Fly With Us \ Our Lives As Pan Am Stewardesses

The Kiss / by Paula Wesselmann

2011-11-09T21:57:00.000-08:00

I had just been given the results of my final exams. I not only passed, but I got based in New York, my first choice. Linda could now put in her transfer and we’d be roommates in the most cosmopolitan city in the world. I thought of my classmates and wondered where they’d be based and what would happen to them. In spite of our differences I’d never forget them. Pan Am’s training had turned us into confidant women, the perfect hostesses, with a keen eye for danger and a quick reaction to the unexpected. With graduation within our grasp the world just opened its arms to us.

Dreaming of all my possibilities I didn’t see Curt as he came around the corner. His hands squeezed my shoulders. “Thank God I found you. We’re leaving.” “Who’s leaving?” I asked. “The Service Reps. All of us. I don’t have time to explain.” “I got New York,” I said. “Where will you be?” “I don’t know yet.” Then it dawned on me. Curt was saying good-bye. Panic filled my eyes as I tried to speak, but Curt silenced me the only way he could. He took me in his arms and kissed me. Mark yelled out, “Come on. We gotta go. We’ll miss our flight.” Curt gave me a second kiss then pressed his cheek next to mine. “I’ll fine you. I’ll find you wherever you are.” Then he was in the elevator and Mark was waving good-bye.

Pierre St. Germaine came up from behind me and stopped by my side. He withdrew a white handkerchief from his jacket, shook it out, and handed it to me. “Didn’t I just tell you - you wouldn’t last a year. Now I fear my best stewardess, in first class galley, won’t last a month.” I wiped my eyes. “No Sir. I’m here for awhile. I have a lot to figure out. “It appears that Curt does too.” “No, you don’t understand. My heart’s torn between two amazing men and I don’t know what to do.” Pierre St. Germaine shook his head and chuckled. “I’m going to miss you Miss Schmitt, but my advice to you is - explore your options. That’s why you became a Pan Am stewardess. Travel the world and discover yourself.” “What if I lose them both in the process?” “Have a little faith, my dear. You’re Pan Am. Make your dreams come true.”

San Salvador \ Linda Joyce

2011-11-06T05:43:00.000-08:00

San Salvador is a small country, nestled between Guatemala and Honduras in Central America. I had no inkling of what to expect as I stepped from the plane at the Ilopango International Airport or that this beautiful country would become one of my favorite places to fly. My arrival came immediately after an earthquake that had damaged part of The Intercontinental Hotel where the crew was booked to stay. Apparently the dining room was under repair and tables were set up in the lobby to provide food service for its guests. Standing at the front desk I felt my first after-tremor and it terrified me. But the calmness and the big smile of the Salvadorian checking me in made me relax. He said, “We have them all the time. Do not worry.” As he spoke the images of buildings collapsing and people screaming as they ran for safety began to disappear. With my key in hand I walked toward the elevator, but my roommate and I were stopped by a handsome group of men that I later learned were called The Lounge Lizards. These were the wealthy locals who had time on their hands and wanted nothing more than to take a Pan Am Stewardess to dinner and a disco. My roommate knew them by name and we all agreed to meet in the bar in an hour.

An unattractive heavy set man named Jorge rose from his chair when I entered the bar dressed in a simple robin blue sheath. I was tired and not anxious to make this a long evening, yet grateful for the company and someone to pay the bill. Paula and I were saving our money for a New York apartment. The first month rent and one month security would have to be paid all at once so we vowed to be frugal for now. Having a work uniform eliminated a big wardrobe bill, and Pan Am paid to have them cleaned, a service I certainly appreciate more now than I did when I was 22. The ability to shop around the world was a luxury I also truly enjoyed. Christmas presents would be a piece of cake this year.

The dark-haired man introduced himself with a slight bow and a kiss to my extended hand. His manners didn’t make him anymore attractive; he was definitely not my type. The two stewardesses I had flown in with were already sipping a tropical drink and talking to the other men at the table. Jorge was eager to please and he ordered me a Whiskey Sour. His glasses hid a small fraction of his pimply face and as he leaned toward me, I inhaled his bad breath. That was it. I swore I would finish my drink and disappear for a quick bite in the lobby. Retiring early was becoming more attractive by the minute. As the group tried to decide where to go to dinner, I feigned a headache and got up to leave. Jorge was disappointed, but at this point I didn’t care. He was drinking a Grasshopper, the main ingredient Crème de Menthe. As he said good-by he smiled with green teeth!

