Confessions of a Hostie Read online

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

  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.

  I love Japanese food. Oishi!

  With contented stomachs, we walk and chat, walk and chat, and then walk and chat some more. Although we don’t talk about anything specific, the one thing that we don’t talk about is work. Most crew want to spend their time whining and bitching about work. I know that I sometimes can be guilty of doing this too, but I do consciously make an effort to talk about other things. We often forget what varied and interesting backgrounds we come from. I have flown with flight attendants who come from a tradesmen background, who once served in the police force, who have worked as teachers, who were psychologists or therapists before t
hey did this. I have even flown with a girl who used to be a doctor.

  I wonder what Danny did before he started flying? I know I told him what I did, but I don’t think he ever told me what he did. All I know is that he has been flying for around twenty years.

  I start doing mental arithmetic in my head. He is probably close to fifty, so he had to have joined the company when he was in his late-twenties or around thirty. It is obvious that he had to have done something for a number of years before flying.

  As we walk and I listen to him speak, my curiosity gets the better of me.

  ‘Danny, can I ask you something? What did you do before flying?’

  A little surprised that I’d asked the question, he answers, ‘Law.’

  ‘You studied law?’

  He nods. ‘Studied, and practiced for a while.’

  Taken aback I confirm, ‘You were a lawyer?’

  ‘Not a very good one, but yeah, I was a lawyer.’

  I am dumbfounded. ‘Why did you give it up?’

  He nonchalantly replies, ‘I got into flying.’

  I prod further, ‘But why give up being a lawyer to becoming a flight attendant?’

  He stops walking for a moment and turns to me, ‘I hated law, always did. All I wanted to do was to travel and see the world. I was earning good money, had a supportive wife and no kids at that stage, but I wasn’t happy. It was my wife who suggested I apply to be a hostie, and if I didn’t like it I could always go back to the law. I obviously never went back.’

  I am stunned, ‘That is some special wife you have.’

  He nods humbly, ‘I know.’

  We continue walking for another ten minutes, without speaking.

  ‘Would you like to go to the temple?’ he suddenly suggests.

  ‘Sure.’

  I have been to the temple in question many times. I know it must have a name, but we refer to it simply as ‘the temple’. I think it is the largest in Japan and its grounds are just stunning. The last time I went there, the cherry blossoms had just been in bloom. Unfortunately, I missed the full blossoming experience by a heartbeat and the branches were bare, but the cherry blossoms were still scattered all over the ground. It still looked beautiful.

  The blossoms are not out this time, but the gardens are still stunning and the ponds are glistening in the sunlight. It is zero degrees, yet it is surprisingly warm. We find a picturesque spot beside a pond teaming with the world’s largest goldfish (I think they are a type of carp that the locals call koi) and sit in the sun to admire the picture-postcard scenery.

  We sit and chat for what must have been an hour before heading back to the hotel. Not once do I mention again his previous life as a lawyer, and I can tell he is appreciative of the fact.

  We meet in the hotel foyer at six o’clock. Surprisingly, all of the crew, with the exception of Carolyn, have turned up. I am obviously not a huge fan of Carolyn onboard the aircraft, but I feel a little sorry that she’s been left out. It must be such a lonely existence. I turn to the one person who is more sympathetic than anyone else I know.

  ‘Danny, do you think we should call Carolyn and see if she wants to join us?’

  He shakes his head.

  We cram into this quaint little teppanyaki restaurant where they cook the food at your table, before you. Again, the restaurant probably has a wonderful name, but it is located up a flight of spiral stairs, so the crew simply refer to the restaurant as The Spiral Staircase. Regardless of the name, the food is great. However, apart from Danny, the conversation is terrible. The other crew spend most of the night talking about the flight over to Narita and, more specifically, about Carolyn. Most crew don’t have a reputation, but once someone does have one, everybody talks about them. The most vocal of the critics is again Alex. She is particularly scathing of Carolyn and discusses every trip they’ve done together since 1989.

  Both Danny and I agree with Alex’s summation of Carolyn, but we don’t enter into the debate.

  Alex notices Danny’s unusual silence and asks him, ‘What do you think of Carolyn?’

  Danny thinks for a moment before carefully choosing his words, ‘There is an old saying that goes, before you criticise someone you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you do criticise them you are a mile away and you’ve got their shoes!’

  I have never heard this funny saying before, but what makes it even more hilarious is there is a popular shoe story about Carolyn that has been circulating around the company for the last few years. Carolyn was apparently in our crew-rest area having time off and had taken off her shoes to have a little sleep. One of the crew, who really disliked her, snuck in and stole one of the shoes and threw it into a hydraulic compactor we have onboard, which then crushed the shoe into a pancake.

