It's the Most Marketed Time of the Year

Flying for a living has made me very sensitive to the weather...and cycling daily even more so.

The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is look out the window for a meteorological assessment...and not just to chose my attire. My day hinges on the forecast.

But while wind or rain pretty much anywhere in the nation can impact my immediate actions, in macrocosm it is nearly impossible for me to follow the weather. I don't spend enough time in any one place to see a storm from start to finish, or watch the landscape evolve seasonally.

It is disorienting to say the least. I've already given up on knowing what day of the week it is, I'm not ready to let go of seasonal awareness too.

Thankfully there are cultural cues that keep me on track: holidays.

Or at least holiday marketing.

Sun or snow, I can depend on retailers to remind me where we are in the year, whether I like it or not.

Piles of orange and black decor and specially packaged candy tell me that Halloween is imminent, and according to at least one euphemistic banner at the local Marshall's "Holiday 2008" has already arrived (by the red, green and gold orbs I am assuming they mean Christmas).

Thankfully for me and my calendar confusion, the upcoming holiday marketing is not only aggressive, but distinctive. For months we've glided through the days in a general haze of BBQ themed patio decor and vaguely patriotic commemorations.
"Is that red, white and blue banner for Memorial Day or 4th of July?"
"Is my mattress on sale for President's Day or Rosh Ha Shana?"

The ten-foot inflatable jack-o-lantern playing a "spooky sounds" track on repeat and suddenly crowding the sidewalk where I bike to the bookstore is a firm announcement of Halloween (I'll note happily that they have not yet created the blow-up union worker to celebrate Labor Day, but I don't want to give anyone any ideas).

But lest I appear cynical, let me just say that I sincerely love the holidays. I adore Christmas and all the music, parties, decorations and celebrations that honor the Incarnation of the Lord.

And even though I always send exponentially more cards and gifts than I receive, and our family's annual attempts at picturesque domesticity are dependently anti-climactic,* I refuse to be disappointed or feel inadequate. There's far too much happiness to share.

I enjoy the preparations and the process, not just the day itself. Pardon the blatant metaphor, but I'm not overly focused on the destination, I'm all about the flight.

Since I'm knitting many gifts this year, I've been planning for Christmas already. Plus I've got a bunch of cards that I bought on clearance last year...and I actually know where they are in my house!

So even though it will still be about a month before the airport starts bustling with holiday travelers, I'm ready when they are.

A-PEAR-antly it's Autumn

Thanks so much to everyone who called, texted, and commented to see how I was during the hurricane. Your concern and well wishes meant a lot....especially because scheduling forgot about me.

But I was merely inconvenienced by Ike. There were flight attendants stuck in much worse situations, let alone residents of Houston and Galveston. It's not on CNN anymore, but they are still recovering and will be for a while.

I have to hand it to the grounds crew at IAH and my company for getting things up and running so quickly. We were shut down completely, big sections of the airport were trashed, and yet just two days later, almost all the flights were running (relatively) on time.

Which meant that I was back to work as well. I was called for a decent three-day trip.

The first night was a short layover in Seattle near the airport. The hotel is beautiful, and I went for a drizzly walk in the surrounding neighborhood.

I blogged previously about this area in May, how spring was just starting, far behind NJ and MD. Now it felt much the same, cool air scented with woodsmoke, but this time it was the result of an of an early and plentiful fall. A foreshadowing for my east coast existence.

Even strips of land near the roads were heavy with foliage, wildflowers, blackberries and fruit trees. Despite a few odd looks, I couldn't help having my own little harvest festival, tossing apples and pears into my purse with purple stained fingers from blackberries eaten on the spot.

The next day I carefully padded my produce and endured a few more strange looks from TSA (I'm almost immune to them now).

I still had to overnight in Cleveland, so I lighted my load by sharing with my crew, and enjoyed their looks of gratitude and admiration. "You picked them yourself?"

Normally I would be delighted to layover in Cleveland, but we changed hotels. Now we are much closer to the airport, but much farther from the parks...and without bicycles. I went for a walk anyway to soak in the Midwest sunset.

I ended up in Berea, apparently a small college town and there was a football game going on with all the accompanying festivities, so I got my dose of autumnal Americana in Ohio.

Continuing on I saw a sign for St. Adalbert's Roman Catholic Church, so I strolled in that direction. Across from the church and school a charming fixer-upper on a large plot of land was for sale. It was unoccupied, so I sat on the front steps for a few moments gazing at the landscape and imagined myself living here with a thriving garden, a few children, a few chickens and the chance to attend daily mass.

