More Confessions of a Hostie (3 page)

One of the male passengers who I have just served grabs me by the arm and begins complaining about the size of the meal, or its lack of size to be more accurate. One little tip for the travelling public: never grab a flight attendant by the arm, especially toward the end of an extremely long flight. Nothing good will ever come of it, trust me.

There are surely some things hosties can do in situations like this, when a passenger is extremely hungry and needs more food. For instance, we could offer the passenger another meal, provided one is left after we have served everyone else. However, grabbing a hostie's arm and demanding things is a definite deal breaker.

If someone has a genuine complaint or asks for my help nicely, and if there is something I can do to help them, I will go out of my way to do it. Most flight attendants would do the same. Ask for something unreasonable though, or in a manner that is totally offensive (like grabbing us) then the passenger will get very little indeed.

Airline meals are not large. They cannot be so. Aircraft manufacturers and airlines prioritise space allocation within a plane. Obviously engines and all the mechanical bits and pieces take first priority, then there is the emergency equipment, then the seats (and as many as they can fit), then toilets and somewhere down the pecking order are the galleys and the food and beverage stowages. It is impossible for any airline to load fourteen meal choices and five different services for each passenger on the flight.

Once, on an eight-hour flight, a woman complained bitterly to me that we were only offering her a dinner, a light snack, then a breakfast before landing.

Well, what the hell was she expecting? No commercial airline in the history of aviation can offer an eight-hour long buffet to its passengers. Most restaurants and cafés have a kitchen and storage area that's about a third of their dining area, and they only serve their diners one meal service. This woman is on an aircraft. The galleys are the size of a dog kennel, and yet over 350 passengers are going to receive dinner, a snack and breakfast – all from that one galley. Some people have way too high expectations.

I would have loved to take this woman by the hand and give her the three-second grand tour of the galley. ‘If you can find any space, and I mean space to put one extra muesli bar, let alone 350 muesli bars, please let us know,' I would have then asked of her.

Sometimes, passengers have legitimate grievances, but other times, their mouths react far more quickly than their brains should let them.

I have had to listen to the most absurd requests sometimes. Even on the flight to Hong Kong I received one such odd request. When I was about to do my safety demonstration, a young Chinese woman (we later referred to her as ‘Princess') asked me for a hair band. Although I had almost started with my safety demonstration and was in full safety-duties mode, I was still polite. ‘We do not carry hair bands on the aircraft. There may be a rubber-band or something somewhere, but I will only be able to look for one after we take off. I'll come back and see you when we are in the air,' I told her as courteously as one could.

‘Oh, I guess that will have to do. I suppose I can put up with having my hair down during take-off,' she replied as ungratefully as one could.

The poor dear. It must have been hell for her, tolerating her barely shoulder-length hair being untied for ten more minutes. After take-off, I ended up giving her a crew bag-tag, which has a stretchy band attached to the tag. I told her that she could remove the tag section, or she was most welcome to wear that in her hair if she so desired. She did not see the humour in my words. Nor did she thank me for helping her.

Recently I had a passenger who was very annoyed that we did not supply or sell batteries on the aircraft. I have no problem with someone asking if we have something, although the odds are we don't (sometimes, you never know). But this guy was really peeved when I shook my head.

‘Why don't you sell batteries?' he yelled.

‘Because you are travelling on a 747, not a 7-Eleven. Would you walk into the local bank and ask them if they sell sausages?' I wanted to yell back, but sometimes it works best to just shrug your shoulders and not speak a word. You can't get into trouble for something you didn't say, after all.

I am never rude to passengers with my words or mannerisms. I may think it, but I rarely say it or show emotion. Apparently communication is not so much about what you say, but about how you say it. I say it nicely even if I don't mean it. As polite as I appear to be, I know deep down that I am not rewarding bad behaviour.

The art of diplomacy is telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they think they will enjoy the journey – this is something that Danny, Dean's brother has taught me. And he has taught me well, indeed.

I see and hear so many rude comments that I have become somewhat immune to them. If I took to heart every rude and condescending thing that has been directed at me, I would have quit my flying career years ago.

I try to think of all the great passengers we have. They certainly outnumber the rude and the foolish, but sadly it is usually the rude and the foolish who take up so much of our time.

Just before we land, in the fleeting moments between being handed trash, more trash and yet more trash, I sneak a peek at the glorious sunrise outside, through a passenger window. What a beautiful sight it is watching the sun come up over the clouds.

In direct contrast to the serene sunrise is the state of the cabin I'm standing in. The cabin looks like it has been hit by a tornado. I have personally taken away armfuls of rubbish, and so have the other crew. The bins and compactors in the galley are overflowing, yet somehow the aisles and rows in the cabin look like the inside of a dumpster. They usually do look like that toward the end of a flight.

The staff who sat in our crew-rest seats are all very appreciative. All four make the effort to walk around the aircraft and personally thank the crew, a gesture we appreciate. I am pleased we were able to help them get home.

It is nice that I can get home myself now, I think.

Stepping off the aircraft is by no means the end of the day for cabin crew. Apart from assisting passengers with special needs, we then need to collect suitcases, clear customs, get out of the airport terminal, find our cars (which is sometimes the most time-consuming task for some) and finally drive home in a jetlagged and fatigued state.

When you work through the night and cross god-knows how many time zones as we do, you miss out on so much sleep – and since we do this over and over again, the effects are only accumulative.

And I wonder why I feel so worn out?

Logic and mathematics dictate that I must now sleep for twelve hours straight for my body to recuperate. Logic and mathematics don't count when you are an international flight attendant. My brain is hypoxic (lacking oxygen) and my body has its own separate agenda. I am exhausted. I take a sleeping tablet, and it knocks me out for four hours.

