed so by choice. He is wearing a cheap knock-off Ralph Lauren Polo checkered shirt (Ralph Lauren has some gorgeous designs, but this Asian copy is not one of them) and a pair of dowdy pants. I look down to Brad’s shoes. As men don’t normally wear jewellery or other accessories I can generally judge a guy’s fashion-sense by the shoes he wears. Brad’s shoes are clean, but look old enough to vote. They might have been considered old-fashioned even back in 1987, the year he probably bought them.

  At least he is wearing a beautiful watch. I can tell that it is not a fake, and would have cost a pretty penny. There are two things that the techies don’t usually scrimp on: watches and sunglasses. Everything else though is better bought cheap. He does comment on my nice scarf, and even though this guy doesn’t seem to have one good fashion-bone in his whole body, I am flattered that he noticed my effort. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on him, I think. He is kinda cute.

  We drink and talk for hours. We drink and slur for even longer. I haven’t let my hair down this much since a night (and next morning) out with Mary in San Francisco almost a year ago. On that occasion I ended up doing something (well, someone) that I regretted. Mary ended up doing two somethings though, and she didn’t regret it at all.

  Tonight is different. It’s Christmas; I am drunk; I like this guy; I am sure he likes me. I try not to overthink the situation.

  Brad and I have been flirting for hours, yet we are very much aware of the others in the room. We need to be discreet. By the time we are both so horny that we want to rip off each other’s clothes in full view of the rest of the crew, he leans in to whisper to me, ‘Would you like to me meet me in my room in five minutes?’

  I nod innocently, and he whispers his room number. He then lets out a loud and melodramatic yawn, and announces to everyone that he is tired and going to bed. I have seen better acting skills in a Greek daytime soap opera. Five minutes later, I say my goodbyes too and leave. I know that it must be obvious to everyone there that something is going on between Brad and me, but we have made the effort to at least appear to be discrete. That’s enough for me.

  I anxiously knock on Brad’s door, and we end up kissing before the door is
even shut. We are on the bed before the lock has clicked, and we are naked before I have time to draw a breath.

  Even though I am wasted to the point of delirium, I am sober enough to know that Brad is not the most competent lover a girl can ever have. But it has been months, and he does seem like a nice guy. And it is Christmas, a time for making merry.

  There are grunts and groans and the occasional ‘Oh yeah!’ but no other words are spoken. It is fantastic.

  Merry Christmas, Danielle.

  these boots are made for walking

  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?

  No, I am not. I am with Brad, in his hotel room. And I am still a little drunk. I also know from experience that it will be impossible for me to get back to sleep, even though Brad is out cold.

  What do I do? Should I sneak out? But what will he think when he wakes up alone? Should I just lie here until he wakes up – which seems like it could be sometime in the New Year?

  I am still feeling frisky, and it has been a while since I have felt the reassuring warmth of a man’s body next to mine. I decide to cuddle up to him. I guess he must have enjoyed my warmth as well, for Brad wakes up – more specifically, the bottom half of his body wakes up – and we make love again.

  Then, I fall asleep.

  I eventually wake up hours later. The bedside clock shows 10:00 a.m. I have never woken up this late in my entire life. And apart from still being a little hung-over, I feel fantastic.

  So this is how I can overcome the dreaded 2:15-can’t-get-back-to-sleep jetlagged routine. I have finally figured it out.

  Brad is also stirring from sleep. This is the first time we are looking at each other post-sex and completely sober, and we are feeling a little uncomfortable and a tad embarrassed.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning.’

  Brad gets out of bed, grabs a pair of underpants and makes his way to the bathroom. He is not quite as physically toned as I thought he was last night, but then again I probably don’t look like Heidi Klum this morning either.

  Suddenly, I realise that I don’t really know much about this guy. I don’t even know his last name.

  I hear the shower running so I sneak out of bed and open the cupboard to glance at the ID on his uniform: Bradley Dick.

  Dick? I couldn’t marry this guy and take on that last name. Danielle Dick – yuck. Maybe I could hyphen it – Danielle Hugh-Dick?

  There have been several times when people have misread my last name as Huge.

  So, that idea is definitely a no-go.

  Wait, why am I even thinking about marriage anyway? Only a minute ago, I didn’t even know his last name, and only a few hours ago, I was criticising how badly he dressed.

  I try to look for positives. There are a few advantages to being with a guy that doesn’t spend money on himself. He can spend that money on me instead. Besides, he already has an expensive watch. And he also has a pair of good sunglasses, I’m guessing. Yes. He earns good money and is probably not that far away from becoming a captain, and from earning even more money. I could always buy his clothes for him and teach him a little style. I’ve seen too many other girls try to change a guy, and without success, to start believing my own inner monologue.

  Brad returns from the bathroom. Although the hotel provides a free bathrobe, he has chosen not to wear it. Instead, he comes back to bed wearing the tightest and ugliest pair of old-fashioned briefs I have ever seen.

  Teach him a little style? I think I’ll have to teach him a lot of style.

  Still, I find it quite cute that he has chosen to cover himself up now after all the wild and uninhibited things we had done earlier.

  I can tell he is a little shy about having someone in his bed.