Being in Ohio triggers some dangerous nesting instinct in me. I stopped just short of calling the realtor for a little more info.

The flight of the trip was from Ft. Lauderdale back to Newark. During boarding an older Hispanic woman was struggling to lift her bag into the overhead. The other flight attendant tried to assist, but it was too heavy for him too. He offered her a plastic bag so she could remove some items and the suitcase manageable, but she spoke no English. She grew more flustered, and he grew more frustrated, so motioned her to the back galley and put much sketchy Spanish to work.

At last a look of relief spread across her face and she happily took the plastic bag from me and unzipped her suitcase. Out came some flip flops, a shirt or two, followed by about eight whopping avocados the size coconuts. And there were still half a dozen in her suitcase.

I couldn't help but laugh out loud. To her credit, she smiled apologetically and responded with something I interpreted as "These are very good and you can't get them in New Jersey."

Thinking of the bag full of pears and apples wrapped in a hotel towel and slowing making their way across the country in my carry-on, I assured her I understood.

Escape from LA

After one week with two trips totaling 4 1/2 nights in Los Angeles I had found a local yarn shop, learned to use public transit and was even recoginzed at the Catholic church where I attend mass on Sunday layovers here.

As much as I LOVE not having to repack every morning, three days of watching hurricane Ike trash Texas, no word from my company and running into more and more stranded crew members around the hotel I started to feel a little bit like I had gone missing in action.

I tried to get on the phone with crew coordinations, but was literaly on hold for hours. A LOT of our flights go through Houston (it's our main base), so they certainly had their hand full. I felt a little bad calling because I know they were swamped, but I also didn't want the hotel to kick me out because they didn't get their fax.

After one final visit to the Viva Fresh burrito place, I logged on to my schedule and saw that scheduling had come up with a clever plan to bust me out of California.

At 11pm Sunday, under cover of night, I stepped into a black towncar with and was whisked onto the freeway.

We drove an hour east of the city to the small Ontario Airport where I met up with a Houston crew that had been stranded there for three days (let me just say I lucked out on places to go MIA). We worked a short red-eye to Houston, arriving about 5:30am and we were one of the first planes cleared to land that since the airport reopened that morning.

I was pretty tired by that point, and the lead flight attendant drove me crazy because she was so chatty. It was 4am and she would not shut up. There were hardly any passengers, and they were fast asleep anyway, so all I wanted to do was hide in the galley, but she kept talking about every topic that floated into her brain.

As we were preparing to land, she pulled out her totebag to stow something and happened to show me that it was full of food. She laughed a little nervously and said that her family had been stuck at the house for 4 days without power because of the storm and they needed some provisions. She looked out the little jumpseat window and urged me to do the same. I'd never seen it look so dark there. She sighed again and said, "OK, let's land and I'll get back to reality".

Reality was, I felt like a colossal jerk for getting grouchy with her.

I can't imagine what it must be like to be miles away from home and not knowing what you'll find when you get there.

Our section of the airport looked OK, but there was a lot of damage to other terminals, the interterminal shuttle train, and all of the roads that lead to the airport.

I was supposed to deadhead right away to Newark, but that flight was cancelled, so I went down to the crewroom. Once again it was impossible to get a scheduler on the phone, so I just put in my earplugs and passed out in the "quiet" room for a few hours.

It was a restless rest, so eventually I just got up and listened to the other flight attendants tell their storm stories. It was very crowded, but the place had an emergency shelter comradarie (and dank smell because of flooding) and everyone was in fairly good spirits, considering.

I was finally deadheaded out at 5:30pm. It was surreal to see a flight from Houston to Newark with only 50 people (about a third of them deadheading crewmembers). As further proof that things were crazy, I was upgraded to first class. The movie was something starring Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz, and, craziest of all, I actually enjoyed it.

LA must have gotten to my brain.

And the Burritos aren't bad either!

I don't know what the world is coming to, but in just one week I've discovered two things I love about Los Angeles. If I'm not careful, I might start to get the warm fuzzies for this place.

Then again, that might be a bad thing. Without quite realizing it, I may have moved here.

Friday morning at about 10am my phone rang, but thanks to caller ID and custom ring tones, I determined it safe to ignore. When I woke up for real about noon and checked my voicemail (as you may have guessed) there was a message from scheduling. I called back, apologizing profusely and explained my confusion because of the unknown number.

With patronizing articulation, the scheduler explained that they were at a different number because they were in a different place. Because of hurricane IKE, operations are in the emergency bunker (a real bunker some rich paranoid built during the cold war). He added magnanimously, as if he had converted my death sentence to 30 days in rehab, that he hadn't given me a UTC (unable to contact), but to check my schedule on the computer right away.

