Gadling

"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?

While on a flight to Stansted, England, on our way to Venice, the New York based international flight attendant working on my side of the cabin eyed the book, Frommer's Italy 2008, in my hands as she poured a little cream into my coffee. "Are you going to Italy?"

"We are," I said, nodding my head at the husband who was asleep beside me. When she placed the cup of coffee on my tray table, I said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. So where exactly are you going in Italy?"

"Venice, Positano and Rome. Have you been?"

The flight attendant laughed, "Have I been? Too many times to count!" Click went the break of the cart. "I'll be back as soon as I'm done with the service." And like that she was gone, off to the next row where she offered the passengers behind us coffee, tea, cordials and dessert.

Want to know good, yet affordable, places to go, and eat, on your next vacation? Ask a flight attendant. Flight attendants are much like cops in respect to knowing great places to visit. Yet unlike cops, flight attendants aren't just familiar with one city, they know the ins and outs of many different cities. Don't believe me? Just ask the flight attendant on your next trip. You'll see.

Ten minutes later the flight attendant was back at my row, a pen in hand. She placed a piece of paper on my tray table, a customs and immigrations form, and flipped it over. On the back she wrote the word POSITANO, and then began to draw as she said, "I go to Positano two to three times a year. Here's what you need to do..."

"What?" said the husband who was now leaning over my shoulder.

"Positano," I said. "She's giving us the scoop on Positano."

"My favorite place in the whole world," said the flight attendant.

What I didn't know at the time was Positano would soon become my favorite place in the whole world, too. It's that amazing. That beautiful. And the food...absolutely delish! It's the kind of place where you can just relax, sitting on your ocean view balcony, and let Italy come to you.

"There's more to Miami than La Carreta," said the well dressed passenger seated in 9D, the seat directly in front of my jump seat, as we slowly climbed to our cruising altitude.

"Oh I don't know about that!" I laughed, as I loosened my seat belt so I could lean into the aisle and see why the woman three rows back kept waving her hands at me.

"The seat belt sign is on," I told the woman as I pointed to the ceiling, at the illuminated seat belt sign, after she had asked if she could go to the restroom. "I'll let you know when it's safe to get up."

NOTE: If the flight attendant is still sitting in the jump seat, you should certainly be seated in your seat. It's not safe to get up yet.

The passenger wearing the nice suit seated directly in front of me just shook his head. Then he looked at the handsome guy with the longish hair from Chile sitting beside him and said, "tell Heather there's more to Miami than La Carreta!"

The Chilean just smiled at me sweetly, so I smiled back. I don't think he even knew what we were talking about. But the father and son team from the Dominican Republic wearing matching New York Yankee ball caps across the aisle from the Chilean knew exactly what the stylish one and I were talking about, because in unison they cried, "there's more to Miami!"

Now this conversation began right after the passenger, the well dressed one, had asked "Do you fly to Miami often?"

"No. Not really," I said. "Not if I can help it. I can't even remember the last time I had a layover in Miami." Then I went on to explain why I'm not a fan of the New York - Miami trips, which had more to do with the Miami International Airport than Miami itself.

"I think you need to give Miami another shot. It's a fantastic city!" he interrupted.

I'm sure it is. But how would I know? Long gone are the days when I can actually do something on my layover other than shower, eat, and sleep. You see my Miami is not his Miami - the sexy exciting international Miami. Oh no. My Miami is a four hour sit at the airport between flights. My Miami is wearing a navy blue polyester dress and sweating my you know what off as my hair begins to frizz because of the heat and humidity inside the airport terminal. My Miami is swarms of passengers carrying too much heavy luggage wrapped in plastic. My Miami is a plane full of scantily dressed passengers who get angry as soon as they realize we don't have blankets on board. My Miami originates from New York. Enough said?

"Ma'am," said the TSA agent as he stared at the screen in disbelief.

I gulped. Oh no, here we go, I thought, as I stood in line and watched him sitting on the stool inspecting my bag on the screen in front of him. I smiled a friendly smile and tried to act nonchalant, as if I hadn't been dreading this moment all day. Man, I knew this was going to happen!

The TSA agent looked at me, and back at the screen. "Is that a frying pan in your suitcase?"

"Yes, sir, that is, in fact, a frying pan in my bag," I laughed.

All I could do was laugh. Not only had my grandpa given me a cast iron skillet (or two - okay three!), earlier that morning, he'd also given me a pound of potatoes from his garden in Texas. Luckily I found all the items he'd hidden in my bag before leaving for the airport. I only kept one cast iron skillet, and in my defense, it was the smallest one.