  Well, I am a little shy too.

  Before it gets even more awkward for us, I suggest that it is time for me to go back to my room. I tell him about I plan to get dressed in every piece of clothing I have with me and go shoe shopping, while looking like a homeless bag-lady. He tells me that I could never look like a bag-lady and then suggests we catch up later in the day and grab a bite to eat.

  Now we are talking, my shy little pilot lover-boy.

  I leave Brad and sneak back to my room. I look out my bedroom window and although it is after ten o’clock it is still dark. European winters can be dreary. I look at the street light outside, and in its glow I can see the snow still falling. But the ground is covered in sludge as there has obviously been rain and sleet through the night. It looks so cold out there. I put on every piece of clothing I have. I even wear a pair of stockings under my thick socks and wrap the scarf around my head as well as my shoulders.

  I pick up an umbrella from the concierge and thank my lucky stars that no one from the crew has seen me dressed so hideously. I step out into the Arctic blizzard, and the cold almost knocks me out.

  I have never ever felt this cold before in my life.

  I am only halfway to the nearest shop of any description and I am already numb from the top of my head to the bottom of my Christmas socks. The only part of me that is remotely warm are my hands.

  Thank goodness for my hot pink gloves.

  I can’t walk any faster as the slushy mixture of snow and sleet has already leaked through my non-waterproof sneakers and I dare not splash it up my already trembling legs. I am starting to regret my decision to tackle, what I later find out to be, the second coldest day of the year.

  I dive into the first clothing shop I come across. It has the worst collection of women’s fashion I have ever seen, but the shop is warm. When I look in a mirror, I see that my lips are actually blue. I decide to stay in the shop for a while. I pretend to browse through a rack of dresses just so I can escape the cold outside.

  Who on earth would be buying a summer dress when it is a million degrees below zero outside? I wonder as I flip through a rack of gaudy dresses.

  I step back outside, ready to take on the elements again.

  I am the world’s hardiest shopper: I could borrow the Postman’s motto of ‘neither snow nor rain …’ to show my will to shop. Today, I am going to get these damn shoes no matter what, and I will then get back to my room and sit in a hot bath until I look like a prune.

  Fortunately a shoe shop is only a few doors down from the shop with horrible clothes. Unfortunately the shoes look like they have been designed to be worn with the aforementioned shop’s clothes. There is one pair of boots (tan again) that I could possibly make room for in my bulging shoe-cabinet back home; the boots are outrageously expensive though.

  What the hell, I’m getting them. I just can’t track through the snow in my leaking sneakers anymore.

  They don’t have my size, although I must say that I have forgotten what size I actually am in Germany. Every continent has a different sizing system for shoes, and when you have bought as many different shoes in as many different countries as I have, it is easy to get confused. What is not confusing, however, is that the boots I like come in one size only, and that size is way too big for me. I am so cold and so desperate that I even contemplate wearing an extra layer or two of socks just so the boots will fit. Surely I am not that despairing?

  I trudge through the snow again until I finally find a shoe shop that suits my needs. It has beautiful shoes, is reasonably priced and has the biggest heaters I have ever seen in a shop. I take off my leaking sneakers and my soaking Christmas socks and sit down close to one of the heaters. With a shop-assistant looking curiously at me, I lift my legs up and dangle my naked blue toes in front of the heater.

  I turn to the disapproving shop-assistant, ‘It’s alright, I am going to buy some boots, and I will take any pair of socks you bring to me as long as they don’t have the words ‘Ho Ho Ho’ written on them!’

  I try on a gorgeous pair of black boots that seem to run right up to my armpits.

  The more they cover my nan
a-pants, the better. ‘I’ll take them,’ I tell the assistant.

  I spend another half an hour thawing-out in front of the heater, before I slip on a pair of fresh socks and my new boots. With renewed vigour I venture back out into the sub-zero torment. I find a supermarket and decide to grab as many supplies as I can carry, so that I don’t have to leave the hotel for the next two days.

  Most German supermarkets have more bottles of wine than anything else, so I take my time and choose a nice bottle of French wine. My carry-basket bulging with enough supplies to last me the whole of winter, I trudge through the sleet and snow and make my way back towards the hotel. I find that my new boots are fantastically warm and fully waterproof. You just can’t beat leather!

  However, the problem with wearing new leather soles is that they are smoother than a baby’s bottom, and it feels as if I were walking on what is effectively a sludgy ice-skating rink with freshly waxed mini-skis on my feet. As I concentrate hard on each and every little pigeon-step I am taking, I suddenly remember that I am meeting Brad for dinner tonight. I also remember that I don’t have any clean underwear.

  I am so cold and desperate to get back to the hotel that I even contemplate washing the underwear I have already worn and reusing it.

  Here I am trying to impress a new guy and I can’t even make the effort to get some nice underwear? No, I don’t need nice underwear, I decide. What I need is sexy underwear.

  ‘Damn it,’ I turn around.

  I hope Brad appreciates all the effort I am putting in for him.

  it’s a goodyear

  Brad and I have a lovely dinner at the hotel. Conversation flows effortlessly. He even tells me that he really likes my new boots.