Read Online Flying by the Seat of My Pants: Flight Attendant Adventures on a Wing and a Prayer by Marsha Marks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marsha Marks
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a defeated passenger who was going to get no reprieve from the airline I worked for. There are just a few things they ask of us, and one of them is to know where we are going and confirm that we are on the flight to get there. I had failed. Failed in the most basic of actions.
I felt stupid and low, and suddenly my bags seemed to weigh too much. (And I don’t just mean the bags under myeyes.) I trudged down to the rental car desk and began the groveling process of begging for the lowest rate on a one-way rental—which took over an hour. Then I began the long drive from Seattle, Washington, to Portland, Oregon.
I called my husband from my cell phone in the car. “Where are you?” he said, “You should have landed an hour ago.”
“I did,” I said. “Just not in this state. I should be home by tomorrow morning.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“No. I’m not kidding, and I don’t feel like talking about it just now.”
Fortunately, I was then and am now married to the most wonderful man in the world. When he heard the whole story, he started laughing and then comforted me with the words, “It could happen to anyone.”
Of course it could happen to anyone. But it never would. In the history of the world, it would never happen again, but I took comfort in the fact that it could. At least in a world where someone is flying by the seat of her pants.
C HAPTER 28
Hot Towels?
I n 1989, I worked a flight with a flight attendant named Jan who makes me laugh so much I really should never work in the same cabin with her. Jan doesn’t mean to be funny—she just is. Even her look was funny to me. Jan was tall and thin, but it was her hair that was especially stunning. Jan liked puff, so she doubled the size of her long, dark tresses with hair extensions. Here was this tall, thin flight attendant with a winning smile and huge hair.
The flight was a long one, over three hours, and Jan and I were assigned to First Class. This was in the days when FirstClass included a four-course meal, served on china, with silver and linens on the table and hot towels distributed before dinner. My favorite presentation was the hot towels—passengers loved getting the personal warm towels to clean their face and hands.
As we prepared the hot towels, I mentioned to Jan that I liked to do the dry-ice presentation with the towels. She had never heard this secret to making the hot towels look extra steamy. So I showed her.
I arranged the hot towels in a circle and poured the steaming water over them. Then, for extra effect, I put a small piece of dry ice in a cup of water in the center. Adding water to dry ice results in a lovely cloud of white smoke curling up around the towels.
I soon learned that Jan’s rule in life is, “If a little is good, more is better,” and that rule didn’t apply just to her hair. I left the galley after I showed her how to set up the hot towels, and I was standing in the back of the cabin when she came out with her presentation. I was dumbstruck.
She hadn’t used the small tray I had suggested. She had used the largest tray we had. And she hadn’t used just one piece of dry ice in a tiny cup. She had used every piece of dry ice on the plane in a huge pile in the middle. A mountain of dry ice. She had poured so much water on the dry ice that it looked as if she were walking in a volcano of smoke. From her waist to her head, you saw smoke. Billowing white circles of smoke.
Apparently Jan realized she couldn’t see well enough to walk. So she took the metal tongs and used the tongs to wave one of the towels in what appeared to be a serious effort to clear the smoke in front of her. The effort wasn’t working.
What the passengers saw was a torso with legs surrounded at the top by a swirl of white smoke, with glimpses of dark hair wherever Jan waved the towel. Huge dark hair.
As she moved forward, no one spoke except Jan.
“Hot towel?” she said. “Hot towel?”
One passenger, a
I felt stupid and low, and suddenly my bags seemed to weigh too much. (And I don’t just mean the bags under myeyes.) I trudged down to the rental car desk and began the groveling process of begging for the lowest rate on a one-way rental—which took over an hour. Then I began the long drive from Seattle, Washington, to Portland, Oregon.
I called my husband from my cell phone in the car. “Where are you?” he said, “You should have landed an hour ago.”
“I did,” I said. “Just not in this state. I should be home by tomorrow morning.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“No. I’m not kidding, and I don’t feel like talking about it just now.”
Fortunately, I was then and am now married to the most wonderful man in the world. When he heard the whole story, he started laughing and then comforted me with the words, “It could happen to anyone.”
Of course it could happen to anyone. But it never would. In the history of the world, it would never happen again, but I took comfort in the fact that it could. At least in a world where someone is flying by the seat of her pants.
C HAPTER 28
Hot Towels?
I n 1989, I worked a flight with a flight attendant named Jan who makes me laugh so much I really should never work in the same cabin with her. Jan doesn’t mean to be funny—she just is. Even her look was funny to me. Jan was tall and thin, but it was her hair that was especially stunning. Jan liked puff, so she doubled the size of her long, dark tresses with hair extensions. Here was this tall, thin flight attendant with a winning smile and huge hair.
The flight was a long one, over three hours, and Jan and I were assigned to First Class. This was in the days when FirstClass included a four-course meal, served on china, with silver and linens on the table and hot towels distributed before dinner. My favorite presentation was the hot towels—passengers loved getting the personal warm towels to clean their face and hands.
As we prepared the hot towels, I mentioned to Jan that I liked to do the dry-ice presentation with the towels. She had never heard this secret to making the hot towels look extra steamy. So I showed her.
I arranged the hot towels in a circle and poured the steaming water over them. Then, for extra effect, I put a small piece of dry ice in a cup of water in the center. Adding water to dry ice results in a lovely cloud of white smoke curling up around the towels.
I soon learned that Jan’s rule in life is, “If a little is good, more is better,” and that rule didn’t apply just to her hair. I left the galley after I showed her how to set up the hot towels, and I was standing in the back of the cabin when she came out with her presentation. I was dumbstruck.
She hadn’t used the small tray I had suggested. She had used the largest tray we had. And she hadn’t used just one piece of dry ice in a tiny cup. She had used every piece of dry ice on the plane in a huge pile in the middle. A mountain of dry ice. She had poured so much water on the dry ice that it looked as if she were walking in a volcano of smoke. From her waist to her head, you saw smoke. Billowing white circles of smoke.
Apparently Jan realized she couldn’t see well enough to walk. So she took the metal tongs and used the tongs to wave one of the towels in what appeared to be a serious effort to clear the smoke in front of her. The effort wasn’t working.
What the passengers saw was a torso with legs surrounded at the top by a swirl of white smoke, with glimpses of dark hair wherever Jan waved the towel. Huge dark hair.
As she moved forward, no one spoke except Jan.
“Hot towel?” she said. “Hot towel?”
One passenger, a
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