I was never uncomfortable eating by myself. As I settled into a chair and glanced at the menu, I realized that there was a gentleman also eating alone, and he was staring at me. He had the most intense black eyes I had ever seen, and they bore right through me. As you may remember, eye games are one of my favorite things, and so I stared back and smiled, then dropped my eyes as if not interested. The room seemed to heat up even when I wasn’t looking at him. In a matter of minutes he was at my table introducing himself as Enrique Romero Garcia Sequenzia. They all have long names here because both sides of the family are included. I liked him immediately, but the moment didn’t last long. As he sat down to join me the group from the bar appeared. Unfortunately, they knew Enrique or Quique as they called him. Without being invited, they pulled up chairs and sat down. That was it, there was no way I was going to be left alone with this man, so why sit here and torture myself. As I said my good-bye the men fought over who would pay my bill. I thanked them all then headed for the elevators.

As an Aquarian I often live in my head and that’s where I was when I entered the elevator. No I didn’t push the button to my floor, I was day-dreaming. When the elevator doors reopened and I stepped out, I was surprised to find myself still in the lobby. I laughed, but then I noticed that everyone was getting up from the table and leaving the hotel, everyone except Quique, he was heading toward the elevators. What to do? I noticed a jewelry counter in front of me so I turned my back to the lobby and pretended to be looking at a necklace. Quique recognized me as I knew he would, and in a moment I could feel him standing next to me. His energy was warm and inviting. “Let me buy that for you, that would make me happy.” I looked up as if surprised. “No thank you, I was just looking.” “Then have a drink with me, I want to get to know you better.” I pretended to hesitate, then I looked into his eyes and said yes. Providence had brought us together after all.

The bar was quiet, the room dark and for some reason I can still see the little red lampshade with tassels that covered the light on the table casting a romantic rosy hue. He was a man out of my dreams, good-looking in not a perfect way, warm and driven by his political career. Guatemalan, he was shaken by the death of his close friend, the American Ambassador, John Gordon Mein, who was killed by the Communist Rebel Armed Forces. “He was a wonderful man, Linda. He didn’t deserve to die like that. I had a meeting scheduled with him the afternoon he was murdered. Now I’m stuck here for a few days. The President has closed the borders as they search for the rebels door to door.” I couldn’t believe it, I was so close to someone who was a part of an international crisis and I was hearing the details first hand. “You were lucky,” I said, “you could have been with him when it happened.” His head nodded as if he had thought about this many times. “It makes you appreciate life a little more and all the people you love in it.” He sat back in his chair and stared at me. “My God Linda, you are so easy to talk to. I haven’t discussed this with anyone, not even my family.” He made me feel special and whether or not it was done deliberately I didn’t care. My fantasies about becoming an international spy, or marrying a future president of a country were too close for even my comfort. Then he said, “I want to be President of Guatemala. I’m thinking of running in the next election.” That did it. I was suddenly among the poor of my people and they adored me. I would work hard to make their lives better, all the while dressed beautifully in my palace greeting heads of state. How innocently stupid I was, but then there is nothing more powerful than a fantasy that has suddenly become a possibility. Quique was instantly more desirable because he unknowingly walked into mine.

