Imelda had it right

The passengers boarded the plane in the usual manner. Their flight number was announced at the departure gate, their destination confirmed, and they were told that they were ready to board and to proceed towards the aircraft (frequent flyers to board via L1 at their leisure.) However, for the flight attendants waiting in the 777-200, it was to be no ordinary boarding and no ordinary flight. It was a flight to the Maldives and the honeymooners would soon turn the aircraft into a tunnel of love, of which there would be no light at the end.

This is not to say that honeymooners are distinctly a difficult demographic of passengers.
On the contrary.
They are organised, excited, and so bursting with love and affection towards their newly pronounced partner in life that their sweetness and warmth spills onto everything they see, hear, smell, and touch that it makes you sick.

A young Australian guy comes to me and says,
‘My wife and I are on our honeymoon.’
Giggle giggle because he isn’t used to calling Rachel wife.
Shy, giddy glance at Rachel.
Rachel stifles a giggle.
I try to hold down my breakfast.
‘Would it be possible to find some seats where there’s just a little more legroom?’

I would have loved to reply with ‘Why, there are so many of you honeymooners onboard today! Do you all have the same travel agent? Or did you all have the same wedding date? I know that cult with mass weddings and the Kool-Aid always likes to send their newlyweds to the Maldives. They heard the islands were sinking.’

I begrudgingly pushed that thought aside, and in true customer service fashion, of which the Airline would have been proud, I put on my best smile, wiped away my cynicism momentarily and said,
‘Certainly sir, as soon as everyone has boarded the plane I will do my best to make you and your ahem wife as comfortable as possible’ and walked to the aft galley to gag.

The five of us in uniform in the aft galley stood and watched the procession of couples enter the aircraft. They found their seats, adoringly helped each other with their hand luggage, saying ‘Oh sweetie, you take the window seat.’ ‘Oh no, you take the window seat’ (I’ll throw you out the window soon if you don’t stop, I think) and watch as new wifey puts a pillow under tired hubby’s head as he leans on the arm rest. It has been a long journey to their honeymoon paradise.

‘Our passengers are coming in pairs,’ I observed in true Filipina fashion.  ‘Just like shoes.’

 

We got hopeful when we saw a single man filing down the left-hand side of the aircraft looking for his seat. Ah hah, we thought. Finally, someone we can share our cynicism and hate towards the lovey dovey entourage of newlyweds.  However, we were disappointed when single woman on the right-hand side of the aircraft was his pair. He was left. She was right.

Now, do not get me wrong, not all flight attendants are single, bitter and twisted about relationships. Coincidentally however, the scheduling gods of the Airline managed to roll the dice pretty damn amusingly and teamed up a whole compliment of hostesses of the aforementioned flight attendant stereotype on the flight to Maldives.

‘I got a condom in a birthday card for my birthday.’
‘I was with him for 3 ½ years and he still didn’t want to get married.’
‘My male best friend just announced his undying love for me and doesn’t want me to see other people.’
‘I haven’t had sex in 3 ½ years since I divorced my husband.’
‘My more-than-friend ‘friend’ wants us to stay ‘just friends’.’

I was surprised that the aircraft didn’t dip too badly on take off with the weight of our emotional baggage at the back.

During the service, there was a glimmer of hope that it would not be all rainbows and butterflies during their idyllic stay in the Maldives. While offering drinks from the bar cart, 16D asks me, in an acutely audible voice,
‘Do you have any sparkling wine? We’re on our honeymoon’ he proudly announces.
My eyes glaze over as 16D beams proudly at 16E, his tender smile making me wish for a rapid decompression so that he and wifey can get sucked out of the aircraft at lightning speed.
They weren’t wearing their seatbelts.

‘Oh, certainly sir.’
Big smile.
‘The sauvignon blanc from New Zealand and the Bordeaux are both complimentary.’
Dramatic pause.
‘There is, however, a small charge on the Moet & Chandon.’
Continue.
‘$US8 a glass for the Moet. Shall I chill them for you?’
Let the information sink in.
‘I...uhhhh…we’ll have two glasses of red thanks.’
Smile.
Serve.
Walk away.

We were somewhat looking forward to the return trip back from Maldives to the Desert. We were interested to see how 2 weeks on a tropical island with no one else but their beloved would do to our spring-chicken couples. The honeymoon now is, quite literally, well and truly over.

Our passengers again, filed onto the plane in pairs. However, there were a few subtle differences to the homebound honeymooners.

Firstly, they were several shades more red and pink than our outbound couples (pasty white Europeans seem to be the Maldives’ main tourist market.)

