To the outsider, the world of working as a flight attendant may appear glamorous, but there is no illusion to the insider.
Carrie Campbell-Cooper has been working as an air stewardess for her whole career, on large international airlines and now on VIP private jets.
Here is an honest insight into what it’s like to work as a flight attendant and what to expect from a normal week.
Day 1.
This morning I’m positioning with Air France to Paris from Heathrow to be ready in situ for duties early tomorrow. Surprisingly, I have been issued a business-class ticket so surmise that the economy cabin must be full. A lounge and a peaceful seat with real food on a slice of ceramic make a welcome difference to the day.
Charles de Gaulle rarely changes – a bustling hubbub of international travellers all eager to shift gear and move at their own speeds. Security is quick but the luggage ‘livraison’ takes forever. It’s time to people-watch but no one in particular catches my eye. I settle down on a hard, plastic seat to edit a chapter of my children’s book ‘The Kaspies.’ Lost in fantasy land, I’m unaware the carousel has started up until I sense fellow travellers stir. A black Tumi pops through the black hole and into my clasp.
Paris makes an excellent Uber host and Freddy, my driver, was no exception. A light conversation about Macron and the weather suffices as we cruise the périphérique before hanging a left towards the Arc de Triumph, ‘that crazy roundabout’ and my hotel for the night.
Hotel du Romancier is infectiously impressive. Set a pace back from Les Champs d’Elysées on the cobbled Rue Chateaubriand, the accommodation offers much more than a piece of Parisian charm. Stepping inside reminds me of entering a private house. I suspect the building must have been a sumptuous residence in the past.
Greeted by the receptionist, who assists with my case, not without a pointed grimace, I walk down marble steps into a tastefully decorated salon, poignantly classic with headless busts, squishy velvet armchairs and genteel French furniture. He indicates I take a seat opposite his desk – an antique housed on curly gold feet, the gleaming mahogany brightened with pink and white lilies – and hands over an unmarked plastic key, assuring me room 204 is ‘une très belle chambre.’ I believe him.
Piano music drifts through speakers in the one-person elevator, usually a strong indicator that the rooms will be of a boutique essence and I’m not disappointed. On the second floor at the end of the corridor, I click and enter a heavenly abode resplendent with tall gold mirrors, framed portraits, a slouchy rose sofa and a delectable bed, crisp with tightly tucked linens and a queenly mattress.
I dump my stuff and fling open one of the floor-to-ceiling windows where I can gaze directly into the rooms of the modernised Lord Byron hotel opposite. Sheer and heavy curtains provide just the right amount of privacy or not depending on one’s mood. The compact bathroom is luxurious, equipped with Nuxe toiletries, a heated towel rail and a deep bath with a full-force shower. Perfect. By the loo, I discover a keypad. It takes moment before I realise it’s an automatic personal hygiene programme with arrows to exert the right pressure in the right place. A modern-day bidet at its finest!
After a relaxed leg stretch and obligatory Zara and Sephora pop-ins I head back to the lobby to meet the pilots from whence we stroll back down the famous Parisian street to dine in Kinagawa, a subtly-lit Japanese restaurant not ten minutes away. A satisfying and fulfilling supper of sashimi and miso cod later, and we leisurely mooch back to the hotel for an early night.
Day 2.
The chilly, wet morning begs a different story. Alarmed at 06.15 alongside a chorus of sunrise birds, I take a brisk shower and don a smart black dress, compression tights and a rush of makeup, leaving enough time for a shot of coffee and a mini croissant before the taxi arrives to take us to Le Bourget.
My wardrobe must be comfortable enough to move in fluidly or I feel trapped and grumpy. Jersey fabrics and pleated skirts rule, belted with Hermes to lift the look which can occasionally be second-hand shop bargains or exchanged for designer cast-offs at Retro in Notting Hill. (My last find was an unworn Hugo Boss business dress for £10).
