Gadling

Ivana, Ivana, Ivana, you do not - I repeat - you do NOT call a child a barbarian. Out loud. On a flight. Oh sure, you can think it, we're all probably thinking it, but to outright say it....I don't think so. Not a good idea.

Now I probably would not have believed this story about a passenger who is suing Ivana Trump for calling his two adorable children names - ages 3 and 18 months - or the fact that Ivana has filed her own counter suit against the passenger who created those little barbarians. But the fact that the word barbarian was used to describe two little children, well...that is just so so wrong. Which only means it has to be true!

The best thing, by far, about being a flight attendant, besides all the cool people you get to work with and all the interesting passengers you meet, is being able to travel anywhere in the world (as long as there's an airport) at a moments notice on your day off - for free! Well...that is as long as there's an open seat on the airplane. So when the husband had to go to Carmel, California for work two weeks ago, I jumped on the computer, logged onto the airline website, and pulled up the passenger loads.

Oh. My. Goodness. I couldn't believe my eyes! The flight to Carmel was open. As in wide open! Which was kind of weird, because the flights these days are never open. Immediately my fingers began clicking the keyboard as fast as they could type, checking the passenger loads on the return flight back to Los Angeles. Unbelievable. The flight home was also open. Not wide open, no, but there were seats available, and more than two of them. Two seats, that's all I needed.

I yelled out, "We're going with you!" We, being, the kid and I.

That's when I realized I hadn't been back to Carmel since my son was born, a little over two years ago! What a shame, considering Carmel is one of my favorite places to go for a quick weekend getaway. What's so great about Carmel? Everything!

The town of Carmel is charming, located just steps away from the ocean. There you will find peace and relaxation as well as galleries and restaurants. For me, nothing compares to an early morning jog on the winding path overlooking the breathtaking beach while the fog rolls in, followed by a scrumptious breakfast at Katy's. Don't even get me started on the flowers, particularly the lavender, which makes the place smell so good, especially this time of year!

When I was growing up, my parents taught me that traveling by airplane was a luxury, not a right, and it was a luxury I would not experience until I was 16 years old when I flew to Los Angeles, California with a high school friend (and her mother) on American Airlines for an exciting weekend getaway. I'll never forget that flight. Then, at 17, I flew to Santa Clara, California, to visit a boyfriend in college on Southwest Airlines. I'll never forget that flight, either. I couldn't even believe I was on it. Back then just being on the flight itself was an exciting experience, never mind the drinks and the food and the service, which I don't even remember. But I'm sure a can of coke and a bag of peanuts were involved.

What I remember most about those two flights was the awe of flying, of looking out the window at the tiny houses below as we climbed up, up, up, until the incredible view became obstructed by something even more magnificent, billowing clouds.

A few years ago I actually met a flight attendant whose very first trip by airplane was to airline headquarters for an interview for the airline he works for now. That flight took place at age of 21. Today, things have changed drastically in the aviation business, and not for the better, if you ask a passenger. Yet the flights are all full, and with more and more children traveling these days. That, alone, makes me wonder, has travel really gotten so bad? Or are our expectations skewed?

"I never got to travel," said my mother, a flight attendant, who started working for a major US carrier in 1997, three afters I had my wings pinned to my blue lapel. "My first flight was with your father to Hawaii, when I was 21, because your father got stationed there in the navy. I got to go home to Texas once - in three years. And because your father spent most of his time at sea, I spent many holidays alone. That's just the way it was. We couldn't afford to travel."

Now that I'm a flight attendant and have the opportunity to fly for free (in coach), I usually take along my two-year son, who has traveled once a month, at least, since he was born. I always get a kick out of watching him leaning against the window, tapping on the glass, as we fly in and out of the clouds, causing him to exclaim at the top of his lungs, "WOW!" I wonder if he'll grow up to appreciate the privilege of travel? I do hope that one day he realizes just how lucky he is. How lucky we all are to be able to get from point A to point B for just a few hundred dollars.

Sitting on the jump-seat in the back of coach, working a flight from New York to Los Angeles aboard a 767, I turned to Stephanie, my coworker, and sighed. "I have to tell you, I was getting a little nervous there for a minute."

"I know," Stephanie laughed, even though she was not laughing an hour ago.

I should have known it was going to be one of those days when I spotted the flight attendant slipping her navy blue pantyhose feet into a cheap pair of white house shoes, the kind you snag from a nice hotel, just to go through security.

