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| Step back into the 18th century in this picturesque living neighborhood that defies imagination |
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| Industrial mills quietly spinning along the river |
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| Where endless fields and waterways meet the clear blue skies March 2009 |
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Feature Photographs: Zaanse Schaans, Netherlands
Thursday, August 5, 2010
It's Happy Hour Hell all the way up from Down Under
There ought to have been some lounge music, a giant projection screen, perhaps some sombreros, or even some artificial fog. TV screens there are many; but the only fog seen is probably in the form of steam rising from my head.
Ding.
- "Can I have a Scotch with soda, please."
- "Certainly. I will be right back."
Ding.
- "Yes, how may I help you, sir?
- "Yeah, I'd like to have a Whiskey with coke," the man turns to his neighbor, "you gettin' anything?" He pulls out the wretched menu card and runs his finger through the list of spirits that really should not be there.
- "Give me a Cognac."
I tread back to the galley, my mind regurgitating orders after orders of cocktails like a broken printer. I line out a stack of plastic glasses, unlatch the carts and retrieve the bottles one by one. Ding. Before I even get to the ice drawer, the attendant bell chimes again. Ding. My colleague returns from the cabin, herself with a handful more orders. Ding. Another bottle of Chivas Regal emptied. Ding. I poke my head out and squint at the call light indicator. Row 62. Again. I swear he's already had his fourth drink. Ding. I take in a deep breath. Patience... I remind myself.
With a tray balancing five cocktails, I make my way out into the cabin. It is late afternoon in Melbourne; no one seems to be sleeping. 260 passengers in coach, 90 percent Aussie, 100 percent alcoholic, 2 cabin crew. The rest are on their rest shift. Two pairs of hands and two pairs of throbbing legs that have trampled back and forth the 40-rows-long cabin nonstop for the past four hours. That's roughly 10 continuous laps around a football field - speedwalking.
Ding. I strain my memory trying to match each drink with its owner. It doesn't help that this horde of middle-aged men all wear the same grey polo and black trousers. They are supposedly a group of police officers or something connecting to another city for training. Disciplined or not, to me, they all look like any other monsters who are obviously not into sobriety and are having too much fun with the idea of all-day 'free-flow' booze.
Ding.
- "What can I get for you?" My question is becoming as much a rhetorical question as my passengers' own. Somewhere in my mind I am thinking of my meal - all cold by now - if only I could just eat something.
- "Can I have a Gin Tonic?" Rhetorical question.
- "Sure." I try to catch my breath and feign a smile that is fast fading.
- "Hey, Rob," he taps on his mate across the aisle, "Gin Tonic?" He nods. "Make it three - one for me, one for him, another for him." As if he's buying everyone a round.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Oh, the lovely chime that never fails to strike a nerve. Two Bloody Marys, three Gin Tonics, a Brandy - oh, and what? A Campari Soda with a dash of orange juice. "What's next," I roll my eyes at my equally exhausted colleague, "Sex on the Beach?" I start understanding how Aussies manage to survive on weekends when all shops, malls, food courts, even supermarkets, close at five - if they open at all. They probably stay home with their stash of booze.
I never consider Australian flights to be the most arduous of all. That is in large part due to the fact that Aussies generally carry a friendly, complaisant attitude emanating from the laid back culture from Down Under. As a result, they are relatively easy-going and polite. But here is the twist. Aussies are also extremely heavy drinkers. The difference between flights taking off midnight and those departing midday is that rather than carrying loads of sleepy travellers, we have a stadium full of alcohol-thirsty beasts eager for an all-day Happy Hour 30,000 feet from Up Above.
And for better or for worse, they don't get drunk.
When I signed up for this job, bartending was hardly the first image that came to mind. I am only a few tumbler shakes and a couple of juggling tricks away. Long before our second meal service commences, the entire cabin's stock of red and white wines have been depleted. No surprise, considering that each passenger is capable of downing a bottle each, in addition to a month's worth of cocktails.