  Carolyn had other shoes, but they were in her suitcase, which was then in the hold of the aircraft, so she had to go through the rest of flight and the subsequent walk through customs, the baggage area and the terminal wearing only socks. The crew knew who the culprit was, but nobody confessed to Carolyn. From what I heard, the crew struggled to maintain straight faces and several were reprimanded for laughing out loud within the customs hall.

  Everybody, apart from Alex, laughs at Danny’s joke and, more importantly, it changes the subject. Thank God for that.

  Alex mentions that she has some gossip on Mary-go-round. Alex obviously doesn’t know that Mary is a friend of mine. However, I am used to hearing gossip about Mary on most trips, so it doesn’t worry me too much. As a sticky-beak, I usually listen, and as a friend I usually don’t comment.

  In this instance, I don’t hear any stories about Mary that I haven’t heard before until Alex begins to tell some disturbing stories about Mary’s new boyfriend, Michael Lawson, and insinuates that he has a reputation for hitting women.

  I am listening as Mary’s friend now: oh, this is difficult. If Lawson was indeed a woman-basher, then do I tell Mary? Maybe it is just idle gossip?

  I decide to investigate. This is pretty serious stuff after all.

  I ask Alex, ‘How do you know this?’

  Alex confidently responds, ‘He used to go out with one of my friends.’

  I further enquire, ‘Was he ever charged?’

  ‘No.’

  I turn to Danny and whisper, ‘Can I ask you a big favour? My friend goes out with Mike. What should I do now?’

  Danny gives me a reassuring tap on the shoulder, and then confidently addresses Alex. ‘I know Mike Lawson fairly well. He may be a lot of things, but in all my years I have never heard of him treating any woman inappropriately, let alone ‘women’, as you have just implied. I suggest that your friend should keep her feelings and accusations to herself – without proof, it is just slander. I also suggest you should keep your accusations to yourself.’

  I pat Danny on his leg as a sign of absolute gratitude while Alex sits in stunned silence.

  ‘Bravo,’ I mutter under my breath.

  We eat hundreds of gyozas and drink copious amounts of beer and wine before most of us somehow end up doing the inevitable – going to a karaoke bar. This one is called Cages, and as the name suggests it has iron bars everywhere, except on stage. It is a small place and already busy as we walk in, but with our extra numbers the place is now bulging at the seams.

  The tragic thing about karaoke bars is those who should never be allowed to sing on stage are generally the ones up there singing. I finally understand why this bar is called Cages: we are the ones locked up and forced to listen to the tone-deaf singers on stage. Even so, I am having a great time. Thanks to a combination of Danny’s jokes and the riotous voices and antics on stage, I haven’t laughed so much in ages. And soon, I get so caught up in the alcohol and euphoria that I do something I never thought I would do (on this trip anyway) – I get up on stage and do a duet with Danny. Here I am, on stage with my good friend (make that ‘good and married friend’) very tipsy and slinking around in my sexy boots and tight D&G jeans, singing the words f
rom the Grease song, ‘You’re the one that I want, ooh ooh ooh honey, the one that I want …’

  Danny hasn’t given me the slightest notion of anything improper or flirtatious between us. However, I can’t help but feel jealous of his wife. I know that she’s gotten herself such a wonderful guy.

  ‘Why can’t I meet a nice guy like you?’ I mumble into my almost empty wine glass once we get off the stage. I am sitting at the bar again with Danny.

  ‘Oh God, I hope he didn’t hear me,’ I hope to myself. I feel really stupid. I didn’t mean to say it loud enough for Danny to hear, but I can’t be sure if he heard me or not.

  Thank goodness I can trust Danny, because I’m so tipsy I can hardly trust myself. I have done lots of things in my life that I have regretted, but Danny won’t be one of them. It is time for me to go home. I know this, and Danny knows this. He walks me back to the hotel and I know deep down that nothing is going to happen, but there must be an evil little part of me that is wishing he would at least try. He doesn’t, and I know he never will. Maybe that is why I like him so much.

  He says ‘Goodnight’, and just as he turns to walk away he adds, ‘Don’t worry, you are such a great girl. You’ll meet a nice guy one day.’

  there’s not many of the good ones left

  Danny and I meet the next morning for coffee. Our call-time is late afternoon, so we’ll have time to have a chat, a coffee or two and a few hours of sleep prior to working through the night.

  ‘I feel a bit hungover this morning,’ I tell Danny, acting surprised.

  He mocks me, ‘No-o-o!’

  I know I was a little tipsy, but I think I can remember everything that happened. I think?

  I sheepishly enquire, ‘Did I do anything or say anything I shouldn’t have?’

  He smiles, ‘You were the perfect lady.’

  I thank him for putting Alex in her place. In typical Danny style, he says, ‘Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Alex discusses people.’

  Sometimes I don’t measure good conversation in terms of time, but in terms of coffees. We spend three lattes, each, joking and laughing. We reminisce about our John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John moment on stage the night before. We even softly sing a few lines of ‘You’re the One That I Want’.