"Is everything okay?" I asked the TSA agent as he looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with another agent.

Guess not. Because now there were three agents surrounding the screen. They whispered amongst themselves and studied the frying pan with great intensity. It's just a frying pan, I wanted to say, but didn't, because now all three of them were looking at me. I, of course, just smiled and held my breath. Normally, in this kind of situation I'll crack a joke, say something silly about cooking eggs for the crew, but this time I kept my mouth shut.

NOTE: Always - ALWAYS - keep your mouth shut when TSA is inspecting your bag. And do whatever they say. Whether you like it or not.

It seemed like an eternity before the backup agents walked away from the screen. The one left sitting on the stool just shook his head and didn't say another word as the conveyor belt started to move again. When my suitcase popped out on the other side I thanked the guy and went on my merry way. That was close. Maybe a little too close.

TSA, I'm sure, has seen it all. And then some! I mean if I'm hauling a frying pan across the country, I wonder what other people are packing in their bags. It got me thinking.

"Excuse me," I said to a TSA agent standing beside me at the Wendy's counter at La Guardia airport last week. I had just ordered an iced tea, a little treat before starting a killer three-day trip flying in and out of Miami. (I still don't know what I was doing on that trip.) After explaining to the TSA agent I was in the process of writing a post about weird things people pack, I went on to ask, "What strange things have you seen on the job?"

"What are you doing with all that?" asked The Husband, holding a huge bag of seafood as he stared (very rudely) into my grocery cart.

"It's for work," I said, and then I pushed the cart down the aisle - away from him, away from his hands, hands that, if given the chance, would take what was in my cart out of my cart.

"Work?" I heard him say behind me.

"Yeah work. I'm going to write about it!" I exclaimed, thankful to have an excuse, a very good excuse - that was actually true! - as I continued pushing the cart to the check out stand.

Following quickly behind me, he asked, "Just how many bottles do you need?"

As many as I could get in the cart. But I didn't tell him that. What I told him was we needed all the bottles of wine for our guests that were in town visiting. What I didn't tell him was that there was no way the guests that were in town visiting were going to touch my wine. That's right, I said it, my wine!

If you're a flight attendant, or an aviation enthusiast, you probably own a lot of airline crap. Like me. Of course we don't refer to it as crap. Oh no, these are our treasures. Precious treasures. That belong in a museum. Like the one I USED to have in my guest room closet. I say USED to have because The Husband recently boxed up my airline museum and drove the contents that are now inside a giant grey tub to a storage facility nearby. Of course he did this while I was away on a trip.

Hey, that's fine with me. Now I've got more room for more crap. I mean treasures! Like AUS Boarding Pass 2006 Shiraz, a very cool bottle of wine I found at Costco.

There I was at Costco, leaning against the wine, impatiently waiting for The Husband to hurry up and pick out a few crab and shrimp from the crab and shrimp guy so we could FINALLY leave and start dinner, when I actually turned around and focused on what I happened to be leaning on. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was like god had sent them to me. And oh my god they were so cute! I had to have one. Or two. Or three. In case I needed to...umm...you know...share...or something. As I filled the cart, I couldn't help but think what a great flight attendant gift the bottles of wine would make, so I put a few more bottles into the cart. That's when The Husband appeared and I took off.

The name of the wine, you ask? I'm not sure. On one side of the bottle, the side that looks like a boarding card, it says Boarding Pass. On the other side of the bottle, the side that looks like an information card (the one located in the seat back in front of you) it says Grateful Palate Airwines. And around the top of the bottle, the thing that looks like a baggage claim ticket, it says AUS Boarding Pass 2006 Shiraz. Like I said, it's not exactly clear. What is clear is it's the most adorable bottle of wine I've ever seen. And it tastes pretty good, too.

WAIT!

Before you jump into the car to go and look for your own cute bottle of wine to add to your own museum, because I know you will, which is good, because you really should...do you think you could pick me up another bottle. Ya know...in case I lose a bottle...or something.

Thanks.

Love on the plane, it happens. In fact, it happened to me. That's where I met my husband, on a flight from New York to Los Angeles. I'm guessing we were somewhere over Illinois when I gave him my phone number. The interesting thing about it is he wasn't even my type (not at all), which was good because my type, I soon realized, had a tendency to suck.