I Killed My Passengers / by Paula Wesselmann

2011-11-02T14:19:00.000-07:00

The weeks of training were flying by and I could see a more confidant strut in each of my classmates as we met our daily challenges. Today we were in a mock aircraft and our instructor was timing us on how quickly we could get the emergency door open on a Boeing 727 – 100 and release the shoot. It was my turn up and I was pumped with adrenalin. The Service Reps. were on board and we were all cheering each other on. I had everything memorized in my head. When the time watch was pressed I moved with the speed of an Olympic runner, until I reached the door. It was stuck. The handle wouldn’t budge. The cheering stopped and the plane became as silent as a morgue. I threw my weight into it, struggling with the handle. And just as the instructor was about to end my evaluation the door opened. With sheer joy I turned to my classmates and told them to disembark. The time watch stopped and of course my minutes were beyond the limit. The instructor, a short broad faced man in his late thirties, praised my determination. “You got the door open, Paula, but you led all your passengers off a plane without pulling the shoot.” “Oh my God,” said Lisa, “you killed us.” “No,” I said defensively. “Let me explain.” I told myself to think, that I couldn’t fail, not now. “It wasn’t just the door that was stuck, the shoot wouldn’t release. I sent my passengers into the water with their life vests on. I tossed out the inflatable rafts and a first aid kit. I never left the plane until everyone was off, then I jumped into the water with flares and a bag of bottled water that I took from the galley.” Everyone started to laugh and the fair headed instructor shook his head. “Well, if that was the case, everything else you did was beyond right. You pass.” A loud cheer went up and I found myself strutting down the aisle, inwardly dying of embarrassment. I sat toward the back of the plane in a seat away from the rest. I needed a moment to gain my control. Tears filled my eyes and I looked out the window. Why would Lisa embarrass me further? Then I realized it was her comment that made me change the result of my story. Someone sat down next to me. I didn’t want company. I wiped my eyes. “You’re pretty amazing, you know.” It was Curt, and this was one time I didn’t want to see him. “I killed all my passengers.” “Anyone else would have given up when the door jammed. You didn’t. If I was in an emergency landing, I’d want you by my side.” I bit my lip and rolled my eyes. “Thanks, but I’d rather just have you . . . without an emergency.” Mark poked his face over the seat in front of us. “Bottled water from the galley. Pure genius. I never would have thought of that.”

All The Things I Didn't Know \ Linda Joyce

2011-10-29T23:52:00.000-07:00

Juan Carlos was ten years older than me and I loved it. You see I had trouble relating to men my age, they were silly and young, drinking beer and trying to create trouble for attention. There was a group of them at my apartment complex in Miami Springs and seeing them get drunk every night was like being back in college my freshman year. Juan Carlos was smart both in knowledge and experience. He had been on his own since he was twenty, and he had a great apartment in Coconut Grove, the artistic side of Miami. Until dating this Latin I had thought I was independent and ready for life, but the truth was, there was so much I didn’t know. I didn’t know that a Caesar Salad had a raw egg, and when Juan Carlos cracked one into the bowl and whisked it up pouring it over the greens, I acted like he had handed me a raw chicken. I didn’t know that honesty was seldom the best policy, that smart people sometimes smoked pot and it didn’t turn them into addicts like my parents had preached. I didn’t know that being a “good girl” was actually a handicap and in the real world it actually meant you were over-protected and ignorant. Morals were changing in America and suddenly my pride at being pure became almost an embarrassment. It didn’t mean that I was going to throw everything that I was taught away, I was glad for the guidelines that a strict upbringing had given me, but it was time to stretch those boundaries and find out what was really going to work for me in my life. The world didn’t keep its promise and I was not prepared for the truth. I quickly found myself at that dangerous point when I began to question everything I thought I was. This is when life becomes frightening and some girls run home never to push the boundaries of their life again. But the one thing I had was courage and a desire to learn. If others could figure it out, then I could too.

I just spent the morning with Juan Carlos and we had had a great time shopping, laughing and walking along the docks of Coconut Grove. We stopped for lunch beside the water and I ordered a hamburger. I can remember eating this hamburger vividly, even today, because suddenly my whole life came together in an alarming way. Juan Carlos was talking about politics, philosophy, art – life. I sat there listening to him in awe. My father was a brilliant man, but he was book -smart, not street -smart and until this moment I had never thought about the difference between the two. I was raised to listen and not have an opinion. I was raised to agree, not disagree. I was raised to create harmony, not find the truth unless it was so far away from reality that no one was threatened. My life was about to change as I sank my teeth into the juicy hamburger and looked into the eyes of this very intelligent man. A+ Linda suddenly felt stupid; in a flash I realized I didn’t have an opinion that was original, I was not a thinker, on the contrary, I could only regurgitate what I was taught. No one had ever really asked for my input, not even my U of A teachers, they were happy if I just told them what they wanted me to learn. But life right now demanded I have an opinion; life with people who were living on their own, trying to forge a name for themselves in a competitive world. These people had their own beliefs and ideas, Juan Carlos had an opinion and I could tell he was searching for mine. Oh, I wished in that moment I could have given him one, but it wasn’t there. All I had was emptiness. No matter how fast I ate that hamburger, it was unable to fill the gap I felt inside. I was having a death experience over lunch. As Juan Carlos continued to talk, I made a vow to myself. I was not going to go through life as a robot. I was not going to just accept all that I was told. It was time to question, to learn in a whole new way. I would get a voice somehow. ‘Juan Carlos”, I said, I’m not sure if I agree with you or not,” and I smiled at his confusion, “but I’m going to find out and when I know, I’ll tell you.”

