Pan Am Unbuckled: A Very Plane Diary (8 page)

“I have not heard from Mom” I ventured. All the other girls were getting letters in the mail, but I hadn’t received a single one— and normally my mother was a prolific letter writer. Renness responded in a very soft voice “And I don’t know that you will. Yes, honey…it is hard on your mom….but don’t you worry about that, it will be just fine…how is it going?” “Oh, just fine”, I lied. But she knew me so well— she could hear the distress in my voice. “Well, I tell you what I will do. I’ll bring you a car” she offered. “Really?” I was ecstatic. “Yes, I have an extra one. Anne Hoag brought back an extra Alpha Romeo from Spain and it’s a convertible and it’s red. You may not be able to keep it the whole time as Nielson and Carol Ann are getting married and there will be a lot of guests coming and going, so I may need some cars back.”

Within a day or two Renness came to visit me with Chuckie, their youngest son, and picked me up in her classic Lincoln Continental that had the old ‘Mafia suicide-style’ doors. She drove me to La Playa Boulevard in Coconut Grove, and there, sitting in the drive way— all shiny with a tank full of gas— was the Alpha Romeo. She said “Here’s the keys. Take good care of it.” I said “Yes ma’m.” It was the middle of the week, and I had to get back to Training School.

Driving back from Coconut Grove in the Alpha Romeo, with the top down, there was a new song on the radio,
Aquarius
by The Fifth Dimension. I felt like I had arrived. Once I had the car, I didn’t feel the strong urgent need to get away. Having a car actually helped me pay attention in the training sessions because it eased my anxiety of feeling ‘trapped’. I also seemed to become a bit more popular after that. Having the Alpha Romeo was the making of my training school days.

I don’t remember actually taking anyone from Training School in the car anywhere— except Jan. Jan was sweet and really good company. She seemed like a character out of
Laverne and Shirley
when she talked about the only job in Milwaukee was to work in the brewery. She was thrilled about getting the job with Pan Am.

Every day, I had a review of what I had done in Safety Training the day before. After that, I studied something interesting in the flight manual, such as: how to serve wine so it doesn’t drip; how to decoratively fold linen napkins, how to cut lemons for garnish; and how to do mundane things like heating up chafing dishes full of scrambled eggs. I was also learning, not just about the hard core economy meals, but how to balance trays and how to take drink orders with a ball-point pen, on the trays’ plastic-coated paper in such a way that I could divide them into six squares, and still read them later and know what went to each passenger. The purser would read my “code”, make the drinks, and dispense them as they were ordered.

Then, there were personal health and safety issues like how to use legs for support when lifting heavy objects— in order to protect the back. But, the more exotic things had to do with First Class: How to set up an auxiliary bar in a forward 707 lounge—and later in the upstairs 747 lounge. I was choreographed on using my whole body to convey a message of confidence to the passengers in such a way that I remained prim and proper while bending over in the aisle to talk to a passenger.

Tests included details like the correct salutation for elected officials—senators, congressmen, governors—and foreign diplomats such as ambassadors or royalty. (This information was also in our handbooks that we carried on each flight.) The VIP passengers were listed on a Special Information Log (SIL) along with any pertinent information—like their preferred drink and when they last flew with us. (In the practical world, it did not always work that well. We did have an SIL, but sometimes it lacked much helpful information.)

Each day included emergency training in a mock-up of the interior of an aircraft, with drills for every conceivable emergency. We practiced by trading-off being the passenger or the crew responding to these emergencies. The water evacuation part was a piece of cake for me. A simulation took place in a large swimming pool at our training center—where rough water situations were mechanically mimicked.

The only thing that was really daunting to me was the emergency slide. With the advent of the 747, one egress option was through the auxiliary galley door in the upper deck of the 747— which meant that evacuation was on a steep-pitched three-stories-high slide. Going out the double-story height of a 707 was already scary for me. I, along with everyone who really knew me, wondered what in the world I had gotten myself into—flying when I was very susceptible to motion sickness and afraid of heights. I was so petrified, but I could not let anyone in training school know. Somehow I made it. I would close my eyes and keep mumbling “I think I can, I think I can…” Silly enough, but I honestly LOVED
The Little Engine That Could
.

Ours was not a real ‘party kind of class’, nor were our instructors big partiers. Before I went to training I had heard about champagne corks popping and people doing frivolous things at training. However, at the end of the day, we were really tired. So, we did not carry-on like I had heard. Being honest, the whole process of training was physically draining.

In the interim, we were fitted for our uniforms, made our choices from uniform options, and signed a contract to pay for them. The day we had our first fittings for the uniforms, I got completely caught up in the excitement one more time. Looking in the mirror was ME— wearing the ‘Jackie Oesque’ pillbox hat and an Evan Picone uniform. It was the first time I saw myself in a uniform, and I thought I looked great.