"Ma'am," I said eyeing her Travelpro suitcase, not her funny feet, as I placed my own wheelie bag onto the moving conveyor belt, "Are those three large cobs of corn sticking out of the back of your rollaboard?"

"Yes," she said matter of fact.

I laughed, attaching my tote-bag to my rolling bag, but she did not laugh back, as she slipped her feet into a pair of black leather heels, placing the house shoes inside the back pocket of her rollaboard next to the cobs of corn, and walked away.

Okay, that's weird, I remember thinking, as I walked to flight operations. Little did I know, that was just the beginning of weird.

We were midway through the beverage service in coach when it hit me. I had just poured a cup of coffee when I smelled a strange smell. It was the kind of smell you do not want to smell, particularly in flight. Now this wasn't that smell flight attendants often use coffee packets in the lavatory to disguise. Oh no, this was a burning smell. Maybe even a plastic burning smell. Or was it an electrical burning smell? I couldn't tell. While I tried to figure it out, I handed a passenger a cup of water, no ice, and looked across the cart at Stephanie who had three cups of orange juice in one hand.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I asked the next passenger, not making eye contact, as I still stood staring at Stephanie, who would not look at me no matter how long I stared at her.

I cleared my throat, but she did not look, so I glanced across the aisle at Ben, another coworker, who had just handed a passenger a breakfast sandwich. Too busy counting a wad of cash, Ben did not notice me either. As for his partner on the other side of the cart, she was bent over a passenger plugging in a set of headphones into the armrest. Just business as usual flying across the country, except for that strange scent in the cabin that only I seemed to smell.

Though I have no idea when it will actually happen, I can't decide where to travel on my next big vacation...

• Greece
• Hong Kong
• Croatia
• Dubai

That's been my list of dream places to go for the last few years. But now I've got a new place to add to the list, a list that just keeps growing.

• Portugal

Man oh man, the people you meet, the places you want to go...

Alice, my hairdresser is from Portugal, and that's what we talk about every time I see her, which is at least once a month. It was the morning of my Las Vegas trip, and while Alice worked her magic on my hair, I sat in front of the mirror on a swiveling chair catching up on the latest travel magazines that customers before me had left behind. Of course whenever I see Alice I can't help but talk travel while flipping through all those amazing photographs of beautiful places all around the world.

While reading an interesting article about a little town in Croatia, Alice said, "You've got to go to Portugal. It's beautiful." She had just returned from a two week vacation that very week, which explained the dark tan and the honey colored streaks in her auburn hair.

Placing a copy of Travel and Leisure on my lap, I listened as she described Vilamoura, the village by the sea where she grew up, where she had just visited, and as she described the fresh food, seafood of course, I decided right then and there I wanted to go. Soon. If you'd been there with me you'd want to go too! When my curly hair had been straightened as straight as it could get, I went home, got on the computer, and started googling Portugal.

Alice was right. Portugal is beautiful. I do want to go. But with so many places to go, and not enough time to actually go, how does one decide which place to go - first?

Due to short layovers, long work hours, multiple cities flown in a day, and the number of passengers aboard the aircraft, flight attendants can become very forgetful, particularly when it comes to you and something as simple as your drink order, even the one you just ordered.

"I'm sorry did you say orange juice?" I asked the man who had probably said just that, as half the cabin had already ordered exactly that. Orange juice.

Curtly the passenger nodded. I filled a plastic glass with ice, and that's when I realized he may not even want ice, so I asked, "Ice or no ice?" even though I was fairly certain the answer would be no ice. Half the cabin had already requested no ice.

The passenger said something, his lips were moving, but I could not make out what it was he said, so I held up the gray plastic ice scoop and pretended to put ice into his clear plastic cup, and asked, "Ice? Ice?" just as I had done for several passengers before him.

Again the lips moved, yet I still could not figure out what he wanted, so I made a judgment call. I filled up the glass with orange juice. Just juice. No ice. Then I smiled and placed the glass on his tray table. He nodded, took a sip, and on to the next row I went.

Orange juice no ice. Tea. Tea with milk. Tea with milk and sugar. Strangely enough, these were the popular drink choices on my last flight. No, this was not a morning trip to Seattle. This was actually a flight, an evening flight, on a Saturday night of all nights, to Las Vegas, Nevada.