Secondly, there was a lot less idle cooing of ‘Baby’ this and ‘Sweetie’ that (but that could have been because of the 10pm departure time, but I was still going to take that as the first signs of trouble in paradise.)

Thirdly, pre-wedding manicures and facials had well and truly worn off by now and the not-so-fresh-brides were starting to look like normal women travelling again.

However, this is as far as my negativity went.  As much as I strained to find cracks in the foundation of their future lives, I could not see any.  Am I a closet optimist?  Possibly. But what was clearly evident was that public display of affection was even more rampant on this sector than with the outbound passengers. I was beginning to think that more and more people are waiting for marriage before they had sex, and once the flood gates were unleashed, there was no containing their sexual prowess. Despite being contained in their hotel rooms for most of their stay (November not typically the best time of the year in the Maldives because it is generally very windy – but you can’t really argue with cult leaders), the sexual ferocity of our post-honeymooners had not abated in the slightest.

25J and 25K sat directly in front of my jumpseat for take of and landing could not keep their hands, mouths and tongues off each other. First class passengers 1J and 1K put on such a show when the cabin lights were turned down that the flight attendants at the front made a note to call all the crew to come and witness wifey sitting on top of hubby, only a cashmere Airline blanket shielding their love underneath.

Though my bitterness towards these lovey-dovey newlyweds is strong and unfaltering, I too, one day, hope to be part of this sickening group of people. Travelling to some idyllic island resort where new-hubby and I will look into each other’s eyes and see the rest of our lives. The bitterness and gag-reflex of the flight attendants will be unbeknownst to us as we float through the tunnel of young love. Harps will play. The sun will shine. Life will be beautiful.

I do wish them all the best for their travels through life together. There will be moments of turbulence, both light and severe. There will be moments of unexpected delays and diversions en route. There will be offers of upgrades or downgrades. There will be surprises of early arrivals and news of lost baggage. But at the end of it all, they still have each other. Their other half. Their mate. Their pair.

But sometimes, as we see onboard all too often, the cynicism and sarcasm of life do wear down these life-long commitments.

‘Where did you put the passports, DA-vid?’
‘They’re in the front pocket, MARI-a!’
‘Oh for God’s sakes Brian, where is Matthew now?’
‘I thought he was with you!’
‘With me?!’

I hope they remember that couples are pairs. They should walk together, side by side, one foot followed by the other. They should take time to pause and tie up the laces when they come undone. They should know that a little polish or a new sole is sometimes all it takes to put the spring back in their step. But unlike shoes, one should not always be right. Because if that happens, not being right is sometimes all a person is left with.

What the world needs is more nipples

I was sitting in the apartment, nursing yet another cold, flicking through a copy of French Vogue, recently acquired from my flight to Paris. The City of Love. Love of fashion. Love of wine. And apparently, love of nipples.

Turning its pages slowly, allowing myself to be filled by the genius which is French Vogue, I was jolted out of my fashion stupor by the sight of Daria Werbowry’s pink nipple peeping out from a jacket which had carelessly allowed to slide off her shoulder, exposing her breast.  There was seductive expression on her face saying ‘And so?’, as she let a cigarette dangle precariously from her fingers while bringing it to her lips.  I blinked a couple of times. I looked at it closely. Yes, that was her nipple. And yes, that was a cigarette. Oh my.

Perhaps my media-saturated eyes have been conditioned to the overly politically correct filter of New Zealand, where the glamourisation of smoking cigarettes is highly frowned upon, and the showing of nipples is in poor taste, and is reserved for pornographic material. Even the leading men’s lifestyle magazines in New Zealand, though have plenty of scantily clad women in g-strings, high heels, and the occasional whip, have the illicit nipple is tucked out of sight. The French censorship committees have obviously ruled in favour of the nipple and the cigarette. I applaud them for the former, however I can’t help but admit that though, I whole-heartedly support anti-smoking campaigns and its slogans, Paris is the one place in the world where I would argue that smoking IS sexy.

A few pages after the Daria indiscretion, I was propositioned by another nipple, this time by a svelte and completely nude model, as the Health and Beauty section started in the magazine. She was positioned strategically on a profile, the body oil she was slathered with accentuating every curve (yes, though long and lean, this model had curves) every muscle, and everything there was to be a healthy, confident woman. Nipple and all.

This isn’t the first time I have been accosted by the French nipple. In the December issue, I received as a cadeaux (a gift) a 12-month 2010 Calendar which featured Natasha Poly, Iselin Steiro and Raquel Zimmermann. These models, had the privilege of exciting you for the whole year wearing nothing but metallic-coloured panties and posing with various light fixtures for the whole 12 months. Now you and I know that there is very little that one can hide behind a 3-foot halogen light bulb. I believe it was only in August 2010 where nipples would not be displayed, because Natasha would be covering her areolas with nipple tassels for the month.

