a socialite. Now that we were no longer on reserve and were holding schedules (crappy ones, but schedules nonetheless), we were ready to set the world on fire!
I was flying trips to Madrid, and although I love Madrid and enjoyed being there once I arrived, getting there required an enormous amount of intestinal fortitude. I never knew just how difficult it could be to drag my ass from point A to point B until I became a flight attendant. To begin with, Bitsy and I lived on the fifth floor of a five-story walk-up, so every time I came home from a trip I had to navigate the stairs with my luggage cart. At this point in history the ever popular rollerboard had not yet come into fashion, so I had two blue WAFTI-issued bags that had to be arranged on separate carts and then tied together with a bungee cord. Leaving the apartment, once I made it down the stairs, in my blue polyester uniform including my blue pumps with two-inch heels, I had to schlep six blocks to the Lexington Avenue subway and then trudge down another flight of stairs against a teeming assemblage of other harried New Yorkers coming up the same stairway. The next obstacle was maneuvering my way through the turnstyle. And then thereâs the lengthy wait on the platform (this part was particularly horrid in the summer months because of the sweltering heat, which was only made worse by the oppressive polyester uniform). And then finally boarding, and usually standing on a jam-packed number 6 train downtown to Grand Central Station, where I would catch the Carey bus to JFK Airport.
Iâd only allow myself the luxury of a taxi if Bitsy or one of the other assorted roommates was also going on a trip to Grand Central at the same time. Taxis were a nonessential item that did not fit into my tight budget. I could hardly afford to take a taxi from the apartment to the Carey bus, so taking a taxi all the way to the airport was completely out of the question, although I longed to do it quite often. In any case, getting to the Carey bus was just the first leg of what was a long dayâs journey into night. Once I arrived at JFK I had to hustle up to the check-in office where I checked in, met my crew, and got our flight information. We then boarded the limo (really a big van that smells of stale car freshener combined with patchouli oil) bound for LaGuardia Airport, where our trip would begin. Why didnât we just check in at LaGuardia and eliminate the hassle of going out to JFK? Because that would make sense. One of the phenomenons Iâve discovered about the airline industry is that the less something makes sense, the more likely it is to become a standard operating procedure. So, along with seven other flight attendants, I would settle into the limo for a nice long ride in rush-hour traffic from JFK to LaGuardia.
Upon our arrival we would then hurry over, en masse, to the 5:00 P.M . shuttle and fly, as passengers, up to Boston, where we would have a two-hour sit before our 9:00 P.M . flight to Madrid. Since I left my apartment at 1:00 P.M . I had already put in an eight-hour day, but according to WAFTI the workday was just beginning. Alas, the time clock does not start until the captain starts the engine. At that point we still had an eight-hour flight ahead of usâproviding there were no delaysâand then another hour to get to the hotel and sign in for our rooms. Often the rooms would not be ready for new occupants and so the available rooms were given out in seniority order. In other words, the junior people on the crew would have to wait in the lobby. Iâve fallen asleep in the lobby of many a hotel in this world while waiting for my cellâuh, I mean, room.
The worst part of this was that it was my weekly schedule; I had to do five of these three-day trips a month. After about three months I was getting burned out and pretty ragged around the edges. I was already a haggard battle-ax of a gal at the ripe old age of twenty-four. However, I
I was flying trips to Madrid, and although I love Madrid and enjoyed being there once I arrived, getting there required an enormous amount of intestinal fortitude. I never knew just how difficult it could be to drag my ass from point A to point B until I became a flight attendant. To begin with, Bitsy and I lived on the fifth floor of a five-story walk-up, so every time I came home from a trip I had to navigate the stairs with my luggage cart. At this point in history the ever popular rollerboard had not yet come into fashion, so I had two blue WAFTI-issued bags that had to be arranged on separate carts and then tied together with a bungee cord. Leaving the apartment, once I made it down the stairs, in my blue polyester uniform including my blue pumps with two-inch heels, I had to schlep six blocks to the Lexington Avenue subway and then trudge down another flight of stairs against a teeming assemblage of other harried New Yorkers coming up the same stairway. The next obstacle was maneuvering my way through the turnstyle. And then thereâs the lengthy wait on the platform (this part was particularly horrid in the summer months because of the sweltering heat, which was only made worse by the oppressive polyester uniform). And then finally boarding, and usually standing on a jam-packed number 6 train downtown to Grand Central Station, where I would catch the Carey bus to JFK Airport.
Iâd only allow myself the luxury of a taxi if Bitsy or one of the other assorted roommates was also going on a trip to Grand Central at the same time. Taxis were a nonessential item that did not fit into my tight budget. I could hardly afford to take a taxi from the apartment to the Carey bus, so taking a taxi all the way to the airport was completely out of the question, although I longed to do it quite often. In any case, getting to the Carey bus was just the first leg of what was a long dayâs journey into night. Once I arrived at JFK I had to hustle up to the check-in office where I checked in, met my crew, and got our flight information. We then boarded the limo (really a big van that smells of stale car freshener combined with patchouli oil) bound for LaGuardia Airport, where our trip would begin. Why didnât we just check in at LaGuardia and eliminate the hassle of going out to JFK? Because that would make sense. One of the phenomenons Iâve discovered about the airline industry is that the less something makes sense, the more likely it is to become a standard operating procedure. So, along with seven other flight attendants, I would settle into the limo for a nice long ride in rush-hour traffic from JFK to LaGuardia.
Upon our arrival we would then hurry over, en masse, to the 5:00 P.M . shuttle and fly, as passengers, up to Boston, where we would have a two-hour sit before our 9:00 P.M . flight to Madrid. Since I left my apartment at 1:00 P.M . I had already put in an eight-hour day, but according to WAFTI the workday was just beginning. Alas, the time clock does not start until the captain starts the engine. At that point we still had an eight-hour flight ahead of usâproviding there were no delaysâand then another hour to get to the hotel and sign in for our rooms. Often the rooms would not be ready for new occupants and so the available rooms were given out in seniority order. In other words, the junior people on the crew would have to wait in the lobby. Iâve fallen asleep in the lobby of many a hotel in this world while waiting for my cellâuh, I mean, room.
The worst part of this was that it was my weekly schedule; I had to do five of these three-day trips a month. After about three months I was getting burned out and pretty ragged around the edges. I was already a haggard battle-ax of a gal at the ripe old age of twenty-four. However, I
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