Flying with the Rich and Famous: True Stories from the Flight Attendant who flew with them (8 page)

By the end of the flight, after all the other passengers had deplaned, Dean Martin had to be carried out on a stair chair—he was just too drunk to walk. I have read that Dean only drank apple juice on stage with the Rat Pack, that he only began to drink scotch after his son died. But I have also read he drank scotch on stage. Who really knows? It was a sad way to say goodbye, but at least I got to meet him.

ROGER PENSKE

I was asked if I could fly an extended Pacific Rim trip for Roger Penske, a major player in the car-racing world. Roger has been involved in every aspect of car racing from NASCAR to
Formula One, but at this time, he was famous for the Indy circuit with his Marlboro cars and drivers winning races right and left. In fact, Roger Penske owns the most successful Indy car racing team to date. He is now chairman of the Penske Corporation, which owns several business entities, including Penske Automotive Group with over 300 car dealerships, Penske Racing and Penske Truck Leasing. His revenues exceed 1.1 billion and he employs over 36,000 people worldwide.

We were leaving from Long Beach, California, and I was very excited, as it would be my first time to places like Taiwan (I saw a huge silk batik of an Asian elephant hanging behind the counter in a small shop in Taiwan and refused to leave without it) and Singapore. I had flown Roger Penske on another company’s jet and knew he was a dear man. In fact, the planet would be far better off if more men were like Roger Penske.

When traveling overseas, an experienced flight attendant will prepare for the unexpected, so I purchased a variety of items,
just in case, along with my usual list of staples. Because I am such a fan of Asia and always impatient to get there—this is just idiotic -I arrived at the airport way before my “show” time and began to prepare the galley and cabin.

As I looked about I felt something was missing, but could not put my finger on it, so I just kept working. I put things in their places and arranged the flowers, but all of the sudden it hit me: Oh no! I left all the perishables in my refrigerator at home! Panic! Panic! Panic! Ok, wait, slow down, and take a deep breath. What are you going to do? You stupid, blonde moron. What an idiot! At that point my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest and flop around on the floor. Panic! Panic! Panic! Take another deep breath or you’re going to pass out.

All right, let’s see, you’ve got to go back and get it, you just don’t have a choice, and fortunately you’re really early. Maybe not so idiotic, after all. All right then, where’s my car? Crap! They’ve already parked it! (Some of the FBOs are so nice
to the flight attendants and pilots that after we’ve unloaded our luggage and supplies, the rampers will park our cars inside the hangar so we have clean vehicles upon our return—the perks of flying the rich and famous!

Okay, then I have to take a car from the FBO. Oh no, there’s going (there is always traffic on this particular section of freeway!) to be traffic. Ok, I have to use the carpool lane, but I’ll need another person. Wait, remember Julio, the janitor? Get him! Ok, I see the manager over there. I’ll get a car from him, grab Julio on my way out and hit the carpool lane. That is my only option.

I screamed my problem to the ground manager, got the keys to a crew car (cars that the FBOs let flight crew borrow in lieu of renting), grabbed a frightened Julio (I actually grabbed the mop out of his hand and stuck it in the bucket) and drove like a maniac back to Newport Beach only to realize the keys to my house were on my key ring in my car in the hangar! I should just
shoot myself now and forget about it.

I prayed like no one has ever prayed before that I had left the kitchen window open a tiny bit like I usually do. Then again, if I was a smart chick (and clearly I’m not), I would have closed the window before I left on a twelve-day trip. Please let me have forgotten to close the window. When I turned the corner to my house I immediately looked up at my kitchen window—and it was cracked open! This smart/stupid, stupid/smart gig was really stressing me out. After I shimmied through the kitchen window and retrieved the groceries, I came out the front door and noticed the expression on Julio’s face: he looked like he was in a horror flick. Julio didn’t speak much English, and I don’t think he knew where he was going or why. My speed-demon driving probably scared the pants off him, not to mention watching me breaking and entering. We made it back to the hangar uneventfully (although, Julio almost broke his leg trying to get out of the car , literally getting his leg caught in the seat belt) and I began to put
the rest of the groceries away. With all that I had been through, I was still ready over an hour early.

