Galley Gossip: Airline Bashing, bringing the world together

by Heather Poole on

“So what do you do for a living?” asks…oh…whoever it is asking that day, which on this day happened to be a client of my husband, a very important client with a very impressive job.

“I’m a flight attendant,” I say with a smile.

The two second pause, that’s usually the initial response from the person asking the question about my job. During this never ending pause, I always find myself holding my breath, because the pause is always followed by one of two responses, and nine times out of ten it’s not the good response.

  • The good response: Is full of excitement and ends with an exclamation mark. It goes something like this; “I’ve always wanted to be a flight attendant!” or “My sister is a flight attendant!” And always leads to a very nice conversation about travel, which then leads to other interesting topics related to travel.
  • The bad response: Always starts with the same four words, “On my last flight…” which is then followed by another pause, accompanied with a weird look, which of course leads to a very bad story about the last flight. Needless to say, the conversation usually doesn’t go so well after this. How can it? I’ve now been linked to the worst flight this person has ever had. No matter how well we’d just been getting along.

“Computers,” said a friend, and CEO of a well known watch company that I worked for thirteen years ago. “I always tell people I’m in computers and then they leave me alone. Try it.”

“Oh I hate telling people what I do for a living,” said Mark, a fellow coworker, as we stood in the first class galley of a New York to Los Angeles flight, a flight I wasn’t working. We were talking about the job, and what people tend to think of those of us who do the job, which is the main reason Mark hates talking about the job with those who work on the ground.

Flight attendants aren’t the only ones who dread talking about it. On a flight a few years back, when things weren’t nearly as bad as they are now in the aviation industry, a super 80 co-pilot once confessed, “I never wear my uniform outside the house. I don’t want my neighbors knowing what I do for a living. When I get to the airport I change clothes.”

“Really?” I asked the first officer who, at the time, seemed a little…well…weird. I mean this was a pilot – A PILOT! Something to be proud of.

Now, years later, I often think of that guy when I’m dressed in my uniform and not on the airplane, the guy who may not have been so weird after all. Perhaps somehow he knew something about the future of aviation we could not imagine back then when things were…well…good, even though back then we still didn’t think things were all that great.

Like most flight attendants, I miss the good old days, but I still love my job, even if I’m selling sandwiches down the aisle and constantly apologizing because we don’t have this and we don’t have that to a full flight of miserably cramped passengers. Otherwise I wouldn’t do it. I certainly don’t have to do it. Really, I don’t. I want to do it and I like doing it. Which is why I’m going to tell you something I told my husband five years ago while we were seated across a dimly lit table from each other on our second date. I won’t quit. Ever! Oh yeah, I’ll be one of the ones using the drink cart like a walker forty years from now. Why? Because I love my job, remember? So it’s a shame that talking about the job has become such a sore spot with so many people.

“You’re the new whipping girl,” said Margo Candela, one of my few friends who does not work at 35,000 feet for a living. She said that after I had told her how people usually react when I tell them I’m a flight attendant.

“Whipping girl?” I repeated, because this was news to me. I’d never been called that before. In fact, I’ve been called everything BUT that, so whipping girl sounded nice, for a change, and also kind of exciting. “Whipping girl,” I said again, because I just liked saying it, and couldn’t stop saying it, as I imagined myself, the girl, actually holding the whip, as I stood in the aisle surrounded by passengers. “So what do you mean, exactly, by whipping girl?” I asked Margo, even though I had a pretty good idea what she meant, which I knew wasn’t at all like what I was fantasizing about.

“What I mean,” said Margo, the writer. “Is nowadays the dislike for airlines and ticket prices are the only thing people can agree on. It brings the world together. Trashing airlines, customer service, you name it, is a fairly safe and enthusiastic topic of conversation. For instance, I won’t talk religion or politics with some people, but airline complaints are fair game.”

It was an ah-ha moment. Everything Margo said made sense. And guess what, she actually made me feel better, so much better, in fact, I could go on with my day and face whatever negativity that might come my way with a first class smile on my face.

So go ahead, say what you like about me, my job, my coworkers, it’s okay. Because we’re doing great things with our lives. Yeah, I said it, great things, people! I mean how many of you are actually bringing this crazy mixed up world together by creating a unified hatred not based on religion, race, or political belief, but by working in an industry that’s struggling just to stay afloat? I mean who would have thought that one job could spark so much emotion? From so many people. And from all walks of life!

