Flying with the Rich and Famous: True Stories from the Flight Attendant who flew with them (14 page)

Key West, Florida

On a gorgeous warm, sunny, and humid day we were on a layover in the Florida Keys and decided to rent Sea-Doos. We
were having a marvelous time riding alone and with each other and goofing around. At one point I had my chief pilot behind me on my Sea-Doo, as I cut a sharp turn to maneuver a 360, he went flying off the back. To my astonishment, when he came up I was headed straight for him and hit him in the head—really hard. He had quite the headache after that. I was fearful I would never fly with that flight department again, but thankfully, he forgave me.

Cleveland, Ohio

Another time, I begged my all-time favorite pilot and dear, dear friend, to drive with me from Toledo, Ohio, an hour and a half to Cleveland to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I had been dying to do this my entire career but had never been near Cleveland. I figured Toledo was close enough. We only had four hours to spend there because we had to turn around and come back the same day. To really enjoy the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, one really needs a whole day at the very least, I could have spent a week! It was so worth it, at least for me, I enjoyed every minute of the four hours we were there and the three hours
we were in the car!

New York City, New York

The pilots at Regent Air were kind enough to let me stop on the way to the airplane and pick up prepared but uncooked New York pizzas. Really, is there any other kind of pizza? I would put the pizzas in the aft air stairs where they would freeze. When I returned to Southern California, I would invite my friends over and cook them. My friends began to know my flight schedule in anticipation of the much-loved pizza. Most of them had never had
real
New York pizza.

Nagoya, Japan

When I first arrived in Nagoya, Japan, the company I was flying for had prearranged a bilingual woman to show us the lay of the land. She was also going to accompany me shopping for the airplane. But, we still had a cultural barrier—it’s difficult when there are so many cultural differences.

You don’t want to offend anyone, yet a common habit
may indeed offend. You’re kind of afraid to get comfortable or relax because you might blow it like burp loudly or use a hand gesture that’s considered rude in another culture. Because of this we really wanted to be on our own when we got to the hotel. We were off duty, at least until the next flight. But sometimes we don’t have a choice.

We were invited to a special dinner, which again we didn’t really want to go to, but we were the guests of honor. We sat down at this elaborate table and tried to make conversation as best we could with the very limited Japanese we knew and their limited English. One of the pilots was speaking so loudly, I kept kicking him under the table. You know how when you’re speaking to someone and they don’t understand, you speak louder? Like that will help them understand? He was embarrassing.

As we were making our way through several courses of all kinds of foods, we were served a bird. The bird was hollowed out and stuffed with—well, I don’t know what it was stuffed
with, probably bird. It still had its feathers and was basically intact except for the eyes and innards. We knew enough etiquette to know we had to at least try the bird, but we also knew there was no way in hell we were eating bird. They wouldn’t bring the next course if you hadn’t finished the current one, and it seemed like we would never get through this dinner.

Smart chick that I am, I told one of my pilots to ask where the bathroom was and pretend he didn’t understand which really took no pretending at all. This would require the translator’s attention and create a diversion. While this was happening, I quickly scooped part of his bird and mine into my napkin and crammed it in my purse. The other pilot ate his bird and announced his delight with it—talk about a brown-noser!

Guatemala City, Guatemala

We were booked into a Marriott Hotel one time in Guatemala City. We only had a couple days and were told to stay in the hotel no matter what—which is always impossible for me to do. Yet going outside the hotel was not encouraged.

When I arrived at my room, I opened the curtains to see the view and there was a Chuck E. Cheese’s across the street. I was not expecting this, not in the least. It was odd. I went downstairs to meet the pilots and noticed many children in strollers. Then I noticed there were some “different” kinds of adults with these children.

The pilots and I were eating in the hotel restaurant and it became more obvious that the hotel catered to children in many ways. And every age group of children, from infants to older kids. I am probably one of the most curious people on the planet and decided to find out what the deal was.

I talked the pilots into having an after dinner drink in the lobby where I could hopefully find some adults willing to answer my questions. I found the sweetest couple with a toddler and an infant and I just asked them, “What’s the deal?”