Initially thinking that maybe this ‘gift’ would have been better appreciated if it were attached to a copy of the December GQ magazine or FHM, I wondered why these 22 nipples would be thought of as appropriate for the female readership which ardently follows Vogue. And what about Daria? And the naked bronzed goddess? Their nipples couldn’t possibly have been accidental. Yet, as I flicked through the calendar slowly, I, for the first time, noticed how incredible sexy these women were. Yes they were tall, yes they were thin, but they also had very small breasts. A-Cup. Maybe even AA. But they were still beautifully sexy. The perfectly natural roundness of their breasts was beautiful, especially when they smoothed so delicately back in to the body. No artificial lines or bumps stood between the breast and the body, just one beautiful piece of velvet perfection. Their skin seemed so slide gracefully from their décolletage down to their breast, which turned up slightly at the nipple, which only small and natural breasts can do. You seemed to be able to cup them in one hand gently yet hungrily, the same you would hold your hands if you were thirsty.

For the first time, I saw small breasts as sexual, as feminine. And it took a nipple for me to understand this.

Being Asian and of a very small frame, I have lamented for years my lack of cleavage. Push up bras, water bras, tape, even chicken fillets (silicon breast cups, which you stick onto your boobs,) I have tried it all. I thought that with bigger breasts, I could feel, and be more sexual, and more feminine. Now earning a decent salary and having easy access to overseas doctors and hospitals which can do breast augmentation for a fraction of the cost compared to back home.  Bangkok maybe.  Even Slovakia.  Despite knowing the possible risks of rejection, inability to breastfeed, loss of sensation in the nipple, I have seriously considered altering my body to appease these insecurities.

However, after being exposed to the nipple from French Vogue several times, my understanding of what it is to be sexy seems to have been redefined. Small breasts are sexy. Why did I not see this before? Because nipples were nowhere to be seen. All I saw of small breasts in fashion stories previously was the lack of definition in a bikini top, the lack of curvaceousness in a corset, the lack of fullness in a backless evening dress, or an overall androgyny which comes with a flat chest. If I saw the nipple, it was only in porn, or highly distasteful material, making me think it wasn’t sexy but vulgar, and something to be ashamed of and covered. I never imagine that a small breast exposed with the nipple could be so sensual, so delicate, so womanly.

French Vogue exposing the nipple takes back its femininity and appropriateness which was taken away by porn. It also crowns small breasts as sexy. By removing the nipple from its former pornographic friends of cock and vagina, and introducing it to better company of Louis, Ralph or in this case, Swarovski, French Vogue has rid the exposed nipple of vulgarity and inappropriateness. It has given back its femininity, sensuality, and more importantly, the nipple crowns small breasts with sexuality by saying, ‘No, you don’t need them to be any bigger. They are perfect.’

A rude awakening

Everything is dark and still. The blackness of my room has turned into a veil over my eyes and it is getting darker and darker. Fantastic, I think. I’m finally falling asleep. The last time I turned to see the blue haze of my alarm clock, it taunted by saying I only had 4 hours to go till wakeup. However, not to worry. Sleep is now upon me. I feel it. My body is relaxed, my mind somewhat emptied, and every breath I take takes me deeper and deeper until…
Click-click thud.
Oh no.
Click-click thud.
Not again.
Click-click thud.
Dammit Frank. Stop trying to get into my room! I hear his body slam against the door, and I know this time he is really insistent. For goodness sakes Frank, I think, not tonight. We have talked about this. Do not disturb me when I’m sleeping for a flight. How many times do you we have to go through this? I know you want cuddles, but I have to go to work and I need to sleep. I know it’s only 6 o’clock at night and normally I would be awake, but I have flight at 3 in the morning and need up to get ready by 10pm. Jesus Frank, I only have 4 hours to sleep left! Leave me alone! I suddenly remember that I have wedged a heavy suitcase filled with wine (Riesling, 2008) against the hallway door to stop him getting in. Ah yes. That should hold him.

With this thought, I feel my body slowly relax again and my mind wanders aimlessly till…
Click-click
But no thud follows.
Dammit, I think. He has managed to get into the hallway, which only means that howling at my locked door was next.

