^TM

The Perks Of Living With A Flight Attendant

By Alana Atkinson

Outside the gray slush had piled up three feet, the wind hissed like a snake through the tiny cracks around the windows and frost from my co-workers breath hung suspended in the air as they entered the building quickly.  With a stomp, stomp, stomp, a “brrrrrr” and a shake, the snowmen disappeared.

The light announcing a new voice-mail blinked on my phone.  It was Miss Friendly Skies, bubbling, “Hi.  I was making a quick call while getting more suntan lotion.  Who knew it would be so sunny and warm in Miami this time of year?  I have to run now!  The beach volleyball tournament starts soon.  Stay warm!”

Weeks later I fell ill with the flu.  Red, sweaty and too miserable to sleep, I sat clicking through the TV channels.  The lukewarm tea burnt my throat with every swallow, hot soup spilled down my lap as I lifted my spoon due to my sneezing fits.  I finally set my liquid supper aside to curl into my pillow.

The phone rang.  Too weak to get it, I let the answering machine handle the call.  “Beep.”  Cheerleader-Of-The-Blue sang out, “I wanted to see how that nasty cold was doing.  Mmmmmm.  Hold on a minute OK?  I’m in the middle of eating lobster.  The crew and I watched them unload them off of the boat in Bar Harbor and I just had to have one!  So rich and fresh!  Deeelicious!  I better go now.  We’re driving up the coast to watch the sunset.  Get better soon.”

Being on the job less than I year, I received a measly week’s vacation, which was promptly spent at my brother’s wedding.  My Mother sat next to me with a running commentary on the inappropriateness of every detail throughout the ceremony.  My brother spent the reception drinking, his new bride crying and I silently listened to Aunt Elise’s conspiracy theory on the poisoning of her long-deceased, long-estranged husband, Jack Jack, for three hours.

All-Smiles-At-30,000-Feet felt the need, when I returned, to share her week’s travels with me by giving a slide show.  Click.  “It was so nice of a day that we went in-line skating through Central Park.”  Click.  “You know that guy that plays ‘Hack’ on TV?  He was on our flight to London.  He’s soooo nice.  He insisted on taking us to his favorite pub, Black Friars.”  Click.  “I thought Niagara Falls would be bigger.”  Click.  “But I still got sick on the Maid of the Mist.”  Click, click, click through eating clam chowder from a sourdough bread bowl in San Francisco, surfing rolling waves Maui, taking a canal boat through historic San Antonio and feeding a baby chimpanzee at the San Diego zoo.  “I have to get the roll developed from Peru.  Justice wouldn’t be done with words to Machu Picchu.”

For my birthday I received a small package containing a lace tablecloth made by two elderly sisters in Burano, a bottle of Chianti from a family’s vineyard, and a porcelain Ponte Vecchio that could double as an ash tray.  Enclosed was a handful of postcards of Tuscany, Pompeii and Sicily, with a note “Can you please take my uniforms to the dry cleaner?  I won’t have time before I leave for Brazil.  Happy Birthday!”

I neatly put away my package and opened the bottle of wine.  The aroma of cherry, plum and bay leaves with just a whisper of vellum stroked my senses.    Then I continued to install the new deadbolt on my front door.

Back to TravelLady Magazine