We fly Praetors, built by Embraer, functional, sexy, mid-range jets that appeal to the holiday maker, the business maker and families with pets alike. Once on board, there is always plenty to do. Today we’re heading empty to Antwerp to pick up passengers and fly them to Zurich. The next hour is spent cleaning the galley, organising linens, folding napkins, prepping details, stowing catering, making the pilot’s drinks, ensuring reading material is up-to-date, attending to flowers, checking the bathroom, plumping cushions, and squaring off blankets not to mention polishing the cabin and bathroom until spotless. There’s less stress on an empty leg but it doesn’t mean the brain isn’t actively running through lists to be ticked off.
A quick hop over the borderline and we’ve already landed in Belgium. Time for action. Checking the video travel maps are working, the cabin is scented, the bathroom roll and tissues tabs have dainty points, the sweets basket is stocked and chilled waters placed in the cupholders, I set about double-checking the catering and mentally going through the service. If the occasion feels right, I may play light music – some love it, others don’t! I can tell within seconds.
Moments before the passengers are due to arrive, I prepare hot towels in the microwave, snacks and welcome drinks – depending on the time of day, I may offer a detox green juice, an espresso martini, a Bloody Mary (hairs of the dog are very popular departing Ibiza) or a mimosa. It’s important to set the right tone in the cabin straight away.
Most guests prefer to eat on board. Once they are settled, and loose items are stowed, it’s thumbs up to the cockpit and wheels up to the skies. After a crushing altitude is reached, I approach the passengers with a menu and take their order before setting the table with linens, cutlery, salt and pepper, a single flower and side plates. Every flight is different. Some relish a three-course meal if time allows, while others desire a simple munch.
Today is the latter as the two gentlemen are talking business and require a discrete service and privacy. Attention to detail is primary. Passengers love to be pampered yet it’s important to read their personal space. After serving dessert and coffee, I place dirty dishes into an atlas box and used linens in a separate bag before 10,000 feet is announced and a ten-fifteen minute landing timeline is announced by Larry le Captain.
Touchdown should be as smooth as a slipper but often isn’t. Occasional smashing onto the runway can happen which is as understandable as limitations, weather conditions and/or experience allows. As long as we get down safely that’s what matters. On arrival at the stand signalled in by the marshall, Peter, the co-pilot turns off the engine, hops up from his sheepskin-lined seat with a cheery smile and opens the main exit.
Before disembarkation, I meanwhile return coats to the passengers, assist with luggage, review they have their belongings and say goodbye. Just before their transportation departs I safeguard that nothing has been left behind. Final cabin checks are important as phones can slip in between seats or medication left in cupholders whilst larger items can also be overlooked especially when dark.
Next, it’s down to more cleaning – you see! – the prestige is sublime. Having hoovered and polished and shined away dust and fingerprints, I haul out the empty trash, certifying all consumables are thrown out and uneaten food is offered to the handlers or the fuel truck guy if I catch him in time – nothing is wasted. The pilots tell me they’re hungry and ask for their food trays whilst completing paperwork and checking over the aircraft.
Today, we’re in luck. Summer schedules can incorporate up to five sectors. This pleasant day in March day requires us to fly just two which means we reach Hotel Opera with plenty of time to relax. This evening Larry recommends a restaurant he knows in the old town. We eat steaks and grilled fish early then make the most of the evening river views whilst sauntering back to the stylish, lake-side hotel via a cheeky bar for a digestif. Poor Pepper the robot has already crashed.
Day 3.
Sunshine hits my cheek. In the distance, a church bell chimes. I blink and stretch and reach for my phone relieved there are no new changes and I haven’t slept in. I pull on a pair of faithful trackies and head down to breakfast where lovely Larry is already exercising his glands.
He looks up from an overfilled plate of salmon, bacon and scrambled eggs and winks me over. I grab a bircher muesli pot and two coffees. He grins his thanks. Life is always good for Larry or so it seems. He tells me Peter has been asked to switch tail registrations and Damian, another co-pilot will meet us later at the handlers.
