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: 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: 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.

Galley Gossip: Italy: Prepare for takeoff.

by Heather Poole on

“Want to go to Italy?” The husband asked.

“Umm…I don’t know…Yes. As in YES YES YES!” I exclaimed. And then I added, “But I’m not flying standby.” Because I wasn’t. And I was ready to stand my ground.

“Yeah, well me neither,” he said, and that was that.

When The Husband and I decided to go to Italy on our vacation last month, we actually purchased our tickets, even though I can fly standby for free. Why? Because we wanted to go to Italy, remember? We actually wanted to make it to the land of wine and cheese and olives and pasta and prosciutto served with a loaf of crusty bread.

What we didn’t want to do was get stuck sitting around an airport for days praying that two people wouldn’t show up for their flight. Oh no, we wanted to get fat from drinking wine and eating cheese and olives and pasta and prosciutto with a loaf of crusty bread in Venice, Rome, and Positano. Not from cheeseburgers and pizza at the JFK food court. And not only did we have plans to eat our way through Italy, we also planned on getting back home when the vacation came to an end. Oh the joys of stand-by travel…

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Because The Husband flies over 100,000 miles a year, we were able to use his frequent flier miles to bump us up to business class, where you can usually find me working. Did I happen to mention this was a dream trip, a trip we’ve been planning for years, a trip that was supposed to be our honeymoon trip five years ago things got screwed up and we wound up in Playa Blanca, a teeny tiny town near Zihautanejo. The war had just broken out and someone was afraid to travel too far from home for fear of getting stuck, since that same someone had gotten stuck in Zurich with her mother for two weeks immediately following 9/11.

Okay okay, so there are worse places to get stuck than Zurich, I know, but when you’re a flight attendant and make a flight attendant salary, it’s very easy to go broke on cappuccino and croissant alone. Though there are worse ways to go broke, I guess.

The best part about actually buying a ticket on a flight, opposed to standing-by for free, is that you get to choose your seat. A window seat, that’s what I chose, and that’s exactly what I got. Man, I couldn’t wait to get on that airplane. And sit. Not work. And watch movies. As others worked. While I sat. Not working. I did mention that this was my dream trip, right? Oh yeah, trust me, that’s part of the dream. I couldn’t wait to take off from JFK at dusk, my favorite time of day, and look out my window, camera in hand, from a business class seat. Not the jumpseat. I couldn’t wait to see a breathtaking view of New York City. Not the first class closet. Or the business class galley. Or the nasty coach carpet. Or the flight attendant sitting next to me. No offense to the flight attendant sitting next to me, whoever that flight attendant may happen to be. I couldn’t wait to….oh you get the picture. Speaking of pictures, here’s a few from our flight from New York to London, where we transferred to another flight that would take us to Venice.

Galley Gossip: The top five Skymall gifts for the frequent flier

by Heather Poole on

Wearing your stealth secret sound amplifier, you board the flight (finally!), stow the bag in the overhead bin directly above your seat (YES!), stash the reading material and the bottle of water in the seat-back pocket in front of you (you did remember the bottle of water, didn’t you?) and breathe a sigh of relief because miracle upon miracles, there is no one seated in the seat beside you. Smiling, you think to yourself that this flight might not be so bad afterall. But then, you begin to feel anxious, as a long line of passengers slowly begin filing past your seat. While you hold your breath, chanting to yourself, please don’t sit by me, please don’t sit by me, you are unable to concentrate on the bug vacuum pictured in the Skymall magazine that your fingers are now flipping through, as you continue chanting, please don’t sit by me, please don’t sit by me, please don’t sit by me.

Ross Wolinsky wrote on Cracked.com about the 5 most ridiculous things to buy in the Skymall catalog (and Jamie later wrote about here on Gadling), which forced me to ask the question: are the items offered for sale inside the catalog really all that ridiculous…or are they just plain genius? One of the “ridiculous” things Wolinsky wrote about didn’t seem all that ridiculous to me. I mean what’s so ridiculous about the stealth secret sound amplifier? Personally, I find it to be intriguing. And I wonder, does it really work? Because if it does, I wouldn’t mind owning one. And if you owned one, too, you could sit in your uncomfortable seat in coach and focus on all the racy things being said behind the closed curtain in the back galley, instead of on the seatmate who, right before the aircraft door was shut, plopped down in the seat beside you. Thirsty? You can ask me for a Coke without ever having to ring your call light, or leave your seat, and I’d be able to ask you if you’d like ice with that Coke, and we’d all be happy. Like the good ole days.

