In March 2001, I quit a newspaper editor job to go to Hong Kong and Macau for five weeks on a business scholarship paid by Rotary International, as part of its Group Study Exchange program. I didn't want to be 90 and on my deathbed, and regret that I had passed up this kind of opportunity, despite how difficult I knew it would be when I returned to the U.S. to find another job. What follows is the first day of the trip I took with four other people, specifically the 16-hour flight from Chicago to Hong Kong over the North Pole and Beijing. Keep in mind this was about six months before Sept. 11 and its travel industry-changing events.
Our flight attendant had a real head for numbers. You learn to in her profession, she explained; just as waitresses learn to identify regulars by their dishes, she does so with seat numbers and letters.
"Did you get a good look at the guy in 51K?" she asked. Tammy and I shook our heads. "Mosey up there and tell me what you think. He's the best-looking one on this flight.
"What I like to do, to amuse myself at the beginning of a long flight like this," she begins, "is as the passengers are coming aboard, I look for the man who appeals to me the most. When I find him, I memorize where he's sitting. I figure if the plane starts to go down, I can grab him and head upstairs with a bottle of wine from Business Class."
Upstairs are crew cabins where the attendants can catch short naps, something badly needed on flights consisting of 15 hours or more, as this one does. She smiles broadly as she finishes, to let us in on the joke. It's a way of easing tensions, like paramedics swapping some of their more humorous saves over a 3 a.m. breakfast at the local truck stop. A lot of people would find this behavior inappropriate, not taking into account that both are high-stress jobs for employees who think too far ahead to what might happen while they're on duty, and what could happen to the lives placed in their care.
After checking out 51K, Tammy and I conclude the Australian isn't too bad, but neither does he really spark either of our interests. She goes for short, metrosexual men, while I take an interest in lankier and taller guys. We mention the Argentinean slumbering next to the window in our row, only waking up to take one of the many meals and snacks passed around on international flights, or to regard whatever's playing from the projector up front before giving Tammy and I a brief smile and curling back up under his blanket.
The attendant nods, looking as though she might like a cigarette. For some reason, I can always pick out the smokers; maybe it's the barely-concealed nicotine-starved agitation in her posture as she sits for a break, looking between the two of us. I almost feel compelled to offer my matchbook on the spot before remembering where we are.
Where we are is roughly six miles over the Earth, somewhere west of Greenland. The ill-named country is visible, but not remarkable, considering the only thing ending a sudden 30,000-foot drop at this point is what appears to be one huge glacier riddled with giant cartoon-like zigzag fissures. Soon after that, we go over the North Pole, and I remark to Tammy and April on the great view. Tammy, at least, gives me an odd look as though I've just suggested trick-riding on ponies at the circus would be a wise career choice.
It'll be several nights later that I lay awake in a strange room, in a strange country, and begin to actively fear the flight back. Air travel has never frightened me, and airplanes are a fascination, but few can deny there's something normal in the dread associated with possibly crash-landing on a large slab of ice in weather of fifty or more degrees below zero. It's desolate, without a soul or even a settlement in sight. Even Siberia and northern China are scarred and frozen from the air, and they are at least a couple of thousand miles south of the gargantuan glacier that locks in the Arctic.
The flight attendant notices our matching polo shirts and slacks and asks. We're with a Rotary group, we explain. We won a scholarship of sorts to go to Hong Kong and Macau, to see businesses and meet regular, everyday Chinese people. On tiptoe, we point out Sheila, April, and Ted, all asleep in their respective seats in Coach. "How long're you staying?" she asked. "A week or so?"
Her eyes widen at our answer. "A month?" She hopes we won't miss home too much, but we all know Sheila already misses her children and husband, Wes, and Tammy's going to miss new episodes of "The Sopranos" on HBO. "Well, I'll miss my family, too!" Tammy protests when we tease her about it.
Eventually we give up the view and the conversation and go back to our seats to rest. It's going to be an active month, and our attendant's right – we'll need every bit of relaxation we can get to keep up.
Half an hour or so before the flight ends, we see the blonde again. She presents us each with a bottle of French wine from Business Class, wrapped in linen napkins, and gives us each a wink. She knows we're going to have to behave and conduct ourselves in a manner more suited to a job interview than to a visit with friends, 99 percent of the next month. "Drink it when you get some time off," she advises, turning to leave.
Sheila and April look at us, startled. Tammy and I just grin. It pays to make friends in high places.
July 26, 2018