We go over the usual banter about the day ahead, timings, passenger profiles, the weather, flight patterns, check out and taxi times. The departure from the hotel isn’t until four o’clock so Zurich is all ours for a magical few hours. Larry must finish an online course and call the wife. He’s not interested in churches, window shopping or architecture. We decide to reconvene before our pickup at reception.
I love Zurich, classy, timeless and elegant – a mirror of its exquisite timepieces – and this morning I’m excited to explore more of the world’s most expensive city. That we have half a day off is as rare as staying in a luxury hotel downtown. I have no plans other than purchasing a gift for the passengers (always nice to spoil them) and some shoe insoles from Coop City, a pace away.
Another beautiful day dazzles. I join the lake nomads and breathe it all in, seduced by a certain shimmering light, the embrace of fairytale mountains licked with snow, the foolproof bridges transporting trams and humans, the historic domed spires of golden greys silhouetted against a staggeringly blue sky.
I swing a right, up one of the numerous alleyways leading to the old town and admire the boutique shops and timber-framed houses, wondering what it must be like to live here. A sudden hunger descends as I pass a bakery, tempted by an array of yummy yeasty treats. A gluten-free fan, I find myself tucking into a cheese and gherkin crusty sandwich with no regret. Perhaps it’s the alpine air but it tastes delicious or maybe because the quality is so damn good.
The wander continues past Musik Hug and the Steinway shop, an Antiquarian, and a curious Dali-influenced window front. I drift along, imagining a different life when I find myself outside the colossal bronze doors of the Grossmünster. Built by Otto Münch, I learn that each engraving field tells a different story.
Recognisable from afar by the iconic twin towers that dominate Zurich’s skyline, the Romanesque church is nothing short of a haven of tranquillity. I touch the electric portal and it swings open. A series of triple-height creamy-white arches span the aisles leading up to the choir stalls but the treasure has to be an elongated trio of ornate stained-glass windows that herald the nave.
I linger by a stunning faded Madonna and child painting in a secreted alcove and decide not to walk 187 steps up the Karlsturm, despite it being a ‘must-do activity.’ I say a prayer and leave. Outside, a group of backpackers marches intently up and across the square and down a side alley. I tail them, curious, yet drawn by a narrow lane and a glorious spire, I lose track, distracted by another church on the outskirts of the old town.
This tomb-like God-space is passionately whiter and flatter, less intricate yet somehow clearer than the Grossmünster. St Josef doesn’t exhibit stained glass, intricate ceilings or holy artwork upon which to gaze and study, nor the glorified hush of whispers – only rows and rows of empty pews. Someone behind a screen is talking loudly in German. An elderly lady sitting behind a desk of brochures nods and smiles as I turn to leave and it’s only then I’m arrested.
High above the entrance rise up the most mesmeric organ pipes, their unexpected towering presence as striking as a landing spaceship or a columnar sea monster rising up through wooden waves. I marvel at the paintwork – ambitious burgundy and piquant teals policed with bronzed leaf – in subtle contrast to the stalwart whites and beiges of the arched ceiling and polished amber stalls. I smile back at the dame, push against the heavy door and saunter into the sunshine, feeling as if my short Zurich visit has been well spent.
The North terminal is busy. A meeting is taking place in the passenger salon with an influx of partners coming and going. We find Damian and head to the crew lounge where the boys print out sheaves of paperwork and down a quick coffee. We have plenty of time – anything to avoid the messy panic of VIPs arriving early.
Once on board, my pattern doesn’t change much. I whip over the wood with polish, sharpen the leather with polishing cream and run a check for fingerprints, especially on the window shades. The catering arrives later than requested but there’s a challenge. The hot meal packages feel overly cold, possibly over-refrigerated which means the flavours may be comprised. It’s not a disaster but it is unusual. Fortunately, the microwave goes to work and takes the edge off the chill.