I fall asleep mid-morning and wake up around lunchtime. I had optimistically set my bedside alarm clock for a later time, hoping I could get a few more hours of sleep. That exercise proves to be a waste of time. It always does. Four hours is all I get, not a second more, not a second less.

I know that I will walk around in an incoherent state for the next five or six hours and then pass out. Will I then sleep through the night and wake up tomorrow morning feeling refreshed and suffering no jetlag or fatigue?

Not a chance in hell.

if i were any more affected by jetlag i might need watering twice a week

I only have three days at home before I fly again. It is not nearly enough time to recharge my batteries and function semi-normally, let alone normally. I know from my non-flying friends just how difficult it is to work on having a successful relationship; when you have a job like mine, it is damn near impossible.

It takes a very special partner or boyfriend to understand and accept the demands that a flight attendant's job can bring to the table. Fortunately I have such a boyfriend. But to say we have the perfect relationship would be wrong.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder? Not really. Distance makes the heart grow fungus, I joke.

I have been away for almost a week. Dean and I have talked via the internet several times and sent the odd email and text message, but it is not the same as physically being with someone. This is one part of my lifestyle that I find hardest to deal with – the separation. Most of the girls who fly and are in a relationship would agree with me. It is not just that you are away for so long that's the problem, but the condition you are in when you get home. Separation-anxiety dictates that you want to see your partner straight away, and your partner wants to see you just as much. When you are an international flight attendant, however, having such thoughts or expectations is a big mistake.

Family and friends want to talk to you, but I often get so deliriously tired that I don't want to even talk to myself. Experience has shown me to avoid all and sundry while I am jetlagged and drained. I would like to think that I am wise enough not to see Dean for at least a day after returning home.

However, Dean is busy throughout my few days of stay at home. He is free tonight though. My expectation of having the whole world revolve around my ability to function rationally is just not going to happen. My body feels like it has been run over by a steamroller (at least twice) and my brain is not capable of making decisions more complex than choosing what clothing to wear. I usually avoid everyone on the day I get home from a trip for a reason. But tonight's the only chance I have to meet Dean, and I'm not going to lose it.

Hell, what do I wear? The first decision one should make when exhausted is to decide not to make decisions. Simple chores like deciding what to wear become choices of life and death. What should take me five minutes takes me an hour. What should be simple becomes difficult. What should be pleasurable becomes annoying.

Sometimes I get so tired I don't know whether to laugh or cry; I usually end up doing both until I am rational enough to make a proper decision. I have often thought there should be a special place for international flight attendants to rest after a big trip away: a place where the rooms are dark, sound-proofed and can't be opened until you are rested enough to make rational decisions. It is then, and only then, that we can be unleashed into the world.

Dean has done all the right things. He has chosen a lovely little café we frequent often, and even wears one of the new Ralph Lauren shirts I bought him. He is polite, and he says he understands how I must be feeling. I can't help but chuckle to myself. The poor dear has no idea.

People who have travelled several times overseas think they know what jetlag and fatigue are like. They may have a notion, but their chances of comprehending just how lousy I feel are infinitely smaller than their chances of winning the lottery. In this last week I have been in four different cities in four different countries, each with their own time zones. Yes, that is the job and lifestyle I have chosen for myself, but no one can fully understand how I feel. Nor should they pretend to.

There is an old saying that goes like this: ‘wisdom whispers, foolishness shouts'. How I wish I had whispered that night. The night with Dean is an unmitigated disaster – and it is entirely my fault. I haven't seen Dean for over a week, so he is obviously keen to tell me about what has been going on in his world. I, however, have the attention span of a drunken goldfish. And drunken, I do become, for I have one glass of (white) wine and turn into a blithering idiot. I am embarrassed for myself.

I even try to do the right thing by swapping my wine for a double-shot latte in a desperate attempt to not only stay awake, but to stop slurring my words. In an ironic twist, the coffee I specifically ordered to stop me from making a fool of myself is the very same coffee I spill and send splashing all over the café's table, as well as onto Dean's new Ralph Lauren shirt.

‘Oh god, take me home,' I groan, embarrassed.

Fortunately, Dean understands. Or at least says he understands, even if he is a little embarrassed and more than a little annoyed. He does take me home, and as much as romance should be on the agenda, it is not going to happen.

I can't remember if I passed out before he said goodnight or after.

Any guesses what time I wake up? 2:15am, of course. I am so tired that I take a sleeping tablet and sleep for another four hours. Even after getting eight hours of sleep, I know from experience that I will still feel like an alien from another planet in the morning.

Maybe this time it will be different? It isn't. I know it never will be.

I call Dean with the intention of apologising for my antics during our date. He is obviously busy so I leave a voicemail message. Even though it is the next day and I am feeling a little more human, my message-leaving abilities are still impaired: I nervously blurt out semi-coherent ramblings about how sorry I am.

Sometimes when you are digging a hole, the more you dig, the more the sides fall in. This is not the first time I have made a fool of myself, and it will by no means be the last. I know that; Dean knows that; my best friend Helen knows that; my mother knows that.

Hell, even the postman knows that.

The sad reality is that I am exhausted and jetlagged, and this will cause me to say and do things I will later regret. I wish I could wave a magic wand and sleep for twelve hours after each trip, to then wake up and sing ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning; oh, what a beautiful day…', but that is never going to happen. While I am being so candidly honest, I must add another factor into this sleep-deprivation-and-jetlag-and-fatigue scenario – there is, of course, P.M.S., something most women have to contend with. When all the bad stars align (like they have today) and women's issues collide with coming home exhausted from a trip, then anyone in close proximity should run for their lives. Run, Forest, run, indeed.