Growing increasingly weary, my colleague and I begin to double - sometimes even triple - the shots, deriving pleasure from each drop of vengeance, only in the hopes that a stronger drink could postpone the next. By the end of the flight, nothing sounds better than a Long Island Iced Tea. But I will call it a day. Enough spirits for me.
[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]
Ding.
- "Can I have a Scotch with soda, please."
- "Certainly. I will be right back."
Ding.
- "Yes, how may I help you, sir?
- "Yeah, I'd like to have a Whiskey with coke," the man turns to his neighbor, "you gettin' anything?" He pulls out the wretched menu card and runs his finger through the list of spirits that really should not be there.
- "Give me a Cognac."
I tread back to the galley, my mind regurgitating orders after orders of cocktails like a broken printer. I line out a stack of plastic glasses, unlatch the carts and retrieve the bottles one by one. Ding. Before I even get to the ice drawer, the attendant bell chimes again. Ding. My colleague returns from the cabin, herself with a handful more orders. Ding. Another bottle of Chivas Regal emptied. Ding. I poke my head out and squint at the call light indicator. Row 62. Again. I swear he's already had his fourth drink. Ding. I take in a deep breath. Patience... I remind myself.
With a tray balancing five cocktails, I make my way out into the cabin. It is late afternoon in Melbourne; no one seems to be sleeping. 260 passengers in coach, 90 percent Aussie, 100 percent alcoholic, 2 cabin crew. The rest are on their rest shift. Two pairs of hands and two pairs of throbbing legs that have trampled back and forth the 40-rows-long cabin nonstop for the past four hours. That's roughly 10 continuous laps around a football field - speedwalking.
Ding. I strain my memory trying to match each drink with its owner. It doesn't help that this horde of middle-aged men all wear the same grey polo and black trousers. They are supposedly a group of police officers or something connecting to another city for training. Disciplined or not, to me, they all look like any other monsters who are obviously not into sobriety and are having too much fun with the idea of all-day 'free-flow' booze.
Ding.
- "What can I get for you?" My question is becoming as much a rhetorical question as my passengers' own. Somewhere in my mind I am thinking of my meal - all cold by now - if only I could just eat something.
- "Can I have a Gin Tonic?" Rhetorical question.
- "Sure." I try to catch my breath and feign a smile that is fast fading.
- "Hey, Rob," he taps on his mate across the aisle, "Gin Tonic?" He nods. "Make it three - one for me, one for him, another for him." As if he's buying everyone a round.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Oh, the lovely chime that never fails to strike a nerve. Two Bloody Marys, three Gin Tonics, a Brandy - oh, and what? A Campari Soda with a dash of orange juice. "What's next," I roll my eyes at my equally exhausted colleague, "Sex on the Beach?" I start understanding how Aussies manage to survive on weekends when all shops, malls, food courts, even supermarkets, close at five - if they open at all. They probably stay home with their stash of booze.
I never consider Australian flights to be the most arduous of all. That is in large part due to the fact that Aussies generally carry a friendly, complaisant attitude emanating from the laid back culture from Down Under. As a result, they are relatively easy-going and polite. But here is the twist. Aussies are also extremely heavy drinkers. The difference between flights taking off midnight and those departing midday is that rather than carrying loads of sleepy travellers, we have a stadium full of alcohol-thirsty beasts eager for an all-day Happy Hour 30,000 feet from Up Above.
And for better or for worse, they don't get drunk.
When I signed up for this job, bartending was hardly the first image that came to mind. I am only a few tumbler shakes and a couple of juggling tricks away. Long before our second meal service commences, the entire cabin's stock of red and white wines have been depleted. No surprise, considering that each passenger is capable of downing a bottle each, in addition to a month's worth of cocktails.
Growing increasingly weary, my colleague and I begin to double - sometimes even triple - the shots, deriving pleasure from each drop of vengeance, only in the hopes that a stronger drink could postpone the next. By the end of the flight, nothing sounds better than a Long Island Iced Tea. But I will call it a day. Enough spirits for me.
[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]
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