Sunrise / by Paula Wesselmann

2011-10-26T16:52:00.000-07:00

The diner was a dump with the best pancakes next to my father’s I had ever had. The owner, Mike, was a mustached Greek with bushy brows. Every time I glanced his way he winked at me from the greasy grill. “Mike,” Curt teased as he put down his coffee cup. “You’re not trying to pick up my girl, are you?” “I’m too old,” Mike said. “So tall. So pretty. Can she cook?” Curt turned to me and smiled. “I’d say yes.” I tried not to blush as the two men discussed my virtues as if I wasn’t there.

Over pancakes, smothered in butter and maple syrup, Curt and I talked about our families and childhood. I was surprised when he said he ran away from home at the age of fourteen - that he was a rebellious and cocky teenager. I asked him how his mother handled it. For a moment he had a distant look in his eyes and I knew he was back in New Zealand. “She knew me,” he said, “She knew I wouldn’t go far.”

Hours later we took off our shoes and walked along the beach. We kicked at the waves as they crested and stretched toward the shoreline. Not once did he try to kiss me and he didn’t take my hand as we walked. Yet when he looked at me I felt his touch and in his silence I could feel my presence. It was a seduction like none I had ever known. A larger wave caught us by surprise and Curt welcomed it as I turned from its spray. Laughing we moved to higher ground and sat in the sand. He was silent and I felt a need to fill the quiet between us. “You confuse me,” I said picking up a seashell. “How so?” he asked. “You’re either quiet and detached or playful and impulsive. You switch so easily back and forth.” “Is that bad?” “No, I like the way you are. The truth is the more I resist you the more I’m attracted to you.” Curt lay back in the sand and placed his hands behind his blonde head. “You want to tell me something, don’t you?” “No,” I replied. Again he threw me off balance. “Something’s bothering you.” He rolled over on his side. In that moment I hated his maturity and confidence. “It’s another man. Someone you left back home.” I was stunned by his insight and for a moment I wanted to say no again. Jim was for me to figure out, certainly not open for discussion. I barely knew Curt and yet . . . I stared at the seashell in my hand. “I want to be angry with you for asking me that. Yes there’s someone . . . sort of.” “Sort of?” Curt repeated. There was a tone of impatience in his voice. “He’s an engineer. Jim’s studying for his masters.” “Why did you leave him?” “Pressure from the family . . . being 21 years old . . . I need to find out who I am, what I want.” “So Jim let you go with no commitment. Wow. He’s a smart man.” I looked confused. “Freedom with no guilt – that’s a strong hold. Curt’s face was serious and I could feel him detach. “So what else do you want to tell me?” he asked like some sage who had all the answers. I fell silent then said what came into my head. “Think of me as a Bloody Mary without the vodka.” It took a moment then Curt laughed softly. “Now you make sense.” “I know I’m young and right now I feel vulnerable and out of my league.” I stood up. “I’ve shared too much already. It’s okay Curt. It’s been fun. Let’s just leave it at that.” “Hold on.” Curt was on his feet. He took my arm and stopped me from walking away. “I’ve known a lot of women, Paula, but that day you came tearing around the corner of the Pan Am building and then later in the lobby when you came in with the other girls – you were the only one I saw. Sure I’d like to have all of you, what man wouldn’t, but for now I’m happy just being with you. I think what you need right now is too cool off.” Curt lifted me into his arms and ran toward the ocean. My screams were silenced by a cresting wave. I stood up laughing and spitting out water. Curt pointed toward the horizon. “Look the sun’s rising.”

At the door of my apartment I saw Lisa coming down the hall. She was just getting in from a night with Robert. Her blue eyes looked me up and down like I was some tramp on the street as she stuck her key into the door of her room. I must have looked a mess. My normally straight hair was in a tangled mass of curls and my clothes were sandy and damp. “I went swimming,” I said, angry with myself for feeling like I needed to explain. “You went swimming with some guy with your clothes on.” “Yes,” I smiled. “It’s called safe sex. And how was your night, Lisa? You look fresh as a daisy – did you just get dressed?” I entered my room and closed the door.

