Confessions of a Hostie 3

More true stories of an International Flight
Attendant

By Danielle Hugh

Copyright © 2014 Danielle Hugh

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CONTENTS

introduction

sleep
is at the top of my list of places I'd like to go back
to

the
party is smokin'

the
bigger the fool, the harder they fall

how
does the floor taste?

now
listen here...

for
some, knowledge comes and goes, but wisdom lasts
forever

zoo
stories

not
all alarms are false

changing times

don't expect a gold watch and lavish send off

when
you want something bad enough...

knowledge may be having the right answers; but intelligence
is asking the right questions

knowledge is knowing tomatoes are a fruit, but wisdom is not
putting them in a fruit salad

a
positive attitude

those who can laugh at themselves never cease to be
amused

sometimes sleep can come at a cost

digging a hole for yourself

some
are accidentally more foolish than others

in
the eye of the storm

sometimes you are too busy to contemplate just how busy you
really are

hop
to it

anger can be a cowardly extension of one's own
bitterness

kill
them with kindness

every now and then I wish I was wrong

breakfast travel stories

children's rights

don't lose sight of the bigger picture

chase down your passion like it is the last bus of the
night

When I was eleven I fantasized about being an
international hostie. I thought I had some idea of what the flying
life would be like. I had no idea at all. After twenty years of
flying around the world, I finally have an inkling. I'll even share
my experiences from when I first applied to the airlines
(unsuccessfully). Every story I am about to tell you is true and
every character you are about to meet is based on someone I know or
have met.

Welcome to more snapshots of my world.

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?

I have awoken in many hotel rooms around the
world not knowing which city I am in. To me, there is nothing
unusual about that, but what is most disconcerting is realizing I
am in
my own
bed. Could there be a
more defining moment for someone who spends so much time away from
home to not know my own bed?

I once said hotels are my second home. Maybe
my second home is actually
my own
home? Surely one day I'll wake in the early hours of the morning,
tired and hungry, grab the phone and attempt to ring hotel room
service - only to realize I'm in my own apartment. Don't get me
wrong, I love hotels, well, good hotels, it's just I love my own
home more.

My home is my sanctuary. After working a
sixteen hour night-day-night-again-day, four hours of sleep is not
nearly enough, but I am in my apartment; in my own bed.

I make a note to myself:
Dear sleep; I know we had a few problems when I was younger,
but I am so in love with you now.

I bury my head into my favorite pillow to
vegetate.

That's what being home is about: a day may be
lost, but a soul has been saved.

The hard thing about arriving home early in
the morning is sleeping while the rest of society is awake,
including friends, boyfriend, and family. I have some 'earthling'
shift worker friends, knowing what it is like to sleep during the
day. The big difference between their life and mine is: jetlag.
Jetlag is a beast - raising its ugly head - wrapping its tentacles
around your world - gripping oh so tight. There is nowhere to run
and nowhere to hide.

I love the word
irony
. Trying to explain to someone just how
horrible and intrusive jetlag is, while you are actually jetlagged,
is a verbal recipe for disaster. That's
irony
. It is like someone going to a psychiatrist
and being diagnosed with hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.

What, you say?

I'll explain:
Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia, which yes is a real phobia,
means:
having a fear of long words
.
Imagine being diagnosed with this condition - while the doctor was
halfway through telling you what the condition was, you'd be
totally freaking out.

That's
irony
.

My girlfriend, Helen, tells her own lovely
irony story: When her kids were very young they were in a bath
together. The youngest child picked up a bottle of Johnson &
Johnson No More Tears and hit the other one over the head with
it.

That's
irony
.

Please note that being jetlagged is like
being hit with every Johnson & Johnson product repeatedly.

Not every trip I do is so invasive, yet often
I'll suffer jetlag from one trip and not fully recover before doing
another. The jetlag is accumulative.

Someone once asked 'When you are in other
countries, why don't you just stay on your own home local
time?'

It sounds good in theory, but rarely works in
reality. My flying rosters are all over the place, both in where I
go and at what times I work. Sometimes I start work at midnight,
sometimes early in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the day
- often in countries having no time correlation to my home.

In the last month alone I have traveled to
five different continents; all with different time zones and
weather conditions. I've been north, south, east, and west - on the
equator, to the northern hemisphere and the southern. My routine is
no routine. Sometimes the very chaos I love becomes the chaos I
most detest. I don't know one international flight attendant who
doesn't whine about something - and that something is usually sleep
deprivation or jetlag (usually both). I love my job, but not all
aspects. Most who love their job would say the same.