We’re heading to Antwerp, a fifty-minute flight. Our passengers are in a good mood, one guesses after a successful overnight business trip. They celebrate with red wine and canapés on the ground before enjoying salads and wild mushroom risottos in the air. Shortly into the flight, the cockpit informs me that our flight plan has changed. Instead of staying in Belgium tonight upon bidding adieu to our esteemed guests, we are now shooting down to Malaga, a two-hour, twenty-five minutes journey south.
It’s already past nine o’clock and there’s still plenty to do before we close the doors. Once airborne, the flight is peaceful. The pilots request herbal teas and a hot snack. Halfway through the empty leg, my body aches for a long soak and a much longer sleep. We land in southern Spain just after midnight exhausted, but chores are still not complete.
On the advice of Pedro, the terribly charming handler, Larry decides to order fuel which doesn’t arrive for another twenty minutes. We order a toilet service, top up the potable water and wait for the fuel truck. Anything uneaten or not drunk is given to the handlers who enjoy a fairly decent free spread each time a jet with excess catering lands. Otherwise, my duties require that the cabin is polished and hoovered, the dishes and laundry handed in and the trash disposed of before we can close up, book a taxi and head to the hotel.
It’s early morning by the time we arrive. A soft moon is singing lullabies. The night receptionist at the Higueron Curio, greets us warmly. Too tired to examine the pride of place Aston Martin and zany installations, we are swiftly armed with digital keys and find our rooms, thankful to hear the satisfying click and green light that authorise our entry. Spacious quarters await, a large balcony overlooking the sea and a tub in the bedroom with the same view. Joy! Ready to cleanse and collapse, I set my alarm for nine o’clock and fall into the arms of a soothing meditation.
Day 4.
I love Malaga. The combined feel-good factors of the sun and the Spanish never fail to ignite a tingling excitement. Breakfast is a regular affair. I guilt-trip my way through two pancakes and maple syrup, convinced the calories will burn themselves off if I stick to crudités for the rest of day. No sign of the pilots. Men seem to need less sleep.
We depart at eleven o’clock. Just one passenger today – a charming man who has been called away from a family holiday to attend a business supper at the Bulgari in Knightsbridge. He’s chatty, polite and respectful. His gratitude is my pleasure. The table is laid with crisp linens, finely lined-up cutlery and a thick white napkin rolled in a silver ring. Decorated with a single flower, the table looks swish!
A menu of dressed rocket and aged parmesan salad, sea bass in mustard sauce with pommes de terres ecrasées and fennel, followed by strawberries dipped in chocolate and seasonal sliced fruits is as refined as a king’s bow and arrow. To finish, a single espresso and a contented sigh. My delighted passenger returns to his seat to catch up on emails. Wifi is standard, enabling businesses and FaceTime videos to thrive at forty-one thousand feet.
Soon enough we land at Northolt. Mr X jumps off, we reposition to Luton as Northolt closes at eight and set about our individual tasks. The boys have a mountain of paperwork before and after every flight and various phone calls to make and receive. The cabin always requires attention even after a one-pax flight. This afternoon, however, we have a split duty and must wait for Mr X to return from dinner to fly him back to Malaga.
Yet as his delay draws nearer, an issue of hours crops up. The weather has taken a turn for the worse and the helicopter booked to bring him to Luton from London might not be permitted to fly. It’s out of our hands. A chauffeur is on standby but in the crew lounge, the pilots are getting worried. They must adhere to strict rules regarding duty hours and it looks like we may have to stay in Luton which would not go down well with our passenger – unless…
We speak to the chopper pilot who still has not taken off. A Malaga hotel has already been booked. We wait. And wait and optimistically head out onto the apron to prepare the jet for departure. Just at the golden hour, we see the helicopter land escorted by an official to take Mr X through security. Relieved, we welcome him back on board and fire up the bird.