Apparently, if the United States or other countries have rejected you as adoptive parents, Guatemala is where you go.
They explained to me some strange rules like you have to stay in Guatemala with the children for two weeks and then go home, childless. You can come back in one month and take the child home after some money is exchanged. If you want the child to have a United States passport then you have to come back and stay longer or pay more money or something to that effect. Anyhow, it explained the Chuck E. Cheese.

As I have told you, I’m not one to stay in the hotel. So my favorite pilot and I went walking around outside the hotel, although we didn’t go far because it was kind of creepy, if only because there were so many children begging for money. They lined the sidewalks and pushed and shoved and begged. I really couldn’t take it—it was so desperately sad.

Tokyo, Japan

Another adventure in dining in Japan was in a restaurant resembling a sushi bar. Instead of sushi we were served bamboo skewers with panko-fried food. There were one or two bite-size pieces of food per bamboo stick. Some things I recognized by
taste or consistency like mushrooms or vegetables. But some were slimy and disgusting. Most of them were unidentifiable.

The Japanese believe one should eat at least thirty different kinds of food per day, although fifty is desirable. Now I don’t think they were trying to feed us fifty kinds of food, but I think if one wanted to eat fifty kinds of food, the panko parade is the place to be. We had not a clue of what we were eating, nor how to stop the endless surprise on a stick without being rude. I just swallowed it down with a swig of beer.

Finally after consuming many glasses of beer to wash down the mystery food, our chief pilot put an end to it by expressing his desire to see a karaoke bar. So off to karaoke we went. I think it’s a requirement that you’re not able to carry a tune if you karaoke in Japan. Everybody is terrible, and it’s so hilarious! It is so humbling and accepting; everyone is just singing and laughing and de-stressing, I suppose. We were no different. We were belting out tunes with the worst of them, and it was a delightfully good time.

The next morning, I was packing to deadhead back to the United States and I broke a nail. When I opened my Crazy Glue, the glue came flying out straight into my eye. The pressure from the airplane had obviously built up and it was strong. My eye began to water like crazy and my makeup began to run down my face. When the pilots saw me, they were extremely worried. I looked like someone punched me, and black mascara was everywhere. They were concerned and thought I should see an ophthalmologist, but I insisted on getting back to the United States. We were heading to Anchorage overnight, so I suggested I could wait until we got there. We landed in Anchorage around two in the morning and the chief pilot took me to the emergency room while the other pilot “put the airplane to bed.” The doctor determined there was no permanent damage, but I had to wear a patch for a week and was teased mercilessly by the pilots.

New Orleans, Louisiana

On a layover in New Orleans it began to rain, and rain, and rain harder. It eventually escalated to a full-blown drenching
downpour. We had already decided we were going to have dinner at the famous landmark restaurant Commander’s Palace. Eager to experience the restaurant and not wishing to stay in the hotel, we decided to go despite all the rain. But, we did opt for a taxi instead of our planned trolley ride.

We had been shown to a table on the second floor and were delighted with the ambience, although it was really raining sideways against the building by now. We ordered and were chatting while we waited for our food. And all of the sudden, the lights went out. We had candlelight from the tables, but the staff quickly lit more. And then the server brought our entrées. He said that our plates were the last to come out of the kitchen before the power went out.

It was a delicious dinner but a wild night. A few minutes later the manager announced to all the patrons that basically the whole city was flooded and we would have to spend the night in the restaurant. Uh—I don’t think so. There was no way we were going to spend the night in this restaurant. We went downstairs
and were greeted by four feet of water inside the restaurant. Oh man, this was bad.

We went outside and discovered that the water was flowing very swiftly over the tops of the parking meters. You could just make out the top two or three inches of the parking meters. There were no cars moving and obviously no trolleys, just water rushing by. It was radical—I’d never seen anything like this, ever. Then I noticed what looked like a hotel shuttle bus that was kind of moving, but only a foot or so at a time. The bus was going forward and then it would stop. Then it would back up. We couldn’t figure out what the bus was doing. Since it was the only moving thing on the road, we decided to investigate.