Now seriously, why can’t we all just get along?

Please!

Because we’re all stuck in the flying tube together.

Galley Gossip: Snacks on the plane

by Heather Poole on

“Diet Coke,” says the passenger after I ask him what he’d like to drink. While I’m filling a plastic glass full of ice, he asks the question I hoped he wouldn’t ask, “Can I get a sandwich?”

“Oh…ummm…I’m sorry.” I make a face, the I’m-sorry face, because I am sorry. Really, I am. I’m sorry I have to say I’m sorry all day long. “We ran out,” I continue, and before I can tell him that we actually ran out of anything and everything edible on the airplane, he asks “What else do you have?”

I take a deep breath, because I really don’t want to tell this guy we have nothing, not one thing, so I make the face again, the I’m-sorry face, and decide to make light of the situation. “Diet Coke. Sprite. Diet Sprite. Pepsi. Diet Pepsi. Orange juice. Apple Juice.” He’s looking at me like I’m crazy, so I make the face again, oh you know the one, and say, “I’m sorry, but we ran out of everything. There’s no more food.”

“What do you mean there’s no more food!”

“We ran out of food,” I say again, as I oh so gently place a can of Diet Coke and a glass of ice on his tray table. What I don’t say is that we ran out of food hours ago, due to the fact the passengers were starving because of the hour and a half weather delay we took on the ground. What this passenger and I do not know, and will not know for another hour, is we’re going to have another hour and a half delay in flight because the airport in New York is closed due to more bad weather . “Sorry,” I say again, and I am, sorry I’m forced to say sorry all day long.

“This is ridiculous!”

I agree, it is ridiculus, but that’s the way it is.

Last week Iva Skoch wrote about Passengers Revolting on a flight out of Beijing that was canceled due to weather. Fifty-two pasengers refused to leave the aircraft, so they slept on the plane for over twelve hours. “The biggest irony,” Iva wrote, “And something I can’t see happening on America’s cash-strapped airlines, the flight attendants kept serving food and drinks to the protesters.”

Well there are two reasons you won’t see flight attendants in America serving drinks and food to “protesters” onboard a canceled flight throughout the night until the wee hours of the morning, when the airline is finally able to get people onboard another aircraft.

  1. No food. At least there’s not enough to serve to everybody onboard. Sorry. These days flights aren’t catered full. Why? Don’t ask me. I’m just the messenger. But I’m sure it has something to do with those silly fuel prices. But who wants to eat airplane food that’s been sitting on an airplane for hours anyway? We’re talking astronaut food, people! We’re talking there’s a reason the fruit in first class doesn’t turn brown by the end of the flight.
  2. No money. Flight attendants aren’t making a dime until the aircraft door has been shut and the airplane has backed away from the gate. Now keep in mind we’ve already worked the first hour of our day for free, which is by far the most chaotic part of flight – boarding. And you’re right, we did agree to work that first hour for free when we took the job, but there’s no way, no freakin way, we’ll work one hour more. Would you?

Which brings me to the point of this post (there is one, I promise) – snacks. I’m talking food. You should bring some the next time you travel. At least something. Anything! An apple, a cereal bar, instant oatmeal, whatever.

I know exactly what you’re thinking. Why should you have to bring your own food when you paid for a ticket? Because you paid for a seat. That’s it. And as soon as you realize that, the better your flying experience will be. I’m sorry (always sorry) but that’s the reality of the situation. Unfortunately traveling today is like a real life episode of Survivor. You never know what’s going to happen next and you never know when you’re going to eat again.

Oh I know it’s inconvenient to pack food. Trust me, I’m right there with you, carrying a white plastic grocery bag full of Jiffy peanut butter to-go, a brown banana, two slices of multi-grain bread, and an old package of instant oatmeal, as I undress my way through security and make my way through the terminal – Just in case! Forget the clothes, the books, the DVD – pack the food! Mechanicals, weather delays, and cancellations do happen, and they happen often.

Take my five hour flight yesterday that turned into seven and a half hours of starvation for the people onboard who didn’t bring food, or purchase food when they had the chance. Me, I had a chorizo and egg breakfast burrito from La Salsa at the San Diego airport early that morning and I was STILL starving by the end of that flight! I actually got down on my hands and knees and dug through a dirty first class cart looking for something, anything, to get me through the last hour. But there was nothing – not one thing to be had. Which is why most flight attendants I know always – ALWAYS – bring their own from home.

