* * * * *
My second landing attempt at Miami – despite the pressurization bumps to our ears - was successful without further incident. As for my captain developing a bad case of the “shakes,” I never did determine its cause. He seemed to be alright on the flight back to Dulles a couple of days later. So as not to embarrass him, I refrained from bringing the subject up.
One of the worst events, in a jaded airline crew’s life, is having to wait aimlessly for the hotel’s van to pick them up. Especially when they’ve undergone a long, tough day as my crew had. Currently we were on the sidewalk at Miami Arrivals, and, as usual, our hotel’s van was late. So my worn out crew – resembling Miami’s homeless - copped a squat on their suitcases.
I mean these kids’ rear ends were really dragging in the mud, dear reader. It was time for Dr. Chisholm’s magic elixir!
I told the crew to keep an eye on my stuff, as I raced back inside the terminal.
Returning in five minutes with thimble-sized plastic cups, I doled them out to Captain “Shaky” and the three stews. After which, from a larger plastic cup, I topped off their thimble cups with a dark, thick liquid. The three young girls were uptight, East Coast types that had little experience south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Their first mutual response was: “EEE-yooou...what is this stuff?”
To which, I replied, “Don’t bump it back. M-Merely sip it.”
Each one gingerly tried it – even Captain “Shaky” - their eyes abruptly went “tilt.” Followed by the girls saying, “Wow...this is good!” By their third refill, they were up on their feet, dusting themselves off, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Looking at her wristwatch, one stewardess exclaimed, “Hey...if the van gets here in ten minutes we can make the disco!”
So what was this magic elixir, dear reader? Café Cubano. The type of coffee so viscous - loaded with tons of sugar - one could float a horseshoe on it. When all that caffeine and sugar enters your bloodstream and hits your brain – you’re ready to boogie, baby!
The van finally scooped us up and delivered us to our hotel in Coconut Grove – an artsy-fartsy district with trendy boutiques and restaurants.
The flight attendants had nicknamed our hotel the “Passion Pit,” because of the circular beds with mirrored ceilings. Obviously this was a hotel where local executives took their secretaries for a lunchtime “quickie.”
After all, dear reader, “Man cannot live on bread alone.” That’s in the Bible.
The three flight attendants, and myself, did make it to the disco well before closing. Captain “Shaky” didn’t join us. I danced with all three girls at once - in the heart of the sweaty, dance floor mob – shuffling our feet and shaking our posteriors, disco style, to the exotic Cuban rhythms most of the night.
My slightly inebriated Flight Attendants. Dress code? Hey, this is Miami, baby.
I’d forgotten how much I missed the Cuban music and cuisine, dear reader. Gees...it was great to be back in Miami!
After my second bourbon and beer chaser, I was totally devoid of all pain.
The DJ.
For a change of pace, the DJ spun the theme from “Ghostbusters,” by Ray Parker, Jr. Loudly, as I gyrated my rump, I joined in on the chorus: “I ain’t afraid of no ghost.”
Retrieving bodies at Flight #401’s crash site.
* * * * *
Comments
Post a Comment