I had a three-quarter-length summer dress. In order to cross the street and the hastening water, I had to tie my dress up at my waist. There I was, exposing my panties to everyone, but I was not sleeping in the restaurant. I was determined to get back to the hotel, as were the pilots. It was hard to stay upright because the water current was so strong. I only had the top third
of my body out of the water, not to mention fighting torrents of rain in my face. But I made it.

When we got to the door of the bus, we banged on it, it opened, and I jumped in. Inside were six drunk Texan oil tycoons! They exclaimed, “All right, the dancer is here!” The pilots stood there with this stupid look on their face, not believing these good ol’ boys were ogling me while they were standing there taking Mother Nature’s abuse.

We finally learned from the driver that the bus had a wheel stuck in the trolley tracks. It was immovable, couldn’t go forward, and couldn’t go back. I quickly negotiated a deal that if we would help them off the tracks, they would give us a ride back to Bourbon Street where our hotel was. It was a great tradeoff, although the Texans were disappointed that I would not leave my dress tied up.

One of the pilots stayed out in the drenching rain to guide the bus while the other pilot shouted commands to the driver. Then just like that, the bus was free. Now we had to make our
way from the Garden District to the French Quarter. It’s only a short cab ride, but it took two hours that night. The driver was afraid of getting trapped on the trolley tracks again, plus he couldn’t see anything in front of him. The rain was fierce and blinding. We eventually got back to the hotel where we discovered water in the lobby but that was as far as it went. Fortunately, our rooms were dry.

After we arrived home in Southern California, we learned that eighteen inches of rain had fallen in six hours. Five people died and 250 guests had to be rescued from, well, hmmm, go ahead make a guess. You got it: Commander’s Palace.

Abaco, Bahamas

We had started this trip out of Long Beach, California, and were to reposition the jet to Portland, Oregon, to pick up passengers on a commercial airline. Then we were to fly to Treasure Cay, which is Abaco, Bahamas. The Abaco islands are located on the northern side of the Bahamas and are known for sailing and boating. I can tell you that their beaches are pretty
amazing as well, pearly white sand and beautiful crystal clear water. Apparently the coral reefs aren’t too shabby either.

We were due to arrive after sunset. Treasure Cay is not usually open in the evening due to the heavy drug trafficking that is so prevalent throughout the Bahamas. But, of course, they made special arrangements for a private jet of our status. There was no fuel at Treasure Cay, so the pilots had to ascertain the amount we would require to insure our return to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, in order to clear customs and purchase additional fuel.

I had buttoned up the cabin and was sitting in my jump seat between the two pilots when we began our descent into Abaco. As often happens in this business, we ended up arriving well after sunset. I began to listen to the pilots intently because they believed we were indeed above the airport but did not have it “in sight.” It was pitch black beneath us. Nor was anyone answering the radio. We began to circle what we believed to be the airport beneath us, while constantly asking for advisement from the ground. Finally, we received a radio call asking if we
were the aircraft they were expecting. Why, yes we were, would you mind turning on some lights? The airport has lights; they just don’t use them to discourage drug smugglers.

Now we began our approach onto the runway. Everything seemed normal until about half the lights went out. Fortunately, we were still able to complete the approach and landed safely. It was only after parking the aircraft that the pilots had discovered what the issue with the lights was. Since the airport was rarely used, the local foliage had begun to grow abundant and had grown over the lights! Needless to say, we were all relieved to be on the ground. And I’m sure Treasure Cay realized they had some serious gardening to attend to.

After putting the airplane “to bed,” our greeting committee of one drove us to our hotel, which turned out to be individual condominiums right on the beach. We hurried to change and get to the bar for our much-anticipated drink. When we found the bar there was only the bartender, one other patron and our “greeter.” The greeter or host was explaining to us that
the drink in the Bahamas was a “Green Bay Smasher” and that we really needed to try it. Well—when in Rome. So we each had a Green Bay Smasher. And then we had another one. Maybe more than another one, I don’t really remember. But it became quite apparent why they are entitled “Smashers.”