Oh hold on a sec, my cell is ringing… “Hello?”

“Flight Attendant Poole?” asks the stern voice on the other end.

Oh no. The company. What now? “Yes, this is flight attendant Poole.”

“Your flight to San Francisco tonight has been delayed.”

Galley Gossip: Flight attendant vacation – Venice (Cannaregio)

by Heather Poole on

You’ve thought about going to Venice. Come on, admit it. Don’t deny it. Of course you immediately talked yourself out of it, considering you absolutely detest crowds and tourist traps. Yet Venice, you must admit, does look magical, like the kind of tourist trap you should see at least once in your life. But the problem is you can’t stand crowds and tourist traps. And that’s a problem. A very big problem.

For me, too!

When a flight attendant takes a vacation, the flight attendant will do everything possible to avoid anything that resembles a layover. Layovers equate to work. Yeah, I know, work ain’t so bad when you’re laying over someplace nice, but at the same time, laying over somewhere nice usually means you’re at a chain hotel surrounded by chain restaurants, not too far from the airport. Of course, life could be worse, I know. But when you’ve been doing the layover-chain-thing for thirteen years, it doesn’t matter where you are – New York, Paris, Rome – it all starts to look the same. Which is why a flight attendant looks for something different, someplace unusual, somewhere special, when it comes to a vacation – wherever that vacation may be.

When I went to Venice in May, I stayed in Cannaregio, otherwise known as the Jewish Ghetto. You don’t have to be Jewish to stay in the ghetto. And don’t let the word “ghetto” fool you, because this ghetto, is unlike any other ghetto. It’s amazing. And quiet. And tourist free. Okay fine, as tourist free as a tourist trap can be.
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I knew Cannaregio was the place for me when I read in Frommer’s Italy 2008 the following…
“It’s outer reaches are quiet, unspoiled, and residential (What high season tourist crowds, you may wonder?) One third of Venice’s ever shrinking population of 20,000 is said to live here…”
So where, exactly, did I stay in Cannaregio? See that picture on the right? That’s where. At the hotel Ai Mori D’Oriente, a small Turkish hotel located on a quiet canal, just a fifteen minute walk from the Rialto Bridge. Where did I eat? When we weren’t enjoying the complimentary breakfast of fresh fruit and salami and ham on a crusty roll at the hotel (the husband was in heaven), or the pizza, anywhere pizza could be found, which was pretty much everywhere, we’d go wherever Guido, the concierge at the hotel, suggested.
“You want something rustic, some place not too much money, someplace I’d go?” he asked, looking at my heavy travel book with disdain.
The husband and I nodded frantically, as I placed the 2008 edition of Frommer’s Italy back in my bag. It was a big bag.
Not once did one of Guido’s recommendations let us down. Especially the night we visited Osteria Ai 40 Ladroni (right down the street/canal from the hotel) where I found myself sitting at a candlelit table under the stars, beside a quiet canal, surrounded by other tourists looking for something not-so-touristy, immersed in a small plate of heaven – gnocchi with crab smothered in a delicate tomato sauce.
Did I just use the word delicate? I did. It was delish!
I don’t need to remind you that Cannaregio is in Venice, not too far from everything you ever wanted to avoid. Yet won’t. Because even that is a must see. But then, as soon as you’ve had enough (which won’t take long), it’s back to the ghetto for you, where all of the other tourists who don’t like tourists find themselves. On your brisk walk back to the hotel, make sure to run into a loaf of crusty bread, a bottle of olive oil, a hunk of cheese, and half a pound of salami at the local grocery store, the store where you see that little yappy dog staring intensely into the window. Trust me, this will be one of the best (and cheapest) meals you’ll ever experience. In your room. Away from the crowds. Don’t worry about all those calories, you’ve already burned them off walking from San Marco Square back to the peace and quiet. And yes, you really do need to experience Venice. At least once in your lifetime. For the gnocchi alone.

Galley Gossip: Plane Crazy

by Heather Poole on

Okay where’s crazy?