The flight passes smoothly. Dear Mr X munches on more chocolatey strawberries and canapés with a bottle of champagne but decides not to lie down on the sumptuous bed I’ve prepared for him. Somehow I think if I was him I’d be in between those cashmere blankets like a shot!
Another long flight spreads out before us. Tiredness and irritability begin to creep in. I prepare individual trays for the pilots with either buttered chicken or creamy pasta with asparagus, deserts, fruits and salads – unsurprisingly the cockpit goes quiet. An hour later we begin our descent. We won’t be tucked up until around two-thirty am but the thought of a free day tomorrow raises spirits.
Day 5.
There is a myth that the Spanish pour gin over a round-bowled glass gloating with ice cubes for seven seconds. Add a flourish of tonic and cucumber, a sprinkle of chilli or a sprig of rosemary and voilà – a lush cocktail beckons to be drunk.
I was looking forward to that moment and getting my pasty white legs out for the first time since last summer and ordering as many items on a tapas menu as possible before sinking into a sun chair. Yet in general aviation changes are eventual.
After a very short night and an ever shorter breakfast, we are on the road, back to the airport to position empty to Paris where two passengers require an exclusive service south to Geneva. So much for a day off! It is painful to leave the sun, especially as the body aches to drown in vitamin D. I manage a flurry around the centre before hotel kick-out time but am unable to purchase anything in a hurry – or rather experience has taught me that it’s never a good idea to shop at random, especially overseas despite a habitual desire to reward hard work with a treat. So I yearn, rush, drool, hanker and return empty-handed to my cosy room on the fourteenth floor, where I briskly switch from tourist to hostess.
The approach to Paris is grim. Most kids love turbulence but most adults abhor it. We bump and grind our way through tempestuous clouds, dodging the larger areas of clear air turbulence only to be caught out at a lower altitude in gusty pockets causing the aircraft to rock and heave. After eighteen years of flying my hands still grip the armrests like claws. Yet trust abounds and the worst is soon behind us as the shiniest of blue skies and a springlike haze greet our descent.
There’s little to do once we touch down. My time in the air was spent polishing cutlery, checking stock and dates on consumables, rearranging drawers and writing reports. Always wise to be ready for any eventualities so preparation, as the saying goes, is certainly the key to an assured and efficient service.
Seconds on the ground fly by. Both pilots are hungry. I check the time. We have less than an hour. I swiftly stow the catering, prepare warm oshibori, a welcome drink and snacks, re-polish the bathroom taps, fold the loo roll, and set the lighting and music to low ensuring the cabin is just as I would like to find it at this time of the evening. Next up is feeding time. The microwave is slow – what should be hot in five takes ten.
Our catering is ordered from the most excellent Harry le Traiteur and I’ve never been let down. Guests and crew are treated to the same quality of food. There’s barely time to eat. As soon as the third meal is heated, I crush down forkfuls of savoury rice and aubergine when we are alerted to ‘Passenger!’ From across the apron, I see my guest approach flanked by two handling agents. They walk fast. I hide the half-eaten tray and whip on a pair of boarding gloves.
Seconds later and Madame is mounting the steps. Already sensing her tension, I warmly her into the warmth and comfort of the cabin. She flings off her coat (aka The Devil Wears Prada Meryl Streep) and asks for a blanket. An attractive older woman, shrewd, sharp, less is more personality, I speculate as her thoughts follow my back, no doubt gauging what kind of ride she’s in for.
I know these types. Wise, straight-talking, and upfront, I’ll probably be the same in a few years – minus the millions, but hey… who’s counting? I offer a green juice detox enriched with kale, ginger, spinach and pear followed by a chilled glass of Ruinart. She gulps both down accompanied by a dish of chilli nuts and I speedily replenish her glass. It turns out she has a fear of turbulence and requests I sit next to her for take off. Happily, we chat away in French about London, her family and travels until the clouds break even and we level out.