From the looks of my trip, the warning only was less a show of mercy than the result of mass confusion. Houston is completely closed, all flights in and out are cancelled and all the planes have been moved to out stations. I've been sent to LA for two nights to wait it out.

I was in the LAX area just a few days ago, but my spot amongst the sprawl this time is different, Culver City to be exact. I've stayed here often, the hotel is near a mall and a great hole-in -the-wall burrito place, so I could easily waste the day hanging out (I did bring all nine balls of yarn for Kimberly's wrap), but over coffee I browsed travel guides and opted to use my day off for adventure.

I don't care about celebrity houses or movie studios, but the Getty Center, a huge museum complex in the Santa Monica mountains, piqued my interest. Admission is free and it's open until 9pm on Saturdays so it seemed like the ideal outing. A few phone calls and some sketchy maps later I boarded the green Culver City bus and was underway.

LA is not known for it's public transit, but I've got to give those drivers credit. They were all the nicest, most helpful civil servants I've ever dealt with. I'm sure they found me a little quirky: I was clearly unfamiliar with the bus routes and knitted away while attempting to memorize the scenery, but they guided me to all my transfer spots and explained how to find my way back.

The whole trip took well over an hour, but it was so worth it!

I've never seen anything like this place. You take a little tram up to the mountain top, and in every direction there are breathtaking views of LA and the mountains. The museum's collection is housed in a series of building that are works of art in themselves. The architecture is modern, but so thoughtfully designed that it only enhances the beauty of the place. Among the structures are spectacular gardens.

Every time I turned around there was some fantastic new photo op and I happily clicked away with the abandon afforded by a fresh memory card. I just had to be careful not to stop in front of anyone elses' lens, as I was clearly not the only one moved by the surroundings.

The people watching was almost as good as the art: dozens of aspiring photographers and drawers, young lovers, families, visitors from all over the world. Even though the grounds were crowded, I was happy that people were taking advantage of it.

The ride back to the hotel seemed infinitely shorter, which is more than I can say for this layover. I was supposed to go to Houston today, then deadhead to Phoenix for another two nights, but everything is cancelled again today, so I'm on standby.

I've been checking the computer every few minutes for updates, and I spent over an hour on hold with crew cooridinations, but to no avail. I wonder how long before they start making me pay state income tax...someone has to pay for the "free" museums and friendly bus drivers.

Priorities

I know I still haven't delivered on part two of my little coming of age saga, but I had to break from that narrative to blog about my current trip.

It's September, and that means I'm back on reserve.

To celebrate, Crew Scheduling assigned me a spectacular combination of my least favorite conditions: a short overnight in Las Vegas, early check-ins, a 14-hr duty day, and the red-eye to Cleveland, topped off with a four-hour sit before being deadheaded back to Newark.

The one redeeming circumstance was 24 hrs in Marina del Rey in Los Angeles, and I intended to make it count.

After a good sleep-in to recover from the first two days, I roused myself and grabbed my knitting to work on as I sipped coffee leisurely nearby Starbucks then tried a little exploration. I had heard that the hotel had bikes, so I was really looking forward to the day out.

The hotel did have bikes, and they intended to keep them at the hotel unless I forked over the $15 rental fee! And there wasn't even a crew discount! I deliberated for a while, but, feeling thrifty (and slighted insulted) I decided against it.

Before heading out of the lobby I hopped on the computer to Google possible local yarn stores. I found that the "A Mano Yarn Center" was a very walkable 1.5 miles away and I clicked on the store's website. It looked like a nice place and seemed to have lots of "sit and knit" nights. Oh, and every other Tuesday morning they had a breakfast group. The next one was Sept 9th. September 9?

I glanced at my phone......."Today!!" And I was out the door.

Twenty-eight minutes later I walked into what could have been the set for one those gentle girl-power movies. The ones with a ensemble cast and a gathering gimmick....in this case the neighborhood yarn shop.

Among the eclectic group there was a mother and daughter duo who played off each other's stories with hilarious perfection, a young woman my age who designed "Sabrina the Teenage Witch" comic books and had lived all over the country, and Shanitta, the beautiful store owner and hostess who supplied the good coffee made sure everyone was content.

They welcomed me right away and insisted I pick up LAX layovers from now on. At one point, a particular car parked out front and there was a communal sound of displeasure and a few choice words. Shanitta laughed and said, "Stop! Geneveive's going to think we are terrible.!" I assured them that I wouldn't....so long as they gave me the back story. They happily obliged and added many others. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, in breezed another woman bearing homemade yogurt and granola (yes...granola) to share.

