I used to think a gorilla could do my job. Not anymore. I think it would shock most people to know just how much we need to know. Not just know, but prove our mental and physical prowess each and every year. It's either that or lose our jobs.  Plus I doubt gorillas love people and love to travel, ha-ha.

Oddly enough, the more I fly the more I think passengers believe we're nothing short of little Einstein's.

They believe our geography knowledge is second to none. They think we're capable of discerning which state lines we are crossing. We can name every mountain range we're flying over, every body of water and each little city.

They believe we are capable of predicting the future. We can tell them if the weather is going to affect our arrival or departure time. I always thought it would be fun to carry around a magic eight ball and when asked if they're going to make their connection, I could consult it and show them the answer, "Not likely."  Can you tell us if the row behind us will stay empty, so we can spread out a bit? I could give the eight ball another shake, "Fat Chance."

This is only a tiny sampling of how deep and vast they believe our knowledge is. It's almost like some of them get dumbed down the minute they step on board. Many have trouble deciding if they should head into the cockpit or down the aisle. They have difficulty matching their seat number with the row they're in. They can't decipher diagrams that tell them whether they're at the window or the aisle. They can't distinguish the ashtray (that's in the center of the door) from the door handle to get into the lavatory. On doors you need to push to get into, there's a big sign on the door that says, "PUSH." They find this so baffling I need to do a charade-like illustration of "pushing" to help them out. They can't remember the definitions of "occupied" and "vacant."

Remember those toys we played with when we were little--the ones that had different shapes that fit into different holes? Only the square shaped piece fit into the square shaped hole? When they get on an airplane that simple concept escapes them. At least we didn't break the toy when the square piece didn't fit into the rectangular hole. Not them, they will break the bin before they'll recognize that their square luggage will not fit into the rectangular sized bin. On the buttons above their seat they have trouble differentiating the reading light button from the flight attendant call button--even though the light button has a picture of light bulb on it.
 

Our knowledge of the airplane itself surpasses those of the best mechanics. We can pinpoint every odd noise it makes, the speed at which we are flying, the maximum range of each aircraft, the type of engine it has and how many engines it has (um, isn't that one kind of obvious?). What's really funny is that I actually throw out answers like, "it's  just the hydraulics." The sad truth is I don't even know what hydraulics are. I keep meaning to find out. But I heard a pilot give that answer for a noise I hear a lot and so I know that's what it is.  What I can truthfully answer (and often do) is, "it's normal." If it isn't "normal" you can bet your bottom dollar I'd let someone know it wasn't normal. 

I remember when my son, Dane, was only four years old and had to sit by himself on a flight. I drilled him on how to act, "Have your order ready, don't you dare ask what we have, tell them as quickly and clearly as possible what you want, say 'please' and 'thank you' and then just sit there and look at your books."

The whole time I'm giving him his "coaching" he's staring up at the flight attendant call button and at the end of my explicit instructions to ONLY push it if there's an emergency, he adds "...or if I want another drink."

"NO! Haven't you been listening?? I said NEVER push it unless there's an emergency."

"Well--then why is the button a picture of a lady carrying a drink?" he asks, logically enough. Why, indeed? Because flight attendants didn't design them, that's why.

"Just don't do it, okay?" And he didn't. 

He was a perfect little passenger and did the most perfect thing of all--he slept the entire flight.