I present a tiered mini cake stand of canapés garnished with edible flowers and chopped chives, secretly thanking Harry le Traiteur for his attention to detail. Madame appears content and allows me to pour her another champagne as she immerses herself behind a screen.
It’s the shortest flight this week, just thirty-five minutes. I check in on the pilots, taking care to speak only when they are not on the radio and hand them another water each. I’m a nurturer who can get quite bossy if my boys don’t hydrate enough much to their fake annoyance!
Madame has gobbled her appetiser. Meanwhile, I’ve already prepared a mouth-watering display of freshly sliced fruits dotted with hand-made chocolates, perfect to demolish with the last of the fizz. She accepts the duo readily, frowning and tutting as we hit another pocket of turbulence. I leave the connecting door open for comfort so she can see me.
I’m not sure if it helps, but it’s all I can do whilst I secure the galley and wait for her to finish. Five minutes later the landing gear groans into position. She knows the score and waves me to clear her table. Upon landing, Madame appears a lot less stressed and thanks us all. Ushered into a waiting vehicle, we stand by as a team as she is whisked away.
The cabin is relatively easy to knock back into shape. Another flight attendant is taking over tomorrow. I leave everything how I would wish to find it, polished and professional, and that the galley is stocked and handover notes are posted via a WhatsApp group.
The Hilton by the airport is our regular port of call in Geneva but tonight prices are extortionate, at almost £600 per room per night. We opt instead to cross the border to Ferney Voltaire in France to the modest Apart Hotel which is well within budget. We arrive in time to enjoy a drink at the bar before heading to our rooms. Everyone is tired. Accommodation is much nicer than expected, the beds firm, the wifi speedy. All in all, a perfect location for a comfortable night’s sleep.
Day 6.
The boys leave at seven to report on duty whilst my flight back to Heathrow isn’t until midday. I relish a guilty lie-in until eight when a weird dream pulls me back. I wake with a start to find it’s almost nine! My phone never lies.
Breakfast is a simple but adequate affair. The coffee is weak – I double it, scoop granola and natural yoghurt into a bowl and order an Uber. Paul arrives within six minutes in a four-year-old Tesla S. It’s smart. He’s proud and doesn’t mind me drinking the espresso from a tiny paper cup in the back. I open up the conversation about charging points, Paris, and that he’s already covered over 340,889 kilometres. Eight French moments later and we’ve pulled up outside Terminal 1.
No lounge for me today. My silver British Airways access ran out last year, thanks to Covid. I find a peaceful chair and catch up on emails and edits The flight is delayed half an hour due to flights avoiding French Airspace on the way down. My car is parked at Terminal 4 long stay and other than my neighbour’s Prosecco and Pamper party at seven o’clock I’m in no rush to get home – a two-hour drive out west.
Twenty-three C aisle on a packed Airbus A320 is not particularly pleasant. I’m stuck next to a sleepy man whose neck lolls and jerks and a flustered cabin crew who stomp up and down the runway as if it were a racetrack. Time to escape between the ear pads of Bose headphones, the instant noise-reducing effect wrapping me in a private cocoon of calm.
I reflect on the past few days and ask myself how I could have done better, acted and reacted better, been better and make mental scribbles on where I could have improved and what I’ve learnt. My job can engulf the mind and it’s easy to lose one’s centre in the frantic schedule and fractured time zones. I’m already looking forward to my next pilates class, a Thai massage and long nurturing country walks with friends and dogs.
But first it’s time to hit the M4, get home, unpack and unwind before jumping over the small, brick wall to my neighbour’s cottage where it’s my turn to enjoy a little pampered luxury.
For more articles by Carrie, check out her websites:
• www.campbell-cooper.com
• www.coocampbell.com
• www.carriecooper.com
Or if the idea of working in the airline industry appeals to you, view airline cabin crew jobs.