I found the perfect black mohair I needed for a current project and was repeatedly tempted by a seductively soft and ruffled wrap knit in babykid mohair. I wore it for much of the morning, but just couldn't justify the $13 each for the six skeins I would need.

After a few hours in the sunny window, several cups of strong Peet's coffee, and quite a bit of progress on my cabled scarf for Laura, I was ready to pay and part ways. Foolishly I had brought the soft babykid yarn over to my spot at the table, and my new artist friend and enabler argued that it would be the perfect souvenir of LA. I agreed, and added that it would also be perfect since it will soon be fall and the blend of blues and brown go with almost all my little sundresses. But I fought the urge to splurge.

Then, another customer dared to try on my shawl. I had a tangible pang of jealously.

The decision was made.

I brought my purchases to the register as Shanitta cracked up over how I had made up my mind. She must have seen me go pale at the total because out of the kindness of her heart she gave me a little wink and a discount for "coming all the way from NJ". She then generously punched a frequent shopper card, ensuring that I would be myself into more trouble later.

So with the makings of an $84 wrap to layer over $7 thrift store dresses (priorities!) I walked back to the hotel, exceedingly happy that I had saved the $15 rental.

The red-eye flight to CLE was fine. 98% of the passengers slept, the other flight attendant insisted on getting my number for one of his golf-pro buddies (Ohio boys! Yea!), and I made more progress on Laura's scarf.

At about 4am I had to go into the flight deck for a few moments. The pre-dawn Eastern horizon was just starting to brighten, and under the stars, above the city lights were a few bands of quiet blue and brown light.

The exact shades of my future shawl.

Are You Sure You're Old Enough to Work Here?

......a posting so epic it must be told in two parts*........
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At least once a trip someone says something along the lines of, "Are you sure you're old enough to work here?"

The short answer is "Yes, I'm quite sure."

Butwith my 27th birthday on the near horizon (late twenties...yikes!),this questionis increasing less annoying and considerably more flattering.

Witha youthful appearance and a tendency to laugh often and at random, I'musuallycontent to assume the role of neophyte and then impress with unexpectedcompetence. After two years of flying, I'm comfortable enough in my abilityto do myjob that I'm having more fun than ever, which only makes me seeyounger.

But a recent trip solidfidyed my conviction that I am "quite sure" that I am an adult.

Ipicked up this trip because it was fairly productive and had a nice layoveratthe Seattle airport hotel about which I've previously blogged.

WhenI got on board I discovered that my 3-day trip was actually the lastpartof a scheduled 4-day, and the rest of the crew had just spent 24 hoursinMontego Bay, Jamaica.

I met the captain first. He struck me as very good-natured and professional, and about the biggest nerd I had ever met.

Asif to illustrate the full spectrum of personality possibilities, therewasthe first officer, who was very young, very attractive and very awareof it. I was curious about the fact that he was wearing a long-sleeved shirtinAugust, but carefully worded my inquiry as as not to say "aren't you hot?",andendure his smirking response.

The first class girl was even younger,22,from Kentucky and had only been flying four months. The woman workingbackgalley had been flying for many years. She commuted from Seattle, but wasorigianally from Tahiti and had a lovely accent and a classic beauty.

Offically,I was the lead, but hey had already established a repoire, soI tried notto barge into the crew vibe. Especially since it was quicklyapparent thatKentucky had Sleeves in her sights.

The first nightin the hotel Iwas invited over to hang out and "havea few drinks" the othergirls and theFO. I don't drink, but I do "hang out", so I headed downthe hall withmy iPod ( the hotel had those cool radio-clocks where you couldplug in yourmp3 player).

I learned that the first officer's exessiveuniform wasdue to full-arm tatoos and that he was an aspiring musician whopacked histravel guitar on trips.

What a bizarre career I havewhere four near-strangersages 22-42 are drinking in a Florida Hilton, theOlympic games on mute, whilea mediocre flyboy howls Radiohead covers.

What was not strange, butinfinatley sadder, was watching a smitten younglady get progressivley drunkerand more flitatious. Like I said, they hadjust been in Jamaica together,so I didn't know their status, but it wasvery clear that he was more interestedin his guitar than her affections.

Suddenly I felt like I was at alame college party. I wanted to shake herto her senses as her eyes startedto swim, but instead I just excused myselfaround 2am and said I would seeeveryone at work the next day.

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*or....an attention span so short I have to break up this story**

** mine or yours??