Today marks the beginning of week six (of eight) in Texas.
I am so close to being out of this Jack-in-the-Box parking Lot, I can taste it.
This weekend, I'll be working (in uniform) on a 767 bound for San Fransisco.
Sorry I've been lax on the posting. If I haven't been sleeping, I've been studying. If I haven't been studying, I've been watching Season One of Breaking Bad and having nightmares about being forced to sell meth to first class passengers (I hope the NSA has a sense of humor). Have you heard of Breaking Bad? It's a good show. I really think it's going to take off.
I'm getting to the point where I know most of my classmates pretty well. I thought that eventually, a common thread would start forming between us, something that brought us all together to decide on this bizarre career path. "I want my baby to be like Kate Middleton", "I want to be just like my mother" and "I want to wear a (brand new leopard-skin) pill-box hat" are high on the list of reasons people are choosing this career, but none of them really define who we are---except for that we are all apparently lunatics and Bob Dylan fans.
There are a fair number of people in this class whose mother/father/partner/sibling is a flight attendant/pilot and who realize that the job offers some serious benefits. One particular girl, whose dad is a pilot and mom is a flight attendant, has never paid for airline travel. She cannot imagine a world that is not readily available by aircraft. Therefore, she has secured her future in the sky by being a flight attendant, too. And she's dating a pilot. I like to joke that they're going to give birth to an S80. I hope she flies an airplane down the wedding aisle. I could go on with the aircraft-related love jokes.
Other girls are following in their mothers' footsteps after hearing about the wild adventures and craziness associated with being a F/A in the previous century. I love that I can tell my parents that they're so "last century".
Others used to be flight attendants, walked away for some reason or another ("I got married"/"I hated it"/"I was furloughed after 9/11"/ "I didn't want to fly on a metal sheet of death anymore") and are now coming back to the job. Out of? Love of the career? Inability to find a fulfilling job with the same kind of benefits? A rosy speculation of the past lent by a faulty memory? Several of the above.
Some people were just sick of working at a restaurant or bar. This job is all about service, so several years of service related duties means you are a perfect fit.
many of my classmates consider themselves to be artists of some kind--and (mostly) for good reason. Opera singers, actors, dancers, writers, painters-- we don't entirely know how to keep a regular 40 hour week, but we do know how to kiss ass and be spontaneous, so here we are. Armed with an inkling of hope to continue our artistic lives, here we are.
About half of us are not really sure how we got here. We have a vague idea of why--something about wanting to travel--and a head full of indecision. For many of us in this category, we are learning an entirely foregin vocabulary related to our new-found (glory) airline life. We are learning how to wear high heels and itchy pantyhose every day, and reluctantly spraying our fluffy, unbrushed hair into tight buns. Half of the time, we are not entirely sure of what we are doing. We're just sort of along for the ride. When those senior mommas strut in and say "I've been flying for as long as you've been alive", we cringe a little. We thought this would be a good job to sort of figure it out with. See the world. Eventually find a place to settle down, get a non-rev ticket and never return. Disappear into Bolivia, with few upfront costs. We are afraid of settling into something for a year, much less thirty years. We think we are trying to find home, but we might just be running away from everything.
For the record, Olivia from Bolivia is a children's story waiting to happen.
"Gotta see, Gotta know right now."
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