As I sink into my jumpseat and buckle in tight I start my mental reviews—emergency procedures, doors armed, checking to make sure my galley is locked down, surveying the cabin; I glance at my watch. It’s 2:40PM. I woke up ten hours ago and work has technically just started.
A woman in a yellow scarf is seated in the exit row opposite my jumpseat. She shifts uncomfortably as she decides whether or not to say anything to me. I smile politely and she speaks, “I’ve always thought it’d be fun to be a Flight Attendant! Jet setting around the world, in one country one day and another country the next. You can just up and go whenever you’d like—it must be an incredible way to live.”
It was a statement, true, but I knew the woman in the yellow scarf really meant it as a question. A question that expected confirmation, not contradiction. I glance out the window and think back over my day…
My cell phone alarm started going off at 4am. I always set it early so I can hit the snooze button a few times before my trusty red alarm beings to blare. I have to get up when ole red sounds because if she goes off more than once, I’m going to be getting noise complaints from neighboring states. What can I say? I’m a heavy sleeper.
I stop just before I hit the door. Bleary eyed and desperate to get to the airport so I can swing a soy latte from whatever coffee vendor graces my line of vision first, I stop to recount my appearance and critical belongings. Six items are required at all times in addition to an immaculate appearance. The mental review only takes about 15 seconds but I know once I’m out the door there’s no stopping until I hit New York, which I’m praying happens before my 1 o’clock sign in time.
I live 15 minutes from the employee parking lot in Atlanta. As I drive, I wonder about the hundreds of Flight Attendants who commute from all around the world. I just heard there’s a woman who commutes to New York from Japan. I recently flew to Milan with a Flight Attendant who lives in Hawaii.
Waiting for the bus only took 40 minutes this morning. Amazed, I make it to the concourse by 6:30, an hour before my plane is scheduled to depart. To say the parameters around commuting are stringent would be kind but they’re that way for a very good reason: anything can go wrong. This morning, thankfully, I slid into my business class seat without incident. Watching a man try to fit his daughter’s oversized bag into the overhead bin I was reminded of my father. As a military man, he always used to tell me, “If you can’t lift it and carry it by yourself, then don’t pack it.” Flight Attendants have slipped disks, torn ligaments and suffered concussions from helping passengers lift their bags.
At times I feel guilty for wanting to complain about my job. Then I remember the man from Tel Aviv who, looking like Hagrid from Harry Potter, thought it was okay to walk around the plane in his tighty whities. Or the woman from Russia who didn’t seem to understand why we cut her off—she was climbing over seats to sit in men’s laps and had even managed to incite a brawl between two men (who had just met her) in the back galley of our 767 in the middle of the night. Then, there was man who, without permission, started eating my food right off the tray in my lap; and I can’t count the number of evil stares I have gotten as I stop passengers from skipping me in line to use the lavatory. I guess it makes sense. If I don’t have a stomach, why would I have a bladder?
On the train from LGA to JFK, I keep my sunglasses on to avoid the eyes of the men and women who seem drawn like gravity to stare at me. I’m used to it…most people have trouble realizing I can exist off their airplane. It’s 11am when I finally step into JFK. I have just enough time to get that latte and trust me, by now I’ve decided it is going to be the biggest size they have with a quad shot of espresso. Pausing to look at the screens in the terminal, I’m glad I got out of Atlanta early. Both of the later flights that could have gotten me in to JFK on time for sign-in were delayed.
I sign in at 1pm. I’m still not getting paid, but I have to attend our 15 minute briefing to review vital information with the crew an hour and a half prior to boarding. By 2PM my latte is gone and the airplane is set up for boarding. During boarding, I smile and try my best to be accommodating without actually lifting anyone’s bags. Again, I am thrilled that everything goes smoothly—so many things can go wrong during boarding but before I know it, the door is closed. Now I’m getting paid.
I hear the engine roar for takeoff and I glance back at the woman in the yellow scarf. I remember when I too only saw the romance and the glamour to being a flight attendant and I think of all the things I could tell her about my job but won’t. I smile and respond to the expectation in her eyes, “Nine hours to Moscow! Hard to believe that just yesterday I was coming back from Rio.” She grins incredulously at me, shaking her head a little and settles back into her seat. As we climb, I can see the shrinking lights of New York disappear behind the fluffy white clouds of a sunny afternoon and I know that I can never openly complain about what incredible sacrifices are necessary to do this job. Why? Because two days ago I really was in Rio de Janeiro and today it really is just nine hours to Moscow.