LUGGAGE Lady

Contemplations about Life, Love, & the Pursuit of Meaningful Existence…

Archive for the category “Flight Attendant”

I Can’t Move the Sun

 

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I overheard a young boy and his mother conversing on the airplane the other day. The sun was hitting the wing, shooting blinding rays through the small window and causing the little one to screech that he couldn’t see.

“I can’t move the sun,” his mother wearily replied.

Such an obvious observation, yet how many of us invest a significant chunk of precious life trying to alter that which cannot be changed?

The passenger sitting by the window politely closed the shade, which triggered more questions. Does turning a blind eye on our issues make for a lighter load or do we exasperate the burdens by sweeping them beneath an already bulky rug?

Are we defined by our personal heritage, with every fear and doubt ever planted by a parent/friend/lover/acquaintance building like a rip current throughout our cells, capable of dragging us beneath raging seas? Is it pompous to think we can sort through the contents of our hearts, discarding the painful parts at our leisure?

In my optimistic moments, I spy a lifeboat waiting to whisk me away from every last problem. At other times, I worry the past is inescapably entrenched in each of us — no different from the air we breathe, spilling without conscious thought onto the face of every new encounter.

Perhaps there is a middle ground. One where we pull the shade halfway, sparing ourselves the retina burn while still harnessing the sun’s energy, helping us move forward  — a little brighter each time.

Who’s Your Flight Attendant?

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Are they merely cocktail waiters/waitresses in the sky? Folks who took a gander upward one day and started humming “Leaving on a Jet Plane?”

As a twenty-year veteran, I’m still amazed at the variety of professionals the industry attracts. I’ve flown with former doctors, nurses, lawyers, police officers, teachers, military personnel, and dot-comers — just to name a few.

The gentleman I worked with on my last trip served in law enforcement as a special investigator for forty years. When I asked if he was required to retire from the force at a certain age, he told me that his son had been killed in Iraq in 2007 causing him to reevaluate life in general. This was something he’d always wanted to do — a bucket list item of sorts. At 64, serving passengers and exploring the world is the retirement gift he chose to give himself.

So, next time you’re traveling by plane, spark up a conversation with the flight attendants. You may be surprised and inspired by the path that lead them there.

Heroes by Default

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Our vacation to the New England Coastline had been planned for months, our lodging prepaid and non-refundable. So it was that we boarded our flight from San Francisco to Manchester, New Hampshire on September 16, 2001.

That’s right, precisely five days after the world (as my generation knew it) changed irrevocably. Airplanes as suicide bombs? Hundred-story buildings disintegrating like those in an animated film? Fighter jets scrambling to do the unimaginable? My husband and I (pilot/flight attendant, respectively) boarded a scarcely populated aircraft and headed east.

The first breakfast held a table of twelve. As we all chattered about the basics: where are you visiting from…what do you do? The room grew quiet, all gazes drifting toward us. The rest of the guests were locals who had canceled trips to stay within driving distance of home. We’d not only traversed the continent in a “weapon,” we were part of the group that had been slaughtered before everyone else. Many rose from their chairs to hug us, offering words of praise with tears in their eyes.

We were heroes, by default, for the day…

The Rose

I was working the last flight of a twelve-hour shift when I spotted an older Hispanic gentleman heading down the airplane aisle looking perplexed. I’d spied this confused expression countless times from those not familiar with our unassigned seating policy.

“Any open seat is yours,” I told him.

He cocked his head, clearly still confused.

Cualquier asiento.” I ventured in my best Spanglish.

He lifted his tan cowboy hat and smiled shyly, illuminating golden flecks in his hazel eyes. He wore Wrangler jeans adorned by a turquoise belt buckle with crisp seams down the front, a red and white-checkered dress shirt, and cowboy boots that matched his hat. Unlike most passengers, cramming baggage into every compartment, he carried only yellow roses.

He chose a window seat, and throughout the two-hour flight those roses remained securely in his grasp. Technically, I should have asked him to stow them under his seat for takeoff and landing but envisioning some lucky recipient waiting for flowers handled with such care — well, I just couldn’t. I gave his language another whirl, offering him a beverage and later a snack. He politely declined both, focusing solely on his precious cargo.

Upon our arrival, while the others pressed toward the exit, he remained seated. Anxious to get to our layover hotel, my crew motioned for me to inspire his departure. Approaching him from behind, I noticed he was struggling to pull a single stem from his bouquet. A blood droplet appeared where a thorn had nipped his thumb. Before I could open my mouth, he removed his hat and looked up with a sincerity that made my heart feel too big for my chest.

Gracias por su amabilidad,” he said, handing me the flower.

He was thanking me for my kindness? I swallowed. Hard. This gentleman, whose only carry-on consisted of a gift for another, was taking his precious time to acknowledge me?

How is it that those who seem to have the least so often give the most?

I carried that rose throughout the rest of my trip, savoring its sweet fragrance and keeping the petals after they dropped. I store them in my jewelry box so I’ll never forget that life’s true treasures come from those persons whose kindness enriches one’s heart more than any material good ever could.

Just in Case Letter

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I just finished reading a memoir written by a military wife whose husband left her a “just in case letter.” Tragically, the worse occurred and she claimed the single thing that allowed her to move forward without feeling like she was betraying their love was his insistence in the letter that she live.

Soldiers are clearly in a lane of their own and words cannot convey the depth of my gratitude, but shouldn’t we common folk have some sort of worse-case-scenario plan in place too?

My husband and I are both airline crew so our mode of transport is statistically safer than those navigating rush hour commutes daily. Still, with every take-off and landing, shouldn’t I indulge in the peaceful knowledge that my message will be there — waiting?

I adore the spoken word, but when given the choice I clamor for the written format. Sure, I can chatter days-on-end about trivia, but when something is weighty I prefer the perspective of the page. In conversations of any magnitude I torture myself, second-guessing every last utterance at 3:00 AM when sleep mocks me. The ability to edit, walk away, circle back, delete, reevaluate, polish and tweak a tangled compilation of letters is akin to decorating, cleaning, stocking up on Champagne, and procuring the quaintest flutes before inviting guests into your home.

As Mark Twain said: “Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.” And so it is, when the occasion involves matters of the heart, I will always reach for a pad of paper or fire up my trusty laptop…

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