I turn on the lamp and wince at the light it emits. I unlock my door and look down at Frank staring up at me with his green eyes.
Meow, he explains.
I’m sorry buddy, I say. But out you go. I pick him up gently and give him a quick rub under the chin before I turn him out.
My cat Frank has learned how to open doors by jumping and grabbing a hold of the handle and pulling it down, and it has driven my flatmate and I crazy over the past couple of weeks. I add another wine (Cabernet Sauvignon, 2006) and some beers to the suitcase and re-wedge it back against the door. What a nuisance it is sometimes to have a smart kitty.



Just as I start to put my thoughts to sleep, my alarm wakes and says it’s not time to sleep anymore.

I was never really asleep that night, which meant I was never really awake afterwards either. The flight was a turnaround to the subcontinent, and I float through the event, my feet never really touching the ground as I dish out chicken briyani and sambar for the ‘I am wedge’ passengers. We were entertained by a drunk little man with his fly undone on our flight, who looked like Abu (the monkey from Aladdin) if he were human. He was on his way to Saudi for yet another 2 year stint before he went back home again, and was loading up on the alcohol to either drown out his pain of leaving his family again or the drudgery of his upcoming 2 years.

The galley at the back is lit like a hospital’s waiting room, its white fluorescent lights doing no one any justice, especially since that none of the 7 crew have slept for this flight. There are grey circles under everyone’s eyes and all our cheeks are tickled with an unflattering shade of yellow. Welcome to the unglamorous side of the flight attendant, a wakeup call to newcomers to the job that this is not as shiny as it was advertised. We look like those who stumble out of a club at 6am, when the alcohol has worn off, the lights are too bright, and we just want to go home and crawl into bed.

Exhausted after the flight, I occupy my favourite seat at the back of the bus, take off my jacket and lie down to sleep.
My head bouncing against the seat of the bus suddenly wakes me, and I know that my stop is up next. The bus and its trailer full of suitcases skips and double bounces against the uneven dirt surface rewritten daily by lorries, cranes, taxis, motorbikes and other vehicles, giving it a nice bumpy and spontaneous texture like the moon’s surface.

However, I am often grateful to the lack of road leading up to my building which causes my head to jump like a pogo stick on the backseat. Without this rude awakening, I would very likely continue to slumber silently at the back of the bus till the shuttle did full circle and I was back at work again. Just goes to show that important wake up calls may be rude, but without them, we’d end up right back where we were in the beginning.

The city built on sand

I walk off the bus shaking. The drive from Ninoy Aquino International Airport (MNL)to the hotel has taken longer than usual because of traffic, and in that time, I was engaged in a discussion with the Captain, which has left me enraged.

‘I run a law firm.’
‘Oh really? Cool. Where did you study law?’
‘I’ve never studied law but I know that lawyers don’t make the best businessmen.’
Strike one.

‘Social interpretation of intelligence equates to greatness in mathematics. If you asked 100 people who was more intelligent – a mathematician, a lawyer, a fashion designer or a musician, the majority would say the mathematician.’
‘Ok, if you didn’t study law, then what did you study?’
‘Mathematics.’
Strike two.

‘But that’s very black and white, Captain. Social interpretation is exactly that, a society’s interpretation, which varies from society to society. The world is full of black, white and grey. Embrace the grey, Captain. Embrace the grey.’
‘Don’t talk to me about grey. I write. I have been published. I write and recite poetry, I know all about the grey.’
Yeah, so? Hitler was also published.
Strike three.

The Captain is a local from The Desert, a deserati. I hate to stereotype, but as Ryan Bingham says in Up In The Air (2010), it’s quicker. The captain’s archaic and misled views are a stark reminder of how The Desert has catapulted itself into modernity and is struggling to find its own set of values. The Desert in the past 30 years has transformed itself from a nomadic desert people of fishermen, farmers and mountain people, to a glittering Babylon of hotels and resorts, man-made world firsts, and malls the size of small cities.

Caught at the halfway point of the West and East, The Desert’s vantage point should have been an insightful one. However, it is as if they looked around the world for references of what it is to be a successful nation, and all they saw were the most obvious and shiniest examples in a commercialised world – a degree in mathematics, business, mega structures, luxury, and decided to make these values their own.

The Desert failed to take notice of the more understated examples of success such as recycling and public transport. Free speech (the reason why this blog is written anonymously). Human rights.

I live in a high-rise apartment building on a construction site in The Desert. For 2 years, my neighbours in the building opposite have been 200 Bangladeshi and Indian construction workers, who work 12 hour shifts in 50 degree weather with 100% humidity in the summers. I see them crawl under any source of shade they can find for a quick sleep during lunch. I see their meagre lunch of beans and rice, eaten with their hands, and I feel my heart break as they hold out their food for me, offering me lunch as they notice me staring. I see them get trucked out in dilapidated buses back to the compounds further out in the Desert, out of sight from the tourists, where they sleep 13 men to a room. The Desert is modern-day Ancient Egypt, and these men are its modern-day slaves.