When I'm with friends and family I rarely
complain about jetlag and exhaustion. They see it, they know. Those
neighbors seeing me come and go, and don't know I am an
international hostie, must think I am either a drug addict or I
have a twin sister who always looks drained and disorientated.
These are the two faces I must wear.

Finding enough days to have usable time at
home is a rarity. This is one of those rare times. I have a whole
week off. Yes, I've paid my dues, but a whole week? Yay.

Even taking into account jetlag (and a day or
two of looking like my fictitious twin sister), I still have plenty
of days to practice my favorite pastime - nothingness. Nothingness
is underrated.

How many jobs, when you're not on holiday,
can boast having seven successive days off?

The bliss.

Of course I cannot do nothing for a whole
week, so it's time to roll out
Danielle the
Entertainer
. It's been so long since I had a dinner
party and I've been told I host a very good party. I only need to
invite a handful of people, as often the more intimate the
occasion, the more fun had.

One of the real drawbacks of my lifestyle is
not being able to plan too much in advance. I am rarely home, and
even if I am, how am I going to feel? Consequently, most things are
done on short notice. I have come to nickname myself:
Last minute.com
.

My last minute social networking skills kick
into overdrive. First call is to my boyfriend Dean, as it usually
is. There is no point having a party to show-off the love of my
life if he can't make it.

Good news - he can make it. Even better news
is he thinks a party is a great idea.

With notepad in hand, I place my
first tick
next to Dean's name.
Next I ring my best friend Helen, inviting her and her hubby. Helen
also thinks a party is a great idea.

Tick two
.

Next to contact is Dean's brother Danny, a
fellow flyer. I'm reluctant to phone other flight attendants, never
knowing whether they're in the country or, if they are at home,
they might be sleeping or jetlagged. When I'm jetlagged the last
thing I feel like doing is chatting on the phone. I send a text,
inviting Danny and his wife Bernadette.

Two ticks, two
wait-and-sees
.

My next text is to my good friend, the
promiscuous and emotionally unstable Mary Gomez. Mary's nickname
within the airline is
Mary-go-round
(because every guy has had a ride). I think she has just started
seeing some guy. That was about three weeks ago, so she may have
had several new boyfriends come and go since then. One never quite
knows with Mary. I know she is away on a trip so I don't expect to
hear from her straight away.

To my surprise Mary texts back within
minutes.

She returns from her trip the day before my
scheduled party. Mary is still seeing the same guy - I think. She
mentions his name in the text:
Craig
. I can't be positive if Craig was the name
stated three weeks ago. Mary is always mentioning guy's names, yet
experience has taught me to remember lots of things in life, but
rarely does remembering Mary-go-round's many dates feature
prominently. If Craig is indeed the same fellow, then she received
my text, in a different time zone, contacted Craig, he responded
back, and then she has replied to me - all within five minutes.

Three ticks
,
two wait-and-sees

Several more texts to other hostie-friends
return differing results. I haven't caught up with my friend Sue
for some time. I didn't think she would make it. She can't, yet I
feel better for inviting her. Sue is good friends with another
flyer, Damien. We have done plenty of memorable trips together.
Only a month-or-so ago Damien and I had a great trip, yet, like
most of the flights he is on, there were dramas-a-plenty. Even so,
I really like him. I send him a text.

Damien responds, being able to make my little
party. I'm aware Damien has a partner, I recall his name is Stuart.
I haven't met him, although I know he doesn't fly. I text my
address details, who is likely to come, and invite Stuart. Damien
texts back, confirming his partner would love to come.

Four ticks, eight
people, two yet to respond
.

Now I have some party decisions to make:
eight or more people are too many to sit down and dine in my small
apartment. It looks like it will be a standup affair. Finger-food
was always going to be the easier option - now it's a
no-brainer.

Whether eight, ten, or more, I am really
looking forward to the opportunity to relax with my friends. I
might even see if Dean wants to invite any of his friends. I may
even invite my neighbors.

I can't wait.

One small apartment - 16 people - six days of
planning - two days of cooking - two glasses of wine.

I'm ready to party.

Danny and his wife Bernadette have come, as
too friends of Dean, even my next door neighbors have joined the
fun. I have met Mary-go-round's new beau, Craig - and he is really
nice. Most of the guys Mary date are handsome, yet within a
millisecond of meeting them I can tell there is something wrong;
some demons, some damage. Craig seems normal in every sense - and
he adores Mary. She is a tad drunk, she was when she walked in.
Mary is always drunk socially. Often her moods swing like a
pendulum, but tonight she is in the zone; funny, quirky, and, by
Merry-go-round's standards, even a little bit reserved.