That’s what I’m thinking to myself while boarding a flight dressed in navy blue polyester. I’m standing at the rear of the aircraft keeping an eye on bags and overhead bins as I smile and say, “hello, how are you, welcome,” to passengers who look upset as soon as they see just how far back they’re seated. (Hey, someone has to sit there) While I’m explaining to a passenger that yes, his seat does recline, even though he’s in the last row, I find myself wondering if this is crazy. Because crazy is here. Somewhere. I just don’t know where.

Yet.

In Jeff White’s post, Drunk American Airlines passenger grabs flight attendant butt…in front of wife, he asked the question, “Can somebody out there please tell me what is with these people going crazy on flights?”

Yeah, and after you tell Jeff, could you please tell me? Because if anyone needs to know it’s me! The flight attendant. The one who has to deal with crazy.

Oh hold on a second, a passenger is flagging me down…

“Excuse me, ma’am,” A young woman hands me a boarding pass. “Someone is in my seat.”

I look at her seat, 35E, and she’s right, there is a passenger occupying her seat, which is a little weird, considering it’s the second worst seat on the aircraft, right in front of the worst seat on the aircraft – the middle seat in the last row. And what’s even more strange, it turns out, is the person sitting in the seat actually shows me a boarding pass for another seat, which is a very good seat – an aisle seat at the front of the aircraft.

“I’m not moving,” says the preppy woman who is not moving from the second worst seat on the airplane.

Hmm…could this be crazy? I wonder, as the woman explains the reason she’s not moving is because she wants to sit in the back, so she can see the movie, even though there’s a movie screen near her seat up front.

While she’s explaining this to me, a man sporting a handlebar mustache approaches, looks at the woman who is still talking, and says, “I think you’re in my seat, Ma’am.” Of course he does not have a boarding pass to prove that this is, in fact, his seat, that he “thinks” she’s in.

I sigh. And while I’m asking the woman to go back to her seat so I can figure out exactly who is supposed to be in this freakin seat, Mr. sweet stache walks to the back of the airplane and plops down on the floor, placing an overstuffed backpack between his long legs.

“Don’t worry,” he calls from the floor. “I’ll just camp out here during the flight.” And he smiles.

I turn around, not smiling, because he has said this as if he means it, which leads me to wonder, could this be crazy? Because it’s kind of crazy he thinks he’s going to sit there. On the floor. In front of the lavatory. Beside my jumpseat. Yeah. I think not.

While I turn my back from the woman sitting in the wrong seat, I try to explain to the man now on the floor that he can not sit there during flight, that he has to actually sit in a seat because of the little metal thing that goes click, that thing we call a seat belt, and while I’m trying to get through to this guy, he gets to his feet and starts walking up the aisle, like he knows exactly where he’s going, which is not to a seat.

Oh no.

From the back of the airplane I watch as he briskly walks up the aisle, through business class, all the way up to first class, where I’m told he stopped in the middle of the cabin and said, and he said this very loudly, “Okay fine I’ll eat your crappy first class food now!”

Umm…what? Now? Opposed to when? Yeah, this is definitely crazy. We’ve got crazy on the plane. And if he doesn’t settle down, we’ll be walking crazy off this airplane.

Later on in the flight, I’m standing in the business class galley when a passenger from coach whips the curtain back and asks if she can buy a business class entree. She holds up a wad of crumpled bills. I ask her if they ran out of food in coach and she tells me no, as she stares at my cheese panini lying on the counter, the one I brought from home. While I’m telling her that we don’t SELL business class food, due to the fact that people traveling in business have already paid for the food, and actually eat the food, she interrupts with, “Can I just buy a roll or something!”

I don’t even have time to figure out what to say to that, because as she’s straightening out a crumpled bill, the man with the stache walks out of the lavatory. His pants are undone. And he’s headed this way.

I gulp. Turn around. Grab a rock hard roll. And pray he’ll keep walking. Please keep walking!

“Water,” he says, pushing past the woman who wants a roll, and enters the galley where he decides that this is the place to zip up the pants.

O-kay. Water it is. As I reach for a plastic cup, I see out of the corner of my eye a brown leather belt whip into the air. Oh god. My heart is pounding. I pray he’s not too crazy, just a little crazy, because I really don’t want him strangling me over the second worst seat he could not sit in or the the crappy first class food he did not eat.

“Here ya go,” I say, eyeing the belt in his hand.