My neighbours are no longer there. The building opposite my apartment is now finished, its facade brightly lit and dazzling. My neighbours are off to another building project as they continue to write the legacy of The Desert, of which they will never get a mention.

So if you ever pass through The Desert, or see its twinkling lights from afar, know that despite its self-promotion and shininess, all that glitters is not gold.

Here's to you, Mr Hamer.

After months of procrastinating, the desired blog has finally been created. This is ashamedly 2 years in the making, and if it wasn't for an influential passenger I encountered on a flight on New Years Eve 2009/10 from London (LHR) to Dubai (DXB) it would probably have taken me another 2 years to get this this off the ground.

It was a dreary night to be working - another New Year's Eve spent without friends and family around me. London churned out its best London weather for the momentous evening with an oppressive gray sky that blanketed the city so closely you felt you were in bed under the covers even when you stepped outside. It doesn't help that the hotel The Airline puts us up in is in the middle of Heathrow, hardly an attractive face of London, so this Trolley Dolly stayed in, signed up for the overpriced in-room wifi Internet of 10pounds and skyped with the boyfriend who resides in Australia. I 'enjoyed' the 5pound buffet breakfast downstairs in the restaurant/cafe, and I am not ashamed to say that I had seconds of the pork sausages.

My mood was sour as I waited for the passengers to board the New Year's Eve flight. I was grumpy and tired, and very unimpressed that a girl in security made me throw out my MAC liquid foundation because I had forgotten to put it in a clear baggie. I was especially miffed because she was a girl, and damn-right knew how expensive makeup is to replace. Bitch.

However, 2 passengers came and sat in my area, in quite a jovial mood. The middle-aged men moved effortlessly in the cabin, stowed their items away in the hat racks with such ease that it was evident that not only had they frequented the skies, but most probably had done so together. They saw me watching them and English guy asserts me, 'We're not gay'. I smile for the first time that day.

I learn that the two men are a journalist and his Irish photographer partner-in-crime on their way to Kabul, Afghanistan for a two week trip. Fascinated, I rack their brains about their job, their lifestyle, and what this trolley dolly with aspirations in journalism can do to get into the industry.

'Blog' the journalist says. 'Newspapers are dying, and blogging is the easiest way to get your material out there. If a potential employer wants to see your work, it's easy for them to access not only your blog, but also your followers and their comments.'

I exchange a steady supply of gin and tonics (lemon and ice, please) for their anecdotes, advice and simply their company that night. I was so engrossed by the light-hearted pair that the flight literally flies by.

Journalist offers me his business card saying 'If you are really interested in getting into journalism, next time you're in London, give me a call and I can introduce you to some people. I, personally, don't know anything. I can introduce you to people who know more than me, and maybe show you around the office. Do you know where Canary Wharf is?' Now I know what you may all think this sounds like, but we aside from journalism, we also talked extensively about his wife and children and my boyfriend so this was in no way anything more than a kind gesture on his behalf.

Two weeks later, I come home from a flight and find the business card in my Moleskin notebook. Hmm, really must get in touch with that journalist, I think. I find him on facebook easily, but instead of finding his profile, a group created with his name and the letters 'RIP' pop up instead. I look closely at the photo, and after reading its information, I learn that the journalist and photographer were involved in a car bomb explosion in Kabul. The journalist died, and the photographer suffered extensive injuries, was in critical condition but alive.

Never did I expect that one of my passengers would be dead after two weeks of meeting him. To think that New Year's Eve flight was the last one he would ever take from London, that it would be the last time he would have seen his family before the flight is unfathomable. From the amount of posts on his wall, it was clear that he had touched so many people's lives through his kindness, generosity, and most importantly, his unyielding desire to do the right thing.

So, it is to Rupert Hamer I dedicate this blog to. I hope he knows that though it may just have been another flight for him, through his kindndess and generosity, he inspired this trolley dolly to finally organise her thoughts, and turn her thoughts into words.

For the purposes of this blog, I will remain anonymous as I want to leave my thoughts and observations uncensored as much as possible in order to give a wider and deeper perspective into this weird job, without compromising my position with the company. The airline I work for will be noted as The Airline, and where I live will simply be referred to as The Desert.

I hope you'll follow me along my last few journeys with The Airline as I see my time with the company ending soon.

Be safe,
Trolley Dolly