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frustration. After years of dealing with the public in the confines of an aircraft, it only seems like all the good passengers (who are the majority) have faded into the background and all they care to see is the annoying minority. After all, these minorities do take up the majority of a flight attendant’s time.
    This flight goes effortlessly and without incident.
    Am I on the dream trip that every hostie dreams about? I pinch myself.
    We get M.T.O, which stands for Maximum Time Off. On this job, we use thousands of such acronyms. If a non-flyer were to hear us hosties having a conversation, he wouldn’t know what the hell we are talking about. Most of the emergency equipment is also referred to in acronym form; even I don’t know what some of them stand for. B.C.F, for instance. I never bothered to check what it meant. All I know is that if there is a fire, I point the B.C.F. at the fire and squeeze the trigger, and the fire will be put out.
    With my M.T.O, instead of reading a book like I had wanted to, I end up listening to two older guys and their wonderful stories from the G.O.D (Good Old Days). These guys were pretty outrageous in their time. I am surprised at how frank they are and even more surprised at how proud they are of their antics. Even so, I am fascinated.
    They talk about the days when the early jumbos had a lower-lobe, a galley area in the cargo hold that was accessed from inside the cabin. They tell stories of sitting down there with each other, smoking and drinking, even before take-off. They even talk about how they used to take girls down there. The details of what they did with the girls down there, I don’t want to get into.
    Mary should have been born in their era, I think.
    Then, I think that I should have been born in their era as well, for they tell me about trips to warm, exotic lands that lasted for almost a month. Six days in Athens, four days in Mauritius and so on, they brag, and I fume.
    â€˜It was like one big around-the-world party,’ they laugh. And when they eventually did get back home, they got as much time off as they had just been away.
    â€˜So if you did a twenty-one-day trip, you would get twenty-one days off?’
    â€˜At least. Those were the union rules back then.’
    These days, once I get back from a week-long trip, I’d be lucky if I get enough time after to wash my hair and let it dry before I have to pack and head off to work again.
    As much as I love listening to the good old days, I am somewhat envious of these old-timers. I also assume that these boys have used a little creative license in their stories. Even so, it is all highly entertaining, and the time onboard passes quickly.
    I get to the hotel feeling more alive than I have felt for a long time. I even have a glass of wine with the boys before calling it quits. Then, I head to my room to have a night of deep and blissful sleep – something I haven’t done for ages now.

turning my life around
    As I claim my rightful throne on the lounge by the pool, covered in equatorial sweat and the warm water that I had just stepped out of, I think to myself that this is what it’s all about. This is why I became an international jet-setting hostie.
    After another half hour of lying about in the hot sun, I decide to go back inside, to the air-conditioned comfort of my room. Still dripping with pool water, chlorine and sweat, I slip on my sneakers and head back. As I open the door to my room a feeling of déjà vu hits me hard: there is an envelope under my door, and the message-light is flashing on the desk phone.
    Don’t panic just yet. Like last time, the flight’s been delayed by a few hours. That’s all. There’s nothing to get worked up about, I try to calm myself as my heart begins to race.
    I open the envelope. ‘No, no, no!’ (More like, ‘expletive, expletive, expletive!’)
    I am being turned around. Someone has gone sick upline, and I am