Our first stop was Anchorage, Alaska for fuel and to change pilots, but I stayed with the plane. You couldn’t have torn me out anyway, no way. Roger Penske was just as he had been before: very gracious and polite—like the sweet neighbor kid who lived next door when you were growing up, except this guy is smart, exceptionally intelligent with a never-ending zest for life, and a ginormous bank account. He used the plane like a hotel. We flew at night while he slept, and when we arrived in a new city, he was ready to conquer the world, or at least the Pacific part of the world.

One of the countries we visited was Jakarta, Indonesia. On the drive from the airport to the hotel, I saw overwhelming poverty. There were dilapidated buildings, rundown shacks and people loitering about everywhere, especially children. But when we arrived at the hotel, everything changed.

In Asia, there is a keycard box inside your room. Put the card in and the power turns on; remove it and it turns off. You cannot waste electricity. When I put my keycard in the box, the drapes slowly opened outward, the stereo came on low, the lights came on dim, and the television came on with no sound. It was late at night and I was perplexed. Gradually, I became mesmerized by my surroundings. The room was glowing with ambience; there was a huge bathtub to my right and a separate shower to my left. I was standing in the middle of an enormous bathroom, yet I hadn’t entered the bedroom. It was a long elevator ride up, but I wasn’t expecting such a view. It was magnificent, a spectacular surprise and an awe-inspiring moment never to be repeated. I ordered a glass of wine from room service, sat at the desk and wrote myself a note reminding myself why I do this, forsaking my family and personal life. When we finally made our way to the Gold Coast of Australia, Mr. Penske was off to the Australian Grand Prix and the pilots and me to our
hotel. Thirty minutes after I walked into my hotel room, there was a knock on my door. It was a special delivery—Roger Penske had given each of us full credentials to the race! We watched it from his suite directly over the track, all the while schmoozing with his friends and colleagues. When we wandered down into the pits, he immediately acknowledged us and introduced us to all kinds of people, and we sort of hung out with him. We had a blast, and it was an outstanding day.

On our return flight to Long Beach we had to stop for fuel in Pago Pago, American Samoa. As we began our approach, the beauty of the island became clear. The forest green of the rising volcano contrasts with the flat, incredibly white sand beaches and bright blue, crystal clear ocean. The runway was parallel to the ocean and it looked as if the waves were going to lap up and over it. I would have loved to spend the night and explore the island, but all we did was get off and walk around to stretch our legs. Someday I intend to go back.

Once in the air again, I adjusted all the seats to make sleeping berths for my four passengers. That left nowhere for me to sit or sleep, except my jump seat, which is very uncomfortable for sleeping. Eventually, I rearranged all the briefcases in the forward closet, took the coats off of the hangers, padded them around the brief cases and sat down. I was out. I slept, as did my four passengers, almost the entire way to Honolulu. It had been a long trip and everyone was exhausted. When I awoke, I had to pry my butt off the briefcases; somehow it had adhered. Awaiting us in Honolulu were two fresh pilots because the others were dead tired and in need of a long rest.

I had been home about a week from this trip when there was a knock on my front door. I opened it and was greeted by another special delivery. This one was a huge box with an envelope from Roger Penske. He had written a letter to me and the pilots complimenting our service, timeliness, courtesy, and professionalism. The box itself contained all kinds of “Penske”
mementos—sweatshirts, t-shirts, jackets, and hats. See, I told you he was a great guy. Nice guys finish first.

DIONNE WARWICK

On another cross-country trip, I was fortunate enough to have pop singer Dionne Warwick on my flight. She was the sweetest, most down-to-earth famous woman I had yet to meet.

Dionne Warwick is probably best known for collaborating with composer Burt Bacharach on classic songs like “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” and “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.” And perhaps you all know she is Whitney Houston’s cousin. She later did a stint on Donald Trump’s television show
Celebrity Apprentice
, but seemed quite different from the woman I’d met years earlier.