Love on an airplane. It happens. I don't know why it doesn't happen more often.

I mean where else but on an airplane (or at an airport) do you get such an interesting mix of people from all walks of life? Not to mention, you can tell a lot about a person by how they travel, particularly when it comes to how they treat the flight attendant. Don't believe me? Next time you find yourself cramped in a middle seat, just watch the people around you.

I noticed my husband right away. What I liked about him was he didn't flirt, but he was nice and very polite. Always he said please and thank you, and he looked me in the eye whenever he addressed me, which rarely seems to happen these days. The thing that stood out the most about the passenger who would soon become my husband, was a very tasty looking sandwich he had brought on-board from a deli in Manhattan. That said it all. It said he liked good food. It said he was a man with a plan. It said he knew how to take care of himself. When he noticed me drooling over his seat, he offered me a bite. I didn't take the bite, but I knew right then and there he was the guy for me. Eight months later we were engaged. Six years later we have a two year-old son.

Love on the airplane. It happens. Has it happened to you?

I can't remember the precise destination we were working, but what I do remember was the shocked look on my coworkers face when he came running up to the first class galley and exclaimed, "There's a naked woman in coach!"

"What!" two of us cried in unison.

Needless to say, the breakfast service was now on hold. How could we serve bagels when there was a nekkid lady aboard the flight? Into the oven the bread went, and off and running we went, ignoring any passengers who may have tried to wave us down as we headed straight to the the back of the airplane, a blur of four dressed in blue.

"There she is. The last row," said one of my coworkers as we neared the last row.

"Oh my god," I remember thinking, or saying, I can't remember, it was just too crazy to remember. What I do remember is she was young, cute, and naked. College aged, I'd say.

Now this was pre 9/11, so the flight was empty, and the thought of terrorists were the furthest from our minds. The only thing on our minds, besides this naked lady, was why in the world the lady would get naked on the airplane in the first place? Unfortunately, we would never find out.

As a chronic over tipper in restaurants I've always been a bit confused when on a plane. While very occasionally an attendant will accept a tip, most often they move off before you can even try. Sometimes they outright won't accept a tip. I've been in union jobs where the union disallows tipping in order to get a higher wage. Is this the case? I tip at the very least a dollar a drink at a bar, and I figure an attendant deserves even more than that. What gives?

Cliff F.

Before I can address Cliff's question about tipping flight attendants, I have to say that I want you, Cliff, on one of my flights! Please let me know when you're traveling again and I'll trade onto the trip. Why? Because you sound nice. Because good passengers make good trips. Trust me, I'm not saying this because you're a big tipper, but because you understand the plight of the working class. As for your question about tipping on flights, flight attendants, at least the ones at my airline, are not supposed to accept tips. Why aren't we allowed to accept tips? I'm not sure - exactly. But my guess is it has something to do with the higher wage flight attendants make opposed to other service industry workers, like Cliff mentioned. Even though I do not accept tips (it's my job to serve you that drink!), that tip, the one I did not accept, is greatly appreciated. So thank you, Cliff, for thinking of me. And I'll be looking for you on my next flight.

Heather Poole

See that guy over there, the one wearing a business suit lying on the floor inside an orange tent at the airport? The first time I saw that picture on The New York Times website, I laughed, and then I thought to myself, genius, absolute genius. The Mini Motel, a one-person tent complete with air mattress, pillow, reading light and alarm clock, that's what Frank Giotto, a business traveler, created after an unscheduled stay at a German airport.

There's one problem with the luxury tent, and it's a pretty big problem. Simply put, it's a tent. Personally, I can't see too many passengers interested in buying a tent. I mean who in their right mind wants to lug that thing on the airplane - just in case there's a delay, or cancellation, or something that would cause one to set up tent? Nor do I see the airlines purchasing it. Not when they're getting rid of things - namely employees - in order to save money. So who do I see desperate to get their hands on a luxury tent aimed at stranded people at the airport? Flight attendants of course!

According to Wikipedia, Commuting is the process of traveling between one's place of residence and regular place of work. For most people, normal people, commuting means getting in the car or hopping on a train and taking an hour long ride to the city where the office is located. Commuting for a flight attendant is a whole other animal. We cross cities, as in several cities, in order to get to work. Yet it's what a lot of flight attendants choose to do, particularly the ones based in New York - like me! Yes, I am a commuter. I commute from my home in Los Angeles to New York where I start my trips at one of two New York airports. I know I know, it's a little crazy, but it works.