Flight attendants can usually guess what you're drinking based on where you're going. For example, Californians can't get enough bottled water, sparkling water, and club soda, while Texans drink us out of Dr. Pepper, and our Senior Citizens enjoy tomato juice, so imagine my surprise when I constantly found myself running out of hot tea and OJ while serving a rather subdued crowd to Vegas last night. Not normal. Not at all. This was Vegas remember!

"You're going to have so much fun!" said my hairdresser yesterday morning after I told her where I was flying later that evening.

"It's a fun crowd, but a tough one. They keep you busy," I laughed, and then I told her our layover was short, as in ten hours short, which is not enough time to have fun. The days of fun are long gone. I really miss those days. My how things have changed.

"I'm so jealous! I want to go with you!" said a woman with foils in her hair sitting beside me.

"Oh no you don't. Our layover is really short," I said again, and then I told her about the demanding Las Vegas crowd, the one that keeps you busy the entire flight.

Now I hadn't flown to Vegas in over six months, but the last time I found myself behind the drink cart I couldn't get out of the aisle. Nor could I keep the liquor drawer stocked. Yet strangely enough on my flight last night the beverage service not only went fairly smooth, it also went somewhat quick, which is a flight attendant dream. I think I may have sold one alcoholic beverage on the flight. That's it. Not that there's anything was wrong with that - just the opposite actually. But it was strange, very strange, running out of tea bags, not liquor, on a drama free flight.

Or is it strange, considering how weak the dollar is these days, I thought to myself, as I handed an 81 year-old Argentinian woman traveling with a group of eleven a stir stick.

"Okay," said the husband, shoving his cell phone into the back pocket of his blue jeans. People, all of them very fashionably dressed, whizzed by us while we stood on the cobblestone street outside a large glass window displaying freshly baked pizza. We had just exited the train station in Rome and were looking for our hotel, The Gregoriana. "The guy said to walk up the Spanish Steps, turn right, and the hotel is at the end of the block."

"At least we're close," I said, eyeing a slice of pizza. It looked amazing. I couldn't wait to get my hands on one.

Sighing, the husband grabbed his black rolling bag, slung a backpack over his shoulder, and said. "So...any idea how many steps there are?"

"A lot," I said with a laugh. Though I did not know the exact amount of steps (I do now), I had an idea there would be more than we'd like.

We turned a corner, walked a good ten feet, all the while taking in the history and beauty that surrounded us, and five seconds later found ourselves standing at the foot of the steps. "Oh. My. God," said the husband.

"Good thing we packed light," I said, and meant it, because we had, in fact, packed light, very very light for a ten day trip to Italy. And then I laughed, because all I could do was laugh, as I took in ALL THOSE steps, as well as all those people sitting on the steps. There were well over a hundred - People and steps! I'm not sure which frightened me more -the people or the steps!

One thing a flight attendant knows how to do is pack light. We do it every day. My secret to packing light, wearing only black, white, and brown, along with a couple colorful accessories. That way everything goes with everything else, creating several mix and match outfits from just a couple basic pieces. Of course, the other secret is to roll your clothes, not fold.

"Roll them military style," advised Dee, a flight attendant I worked with from Dallas to La Guardia a few months ago after I told her I was going to Italy for ten days and would only be taking along my flight bag. "You can get more in the bag that way."

I'm not sure what she meant by military style, but I figured it had something to do with rolling my clothes tight, really tight, which is exactly what I did, getting way more than I anticipated into my crew bag.

"You are not going to need all that," said the husband, as he watched me on the floor from the bed.

"You don't know that," I said, as I proudly zipped up my bag - one bag. And a tote.

That day, September 11, 2001, was the day I landed in Zurich, Switzerland for a week long vacation with my mother who is also a flight attendant based in New York. That morning, the morning we sat on a strange bed in a hotel room far away from home, our eyes glued to the television, we watched in horror as it happened, as an airplane, one of our airplanes, carrying our fellow crew members, along with our passengers, crashed into the World Trade Center. Like you, we were stunned, and scared, and could not believe what we had just seen so far far away from home. Little did we know our lives had changed forever.

"Don't even bother going to the airport until the 21st," said an airline representative over the phone after I told her we were airline employees trying to use our flight passes to get out of Switzerland on a flight, any flight, to the United States.

"How much to purchase a ticket?" I asked.

"Let me see....the only seat available is on the 28th, in coach, and that costs..." I could hear her fingers clickity click click clicking, working their magic. I held my breath. "$8,000," she finally said.