Charles Oliver Rogers, Chief Pilot for Eastern Airlines, gave me a bit of fatherly advice— that the primary purpose of being a flight attendant was “To assure that the old man gets his coffee on time” — meaning we had to take good care of the pilots, as they had the responsibility of getting everyone from Point-A to Point-B safely. In real life, though, the pilots came out of the cock pit to get coffee at the forward galley whenever they wanted—and they did, especially when we were very busy attending to a plane full of 300 passengers.

Before graduating from training, I had to go on an actual flight—a training flight. We were each assigned individually to an experienced crew. As most of us did, I ended up on a training flight to San Juan. I learned a lot about myself on that trip. Before doing it, I thought it was a joke—but it wasn’t. It was very, very hard work. The purser on the flight wrote us up on how well we did.

I felt like a fake. I was in a uniform, in a real cabin, with a whole lot of strangers, and suffering from motion sickness while still on the ground. Immediately after take-off, I jumped out of the aft jump seat to begin attending to the galley. The g-forces made me very unsteady on my feet. A crew member told me to sit back down and wait until the plane leveled off—the FIRST thing I had NOT learned in training school. During that training flight, I almost dropped a whole dinner tray. I did drop some things off of a tray and wasn’t sure how I was supposed to pick them up. Then I remembered the old adage about Mrs. Roosevelt’s White House maid dropping a roast beef in front of guests, and without missing a beat, Mrs. Roosevelt asked her to “Get the other roast beef that’s in the kitchen.” With that in mind, I did likewise.

Where I got low marks was in my facial expressions. I was NOT supposed to show my feelings on my face—frowning in concentration, and grimacing when I didn’t think I was doing well. The job required more of a performance, like stage acting, and I needed to perform my serving duties without showing what was going on inside. I was, however, complimented on my gracious demeanor when conversing with passengers —that I was articulate and “Could talk myself out of any situation”, and that I was very well groomed.

I also learned that when I was in the air my skin got dry and my feet swelled. So, the first thing I did when I arrived back in Miami from the training flight was to buy a size larger shoe and a pound of moisturizer— for when I was in the air!

The last week in Training School, I received my Base assignment. I had submitted my first, second and third choices for home base, but the final decision would be up to Pan Am. My first choice was San Francisco, my second choice Miami, and my third choice Los Angeles. Imagine my surprise when I was assigned New York. I had not asked for NY. But, of course, I spoke Russian, and Moscow flights were based in NY, so I should have guessed that it would very likely be my assignment.

Our class picture was taken the day we got our wings. Renness Senior came for the occasion, as promised, and pinned my wings on me. Having her there took much of the sting out of my mother’s absence on that day. Unfortunately, in my intent to “Live life to the fullest”, and trying to fit every possible activity into whatever the schedule was, I’d stayed at the beach way too long the day before. As a result, my face was red, my eyes were puffy, and my lower lip was swollen from sun burn to twice its normal size.

It was such an exception for me to call home, but I called to tell my father that training was over and that I would be based in NY. The newly trained stewardesses were leaving at different times and to different locations in groups of three or four. I was the only one going to NY. I was exhilarated, though, to again be on my own. I was going to NY and would figure it all out when I got there.

Upper East Side

I arrived at JFK’s Pan Am World Port in the late afternoon and went directly down the disembarkation service stairs to the OPS crew desk. OPS desk was where the airline’s operational hub, pilots, aircrafts, flight service, catering, baggage, and EVERYONE got their orders. I was told in training school to check in with the crew desk at the assigned base as soon as I could. The crew desk was next to the crew lounge—a big waiting room filled with quiet, lethargic, uniform clad men and women. The OPS manager took down my information and asked if I had a contact address. I said “No, I don’t really. But, someone told me that, in a worst-case scenario, I could sleep in the crew lounge.” He said “You don’t really want to do that, even if you can. You have four days to find a place to live before scheduling can assign you a trip. Good luck.” I thanked him.

If I couldn’t find a place to stay immediately, my plan was to stay briefly with a great uncle who lived in NY –but that was a back-up, back-up plan. I walked into the crew lounge and found the bulletin board. There, in the bottom right corner, was a 3x5 card that said ‘Roommate Wanted, call Robbie’. The rent was fifty dollars a-month and in Manhattan. My base pay was $315 a month, so $50 sounded like a very good deal.

I found a phone booth and dialed the number. Luckily, Robbie answered the phone and said that she had only just posted the notice. I told her I was transferring in from training school. Robbie said “Yes… well…I’m perfect for you! Come to 221 East 81
^st
. …take the Carey Bus to the East Side Bus Terminal… come uptown on the First Avenue Bus…then, walk west.”