Almost Home \ Linda Joyce

2011-10-23T13:56:00.000-07:00

The only alluring element about my first apartment in Miami Springs was the swimming pool and the fact that it was close to the airport. If you had an early flight to catch, or you were coming home from a long trip, that extra 30 minutes of travel time became a luxury you appreciated. I had three roommates, also stewardesses, and we were two to a room. It may seem like a lot, but the truth is when you room with flight attendants, they are seldom home and when they are, they’re sleeping. The plan was simple, I would stay in Miami until my sister Paula, found us an apartment in New York, the city of my dreams. I wanted to live in Manhattan since I was ten years old. It was a movie with Shirley MacLaine that inspired my passion. When I saw her dance through Times Square I knew in my heart that this was the place I wanted to live. This was my city and now I was almost home.

My roommates were blonde and high school and college popular: cheerleaders, star students, sorority beauty queens. They were used to getting all the attention, so when I began having more dates and fun than they were, the jealousy and resentment became obvious. After I met Paul, the Lebanese businessman, on my flight to New York, my roommate Caroline, was sitting on the sofa with me listening to my exciting evening of belly dancers, exotic food, and closing the restaurant with the owner. Instead of enjoying the story; I felt her anger rising. When I told her he had promised to call when he returned to Buenos Aries she blew her fuse (You’ve got to remember that back in the sixties a long distance phone call was a big thing). “Linda you’re so naive, he’s never going to call you from Argentina, grow up.” In that moment the universe was my true friend --the phone rang and Caroline answered. I could hear the operator say, “Long distance for Linda Schmitt from Buenos Aries.” She handed me the phone and stormed out of the room. Paul got an extra warm greeting that morning, he didn’t know it but he was now my hero.

There was a group of med-students in the apartment complex and Mom was so happy to hear they had invited me to a party. She always hoped I’d marry a doctor-she’s Italian. What she didn’t know was that they were a wild bunch and had a party almost every night. Stewardesses were really in demand– no it wasn’t because of their beauty or intelligence this time – it was for a far more practical reason –they could buy liquor for less than half price in the Caribbean! I was learning very quickly there were many ways to be popular. Tonight’s party was my first at the apartments, and I wanted desperately to fit in. I felt alone among a group of competitive girls and there was no safe haven, except within myself. We were asked to bring something to eat. I decided to make mom’s spaghetti sauce. It was not only delicious, it fed a lot of people and its cost was minimal. Having been raised on this red gold, I didn’t realize that most people’s experience of this Italian staple came from opening a jar of Ragu.

I was greeted warmly when I entered with my pot of sauce and packages of spaghetti. Med-student Rick, the host, directed me toward the kitchen. I put my pot on the stove to simmer and after a quick search I found a bigger one for the spaghetti to boil in. While I waited for the water to bubble, I noticed the other contributions: deviled eggs, potato chips, a green colored dip and some greasy fried chicken. As the sauce heated up its essence filled the kitchen and began to waft out the open door and into the living room. It took Rick all of a 1\2 minute to appear, nose in the air, following the aroma to the source. He lifted the lid of my pot. “Homemade spaghetti sauce.” He took a spoon and tasted it; his eyes rolled back in ecstasy as the tomatoes, garlic, oregano, basil, thyme and rosemary danced on his taste-buds. “This is the first homemade anything I’ve tasted in years.” Then he looked at me as if for the first time. “Linda, you’re gorgeous and you can cook, marry me.” He pulled me to him and kissed me right on the mouth. There was nothing sexual about the kiss, it was spontaneous and came from pure joy. Everyone wanted the recipe that night and I gave it to them. I was beginning to see how some of my old fashion upbringing may actually give me an advantage. I was always taught that a way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, now I understood why – if he was comfort food deprived, all his defenses dissolved in the presence of a home-cooked meal.

