I had a trip last week I thought was going to be a complete bonanza. All we had to do was ferry an airplane (no passengers) from Detroit to Quebec City, pick up a group of people, fly them to Boston and then ferry the aircraft back to Detroit. Does it get any easier than that?

I packed lots of reading material and was prepared to enjoy my easy day. It was not easy or enjoyable, at all.

Turns out a fancy-schmancy Spanish insurance company had chartered a couple of our 747's for their little jaunt from Quebec City to Boston and had specifically requested to have only Spanish-speaking flight attendants. Uh-oh. No hablo espanol. We did have four flight attendants who spoke Spanish, so it should still be okay. It's a 52 minute flight from Quebec City to Boston, for crying out loud. How hard could it be to pass out Cokes and snack boxes?

I vowed to be the happiest, most eager to please flight attendant they'd ever laid eyes on--it wouldn't matter a lick that I didn't speak Spanish. They were a happy bunch and the boarding seemed to be going seamlessly. I was working in the back, nodding and grinning and trying to be as helpful as possible.

All the announcements were being made in Spanish, so I had no idea a man in the upper deck had somehow managed to crack his head open and they had subsequently paged for a doctor.

A passenger came up to me and in halting English told me she was a doctor. I wasn't sure how to respond. Well...bully for you... so is my brother-in-law? I just nodded, trying to looked suitably impressed. She didn't appear to appreciate my response to her little bit of braggadocio and started pointing at the ceiling until I finally understood she was saying that "they" had paged for a doctor. They did??

I led her to one of the Spanish speaking flight attendants who told her they'd already gotten a doctor to bind up the wounds of the klutzy Spaniard upstairs.

Shortly after I got that cleared up some passengers came to me to help them find their seats. Surely, I could handle this one. I took their boarding passes and motioned for them to follow me. Their seats were in row 76. I led them back and back and back and... discovered the rows ended at 68. Hmmmm...this was a toughie. I motioned for them to take some empty seats until I could sort it out. They weren't understanding me, so again, I hailed one of the Spanish speaking flight attendants and after he explained the problem to them, they looked at me and laughed.

The flight attend added some comments of his own and they looked at me and laughed even more heartily. It was very unsettling. It's no fun standing there like a stooge being mocked at in another language. Hey! I wanted to say, don't you think I might be able to figure out what "muy estupido" means?

It was actually the very first time I'd ever been on a 747 so I had no idea that rows in the 70's were in the upper deck. What an idiotic way to do it...who had thought up such an illogical way of numbering the rows anyway? That was the one who was muy estupido...not me. 

I asked the spanish speaking flight attendant what they were finding so funny and he said they were a little incredulous that a flight attendant didn't know how many rows there were but, no problemo, he had cleverly turned it into a big joke. Har-dee-har-har. Oh, well. Live and learn. I guess I should be happy I gave those people such a big laugh--a little unexpected bonus thrown in for them, free of charge.

As I started making my way through the cabin and closing bins I noticed a girl crying in an exit row. The man next to her was unsuccessfully trying to soothe her. It was evolving into all out wailing, but I didn't want to stare. Maybe a boyfriend had just broken up with her or something...they're a passionate people, right? I certainly didn't want to risk saying anything muy estupido again.

I continued closing bins and by the time I circled back there was major drama going on with the weeping girl at the exit row. When a flight attendant had attempted to brief her about her exit seating duties, he wisely determined the shrieking wasn't going to cut it for the "willing and able to assist in an emergency" response we require. We would have to move her to another seat.

The girl was incapable of moving, apparently she was having a full-blown panic attack. Yet another page for a doctor, oxygen bottles brought out, paper bags provided for breathing into---the whole nine yards. Nothing seemed to be working to calm her down.

One of her traveling companions commented that they go through this every flight. Every flight?? It seemed like they would have grown tired of these antics and sent her packing back to Spain a long time ago. They finally had to physically lift her out of her seat, one lifting her torso, the other her legs and tote her back to a row of empty seats. They laid her down, belted her in while one stroked her head and the other her feet until she finally calmed down. Phew!

Finally, we were able to take off. The service required passing out hot towels, snack boxes and a beverage. There were six of us serving close to 300 people in the back and the 52 minute flight only allowed us to serve about half the people before we had to quickly stow everything and prepare for landing. How embarrassing. The whole "easy" day was a fiasco from start to finish.

I was telling Caitlin about it and asked her if she'd brushed up on her Spanish during her stint at an orphanage in El Salvador. She said she had boned up on only two phrases: "sientate por favor!" (please sit down!) and "quieres pow pow?" (do you want a spanking?). Darn! I could have used those phrases! I could have told the passengers to please sit down and I could have asked that girl if she wanted a spanking. It would have been perfect. Oh well. Maybe next time---though I'm kind of hoping there won't be a next time.