"Just keep going to the airport," said a Delta Captain laying over at our hotel. We were in the lobby waiting to check in - again, when he spotted the red CREW bag tag wrapped around my suitcase. "We were able to get a few standbys out the other day."

So that's what we did, my mother and I, we woke up early each morning, checked out of the hotel, walked to the train station in a daze, our bags rolling behind us, where we boarded a train in the dark to go to the airport. Hours were spent waiting to get on one of two flights, the only two flights going to the United States. All other flights had been canceled. One flight departed early in the morning and another left later in the evening and we were number 800-and-something on the standby list. Yet we continued to go to the airport and wait it out every single day, just like thousands of other people desperate to get home to family and friends.

Eventually some passengers did leave. By car. A couple of them decided to drive to other airports in neighboring countries. A few days later they returned. My mother and I still sat waiting, waiting, waiting in the terminal with little hope of getting out any time soon.

When we did finally make it back to the United States, I found myself in Texas, where my parents live, and that's where I decided to stay until October. The route I'd flown for two years straight, New York - Vancouver, had been wiped off my schedule the entire month of September - never to return again. Which left me with a little time off that many of my colleagues were not fortunate enough to experience. I was lucky and I knew it.

"Hello. How are you? Welcome aboard," I say, and I say this as I'm standing between first class and coach while passengers board the airplane and slowly make their way down the aisle. That's when I spot you standing at your row with your bag sitting on an aisle seat as you stare up at the overhead bin, a full overhead bin, and shake your head.

"Hello. How are you? Welcome aboard," I say, as you continue staring into the full overhead bin above your seat, and as you stare, still shaking your head, I already know what you're going to say before you even say it, and while I wait for you to say it, I continue to greet the passengers during the boarding process. "Hello. How are you? Welcome aboard."

Though I can't make out the words, I see you're talking to those seated around you, pointing aggressively at your seat, at the overhead bin, back at your seat again, and as you begin to make a scene, a very loud one, you turn and look at me.

"Hello. How are you? Welcome aboard," I say, and as I say this, I'm thinking to myself, here we go, and I'm wondering, as I've wondered thousands of times before, why you can't just turn around and put the bag inside the empty overhead bin behind you, the one located three rows back. You see it. I see it. We all see it. So why don't you use it? You can use it, ya know.

Waving your hands in the air at me, you say, "Excuse me, Miss! Can you help me!"

Of course. I slide in behind a passenger and slowly make my way down the aisle. You look very concerned, so I smile at you, but you don't smile back. You never do. Now this is about to go one of three ways, depending on how often you fly...

YOU RARELY FLY: "There are bags in MY overhead bin!"

YOU FLY A COUPLE TIMES A YEAR: "Can you help me find a place for my bag?"

YOU'RE A FREQUENT FLIER: "Can I put my bag up there?" (pointing to first class)

ME: "I'm sorry," I always say, no matter how often you fly, because I am, truly, sorry - sorry I have to say sorry all day long! "But you're going to have to use the bin three rows back." I point at the bin. "I'd grab it quick before someone else does." Now the next thing I'm going to say depends on how often you fly, and usually goes something like this..

"I feel sick," I said to my mother, also a flight attendant, as we sped down the highway. Each mile brought us closer and closer to the training facility.

"Relax," said my mother, a woman who does not know how to relax, especially when it comes to flight attendant training. Trust me. You should have heard her three months ago. "You're going to do just fine."

I always do just fine. I've had thirteen years of just fine. Even so, I still felt sick.

"Think you can slow down!" I exclaimed as I glanced at the speedometer. We were going way too fast! Okay fine, so we were only ten, maybe five, miles over the speed limit, but that's too fast for a person who doesn't want to be where they have to be any sooner than they have to be there.

Did I happen to mention I felt sick? It was that bad.

I don't know what it is about recurrent training that makes me feel this way, but every month of August is spent dreading these two inevitable days. In fact, I don't know a flight attendant out there who doesn't get all worked up before entering the big building where it all began. Which makes me wonder, what the heck did they do to us during those initial seven and a half weeks of training thirteen years ago? Seriously.

My mother slowed the car and stopped beside a yellow curb. "'You're going to do great."

I looked out the window at the the big building looming before us. "I don't know about great,' I said, and as I said this I could feel my heart beating, and my palms were sweating, as I kissed my sleeping son goodbye, grabbed my flight manual, and slowly walked up the stairs. One. Step. At. A. Time. Class didn't start for another ten minutes, so there was no rush to get inside now was there?