I thought she was lovely. She asked me questions about everything and was genuinely interested in my answers and my life. A lot of celebrities are all about themselves, but not Dionne
Warwick. She had me talking about myself most of the time. (To be fair, I usually don’t have a problem with this.) I don’t know why she cared about me, but she did. By the time we landed in New York, I knew nothing about her, yet she knew everything about me. I think she might have outsmarted me!

When she asked me what my plans were for the layover, I told her I was going shopping at Bloomingdales. I had yet to cruise through that shopping Mecca and was eager to see what all the hoopla was about. Her animated response was about how blooming awesome Bloomies was. Then she asked if I wouldn’t mind picking something up for her. Well, of course I wouldn’t! I would be delighted to be Dionne Warwick’s personal shopper! I didn’t know it but Bloomingdales had underwear with the word “Bloomies” embellished across the butt. Apparently they were quite popular at the time, and Dionne wanted some. So I set off to explore Bloomingdales, bought myself things I couldn’t afford and her blooming underwear.

When she arrived at the aircraft for the return flight, she was wearing the most elegant full-length mink coat. Feeling like she and I were pals by now, I asked Ms. Warwick if I could try it on. She not only allowed that, but insisted I wear it. “I can wear your mink? Because, you know I will.” And wear it I did—the entire flight. Okay, except for the meal service—I had to take it off for that. It would have really sucked, if I had spilled salad dressing on her mink coat.

Actually this coat was far better off on me than hung safely in the closet. In winter, every person had at least one coat, and there simply was not enough room for them. There were times when we jam-packed so many $20,000 mink coats in the closet, hangers were not required—they held themselves up. Some celebrities even traveled with more than one, like heaven forbid they should be seen in the same coat twice. There had to have been days when the rear closet was worth more than the airplane itself! When this happened, any unused space was game
for coat hanging. I wonder what the Federal Aviation Administration would have said if they discovered that I lined the life rafts with coats. Well, if you’re gonna ditch an airplane…

When I gave Ms. Warwick the bag with the “Bloomies” underwear, she took out half and gave them to me! I loved those underwear. I wore them with huge amounts of self-importance because, after all, Dionne Warwick had bought them for me. I wore them until they turned into thongs, and then into dental floss, actually, I have one on right now…

DIANA ROSS

At one point in my career, I was flying to New York and back to Los Angeles on the same day, otherwise known as “turns.” These are brutally long days, and it can be difficult not to get cranky, crabby, or impatient on the return to LA, but the return trips were always the best flights because the workday was over for the passengers, and they were ready to party.

One morning while getting ready for another lengthy date with the sky I was disappointed because they were no “good” names on my manifest. I had become spoiled by now as I had flown with so many celebrities—most of my flights included at least one famous or well-to-do person of interest. I would scan the manifest to see who was seated where, in case I had to prepare to battle over serving my favorite celebrity or football hero or Wall Street icon. So, on this rather dull morning I wasn’t all that excited about working a fourteen-hour day in 2 percent humidity.

Just before closing the main cabin door, a late arrival came slowly up the stairs—Diana Ross. Diana Ross, one of the “Supremes” and a soul legend, a Motown mogul, probably best known for an amazing song, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” Diana Ross glided across the airplane in this bright outfit with a cape-like jacket that billowed and flowed behind her. The ensemble of yellow and green was vibrant and vivid, almost
glowing with a chartreuse blaze. Her hair was big, huge actually—all black and frizzy. Because of the static onboard the airplane her hair really stood up, it was four times the size of her head. Remember the eighties? Everything was big: hair, earrings, shoulder pads, marijuana joints and lines of cocaine!

She sashayed onboard like she was someone, who of course she was and reeked of the perfume of the decade: Giorgio. She must have sprayed her whole outfit, because that airplane smelled like Giorgio all the way to New York and back to LA. A pet-peeve of mine: if you are going to be in an enclosed space, do not apply excessive amounts of cologne or perfume and asphyxiate the rest of us! Some of you need to learn this right now.

Ross was unapproachable. I believe she felt superior to everyone else. Graciousness was almost nonexistent. She would not look me in the eye (another pet peeve of mine) and ordered us around like we were her servants. She was impatient and rude
which made her ugly and unattractive to me. She would have made an outstanding Wicked Witch of the West.