Carrying my Pan Am tote bag and suitcase without wheels, I arrived just before dark and rang the buzzer on the stoop. The door unlatched and I pushed it in. I found myself in an East Side Manhattan, five story tenement brick house. Robbie leaned over the banister from the 3
^rd
floor landing and called down for me to come on up. I climbed the stairs with my two suitcases. Robbie led me through her apartment door —and it was just wonderful.

The apartment was small, with a sleeping alcove—which was for me, a bedroom that was Robbie’s, a studio kitchen, a full bathroom, and a big sitting room. It was spot clean, not too gussied up, and very inviting. A light breeze ruffled the curtains on the big, half-raised windows facing the street. I felt instant relief—relief that this would work. I liked Robbie and the apartment, and felt very lucky to have a place to live so quickly.

Robbie had been flying for two years— which sounded like forever to me. She liked to be frugal. Renting to me was one of the ways that she could do that. My fifty dollars would be two-thirds of the rent she paid for the whole apartment. It was a good deal for both of us. I barely unpacked and immediately fell asleep.

Day two in NY, I was on my own and I didn’t have any Pan Am responsibilities—other than to call scheduling with my address and telephone number. I discovered that our apartment was a short distance from the Metropolitan Museum. I spent the whole day walking around like a regular tourist. In 1968 I had lived and worked for 4-months in the West Village with a sorority sister, Susan Froemke—whose father had an apartment there, because semi-annually he taught economics at NYU. When he was teaching the other six months at Florida State in Tallahassee, Susan and I got to have the apartment all to ourselves. So, I had been in New York, but now I was really solo and independent.

The Guggenheim was relatively new and I had never been inside. The art did not impress me, at the time, but I thought the building was phenomenal. I ate from a hot dog vendor. I went browsing at Bergdorf’s and Henri Bendel’s—but didn’t buy anything. Late in the afternoon, I went into The Plaza Hotel. I was thirsty, so I ordered lemonade to celebrate my new life in NY. I found a phone booth and called my great-uncle Edward Franklin who lived in the Mews in Greenwich Village, and told him that I was in town. We made plans to meet later. Eventually I made it back to Robbie’s apartment—mostly walking and then coming part of the way on the subway. When I got back, that was the one thing she wanted to talk to me about—use of the subway. She was all for it, but wanted me to know that stuff on the subway had gotten worse, and I needed to be careful. She treated me to dinner and wine at Serendipity—a big, new thing in town.

The next day, scheduling called. They weren’t supposed to call me for one more day. There wasn’t such a thing as caller ID, so when the phone rang, I picked it up—to see who it was. I later learned to have a ‘sixth sense’ about who was calling. If it was scheduling— it just seemed to ring in a different way. Turns out, they wanted to assign me a trip. Robbie was in the background trying to coach me on what to say to get out of it. My attitude was “What the heck…might as well take the trip.” They assigned me a San Juan turnaround. Everyone with low seniority and especially new hires had a long period of time where their work revolved around the San Juan turnaround. It was the worst trip as it involved long days, full loads, not particularly cordial passengers, and no layover in San Juan. It was just what it was called—‘the San Juan turnaround’.

Robbie laughed at me when I loaded up my tote bag with a bikini and a change of clothes and my full make-up kit. She said “You are just making your tote bag too heavy.” But I had been told in training school to be prepared, and I was following my training. Robbie told me how to go to the East Side Bus Terminal again on the Third Avenue Bus, and she advised me to get there early enough to get a Carey Bus Pass, as it would save me a lot of money in the long run. I took her advice to heart—even though the pass used up almost ALL of my cash reserves. I made it back to JFK on the Carey Bus and felt very confident about my ability to find my way around already.

I entered the crew lounge and, even though I was early, signed in right away. Now, as far as Pan Am and scheduling was concerned, I was officially at the airport and ready for duty. What I didn’t know was that crew members, who were waiting for their flights, played ‘a little bit of a game’. Nobody actually signed the sign-in book until right before their report time—which was an hour and a half before the flight’s departure. I soon found out why.

I went to the mailbox room to check my box and by the time I walked back into the crew lounge, they were calling out my name. “Oh, no!” I thought, “ What had I done wrong on my first flight?” Breathlessly, I said I was there. “Oh, you are being rerouted”, the scheduler told me. “You are not on the San Juan, but on Flight 2.” People within hearing distance either gasped or laughed. “Yes, hope you brought a suitcase.” I could tell from the way the scheduler looked at me, when he told me to go to the briefing room that he felt a bit sorry for me. As I walked across the crew lounge area, an old male purser said to me “That’ll teach you to sign in early.” I asked where Flight 2 went and he said “Honey, you are on the ‘round-the-world.” I technically knew that Flight 1 and Flight 2 were Pan Am’s Around-the-World flights out of NY, but it didn’t compute immediately what that meant—but I was about to find out.