When I told The Husband I had planned on writing something about Skymall, he laughed, shook his head, and said, “That catalog is ridiculous.”

What The Husband doesn’t know is that his red Jumpin Jammerz, a pair of giant footy pajamas, came from the Skymall catalog. So when I think of the word ridiculous, it’s not Skymall that I think of, it’s the sight of The Husband on Christmas morning running around the house chasing after a two-year old who just so happened to be wearing the exact same thing. Ridiculous…or adorable? You decide.

Personally, I have found a lot of great things in the Skymall catalog. Take for instance the bark free dog barking control machine. Man, I’d like one of those when the neighbor goes out of town and leaves the howling Beagle behind. (How much was that thing again?) Or how about the upside down tomato garden? When you live in LA (or NY) and you don’t have a whole lot of grass in the backyard, because you don’t even have a backyard, this is the item for you. Or was it me? And did you happen to see the litter robot, which keeps the kitty litter clean while you’re out of town? Let me tell you, my cat Gatsby would absolutely love that! And the kid, he’s got his eye on the fold out basketball game. That picture actually kept the two year old aspiring hoop star quiet in his seat on a flight from Los Angeles to New York for a good twenty minutes, as he pointed and smiled and said “Basketball,” over and over and over, allowing me to close my eyes, lean my head back against the seat for a stress free twenty minutes. I mean if the catalog can keep The Kid quiet for any length of time, Skymall, in my book, rates genius, not ridiculous.

Looking to buy a gift for that frequent flier in your life? Here are my top five Skymall gifts for the frequent flier:

1. LED lighted reading glasses: Why? Because you’re on a red eye flight sitting in a middle seat in coach and GREAT, JUST GREAT! The flight is full and the reading light above your seat doesn’t work. FIGURES! You’ve got twenty pages left to go in a really great book and you’re dying to find out what happens at the end. Man oh man, you are never going to fly this airline again. Now don’t you wish you had those LED lighted reading glasses?

2. Gripmaster – Because you’re still in that middle seat, and the flight attendant wasn’t able to fix the dang light, and now the two idiots on either side of you are hogging the armrests. Not to mention you’ve already seen the in-flight movie and the flight attendant, the one who didn’t have a spare light bulb in her apron pocket, ran out of food AND Club soda before she even reached your row. Not only are you never going to fly this airline again, you’re going to write a letter! Well never fear, the gripmaster is here! So now you can stop grinding your teeth and transfer all that anger away from the paper, the one the flight attendant didn’t have to give you!

3. Stress relief wrist band – Nothing has changed, in fact, the flight has just gotten worse, because now the two idiot seatmates hogging the armrests are snoring, and one of them is actually resting his big ole head on your shoulder. You ring the call light – again – and summon the flight attendant – again – who, after dealing with you several times already, is now wearing some sort of strange device on her wrist. Be nice and she may just let you borrow her stress relief wrist band.

4. Skyrest travel pillow – That’s it! Now the kid in front of you won’t stop crying! And you need to get some sleep because tomorrow you have a big presentation. You rip the stress relief band off your wrist, chuck it over the seat in front of you, climb over your snoring seatmate, knocking his elbow off the armrest, and stomp back to the galley where the flight attendants are hiding behind a closed curtain. Snapping back the curtain, you glare at the flight attendants, who don’t even see you glaring because…what the! They’re fast asleep on the jumpseat! With a skymall magazine in one hand, gripmaster in the other open hand, LED eyeglasses resting on the bridge of their nose, stress relief wristbands wrapped around both wrists AND ankles, snoring away like your two seatmates with their heads resting oh so gently on a cushy Skyrest Travel pillow. What kind of freakin airline is this! You rip the dang pillow away from one of the lazy flight attendants and stomp back to your awful seat.

5. Travel toothbrush sanitizer – You awake from a horrid dream about a miserable flight and stumble into the bathroom. After you splash cold water on your face, you reach for your toothbrush that has just been sanitized by your travel toothbrush sanitizer. Because there should be at least one sanitary thing in your disgusting hotel room. I mean your entire trip doesn’t have to be a bust, does it?

Ridiculous…you tell me.