The belt is placed next to my panini and he downs his drink. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, looking at the belt that is still lying next to the panini as he leans up against the counter. He’s making me nervous. Very nervous. As we both stare at the belt.

“Coffee?” he says.

“Sure!” Happy for the distraction, I turn around and peek into the empty coffee pot. Great. I smile. “I’ll brew a new pot and bring it to you.”

“Forget it!” He grabs the belt, loops it around his waist, and disappears.

For now.

I sigh. Because that was crazy. Or am I crazy? I can’t tell anymore.

“Yeah, umm, can I get that roll?” asks a voice from behind me.

Galley Gossip: Flight Attendant Pet Peeve #2: Back to your seat, please!

by Heather Poole on

Socks on the airplane have been the subject of many conversations in the galley. As well as the cause of a flight attendant nightmare or two. Personally, I don’t care what you wear – shoes, socks, even no socks – but it’s where those shoes (socks and even no socks) are headed that bothers me. Why? Because they’re wandering up and down the aisle and into the lavatory. And…umm…you do realize that’s not water on the bathroom floor, right?

The socks have just exited the bathroom and have now entered the galley.

“Excuse me, miss, can I get a glass of water?”

“Of course,” I say, as I place my lunch on the counter and try not to flinch when I see the socks. I reach for a plastic cup and a bottle of water as you inch your way closer to me. I smile. You smile. We’re both smiling as you slowly bounce up and down on the toes, jangling loose change in the pocket.

“Here you go,” I say, handing you the glass, but before I can even twist the cap back on the bottle of spring water, you say, “A little more, please.”

“Oh sure.” I untwist and pour. Hey, you don’t have to explain it to me. The glass is small. You’re thirsty. I get it. That’s fine.

But now you’re peeking inside an insert. I imagine you’re thinking to yourself, hmm…what do we have in here? Just orange juice and dry ice, I want to say, but don’t, because that’s when I notice you’re eyeing a cup of lemons and limes with a little too much intensity. I’m just about to ask you if you’d like one, when I watch in horror as a hand reaches inside and takes a few.

You smile at me, so I smile back at you, even though I no longer feel like smiling due to the fact you’ve just stuck your hand in there without asking, a hand that recently exited the lavatory before entering the galley. I make a mental note to toss the lemons and limes as soon as you leave. Then I find myself wondering if you’re ever going to leave, because you’ve just placed your empty cup on the counter and you’ve decided to enjoy the view outside by cupping your hands around the small port hole located on the other side of the galley. Now I can’t breathe. Why? You’re still in the galley. Don’t you know it’s against federal aviation regulation to loiter around the galleys and lavatories. Didn’t you hear the captain’s PA?

Guess not. Because you’ve just draped your arms over the other jumpseat, the one right beside me, resting your chin on your arms as you take in a view from the back of the cabin. I try to remain calm. Surely I won’t have to say anything because you’ll be taking your seat anytime now, right?

Wrong.

You bend over and touch your toes. You’ve decided this would be the perfect time to start doing those doctor recommended calisthenics. While you’re bending and stretching, I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. I’m sorry, but I do get a little claustrophobic from time to time. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because your butt is now in my face.

Look, unless you’ve actually been invited into the galley (it does happen), you do not – I repeat – you do not, for any reason, step onto the linoleum floor – for any length of time. And if you do, try to make it quick. Do not loiter. Do not help yourself to whatever you happen to see. And please do not bring your baby to the back to crawl around. It’s filthy in there. Not to mention, we break glass in there. And do you really need to do your exercising in the galley? Can’t you simply take a walk the length of the cabin to get the blood flow going when the seat belt sign is not on. I mean is Pilate’s really necessary?

Imagine I came to your place of work and peeked into your drawers and helped myself to all those little nicknack’s you have on your desk – ya know, the jelly beans, the picture of the wife and kids, the Rubik’s cube. What’s the problem? I just came by to say hi. To see what’s up. Don’t really care if you’re eating lunch or in the middle of a project. Not when I want to be near you. What’s the big deal? I’m just taking a break. Stretching the legs. Inviting whomever passes to join me in your tiny little office space. Mind if I do a few lunges in here? Right beside you. Rubbing up against you. Hey, you gonna eat that sandwich?

Admit it, you’d get a little annoyed, too. Now go back to your seat. The seat belt sign is on.