Mom’s Traditional Spaghetti Sauce

Ingredients:

• 2 tsp. olive oil

• 2 14.5-oz cans of crushed tomatoes

• 1 6-oz. can of tomato paste

• 3-6 cloves of garlic, diced

• I medium onion, chopped

• 1 Tbsp or 6 fresh leafs of Oregano

• 1 Tbsp or 6 fresh leafs of Basil

• 2 tsp or foliage from one 4-inch (10 cm) sprig of Marjoram

• 2 tsp or foliage from one 5-inch (12 cm) sprig of Rosemary

• 2 tsp or foliage from one 5-inch (12 cm) sprig of Thyme

• 1 heaping Tbsp Black Pepper

• 1/4 large or 1 small yellow onion, diced

MAR

Directions:

Heat olive oil over medium-high heat in a pan. Add garlic and onion and cook until the onion is translucent (more clear than white). Cook the onion first for a minute and then add the garlic so it does not over-cook and Add crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, and spices. When mixture is bubbling, reduce heat to simmer and cover. Simmer for at least 60 minutes, stirring occasionally. The longer it simmers, the better it tastes.

Men, Men And More Men \ Linda Joyce

2011-10-16T12:53:00.001-07:00

Pan Am Stewardess’s had no shortage of invitations from men. They were waiting for us when we arrived at our hotels around the world, they struck up conversations on the airplane and it usually ended with an invitation to dinner; wherever we went people wanted to meet and know us. Thus, the challenge of when to say yes became an ever-present dilemma. My parent’s over-protective ways were not helping me now that I was on my own. I had very little experience when it came to making my choices and so it was easy to make a mistake. The primary battle was between do I get a good night sleep or do I go out. The newer the stewardess the more she choose a night out. The longer you flew the more sleep seemed to move up the list of priorities. What amazes me in retrospect was how little I was worried about venturing out alone with a stranger. It was certainly easier to trust in those days, even if it was an illusion.

My first flight was Mexico City and sitting in the cockpit with its magnificent panoramic view was breathtaking. The palace was lit up like a Christmas tree at night and it made the city seem magical. As we landed, I received my first in-flight dinner invitation and I accepted – no way was I going to eat at the hotel on my first flight – I wanted romance in a foreign country and for awhile that’s exactly what I got. Roberto took me to a nightclub, he ordered Dom Perignon, my first taste of expensive champagne (my parents didn’t drink). We had dinner and danced alongside an indoor waterfall enhanced with romantic lighting. It was all so perfect until the espresso arrived and he casually told me he was married. There it was again, my naïveté getting me into trouble. I was angry and made a personal note to ask a lot more questions in the future before I said yes. My next flight and date came from a trip to Buenos Aries with a lay over in New York. I was working first class and Paul was a businessman with an important meeting in the morning. I agreed to help him keep the seat next to him free so he could sleep. The truth was no one had been assigned that seat, but it made me look helpful, and my reward was an invitation to dinner. He was Lebanese and lived in Argentina, and so we ended up in a dark, smoke filled room of men and belly dancers. I was not going to show my lack of experience again, and so I ate the calf’s brains and tried all the food that looked so foreign to me. I even stuck a few singles in the girls g-string as her body rippled before us. The owner eventually joined us and we closed the place with him having drinks him into the wee hours of the morning.

On my day off, I was grateful to be free of men and so I decided to do what all girls love to do -- I went shopping at Burdines Department Store. It was his art that attracted me first. I wanted a pastel drawing of myself just like the one on display – it would make a perfect gift for my parents at Christmas. Then the artist appeared and my little heart began to beat at a rapid pace. He was from Argentina and gorgeous. As I sat for the picture our eyes began to have a conversation all their own. His told me he was hot, intense, and a passionate Latin interested in me and my eyes answered “why not, but you’re going to have to win me over.” He walked me to the door of Burdine’s and before I left he asked me to dinner -- the eyes don’t lie. That night we had dinned in Little Cuba, in those days it was only a small section of Miami. Juan Carlos and I had chemistry; of course my first attraction was with a struggling artist.

By the end of the week I was exhausted and my head was spinning. Too many choices can be as challenging as none at all. For a young girl eager to experience life in all its masks and dances, I was content with the potpourri I was being offered. However, I was wise enough to know that even Beluga Caviar can get boring if you eat it all the time. So my aim was to enjoy myself for now and learn about men so that when I met the right one, I ‘d be able to know his worth right away.

2011-10-12T18:33:00.000-07:00

Walking the Walk / by Paula Wesselmann

I ran down the hallway after my classmates at the speed of a race horse. Flying around the corner five attractive young men held out their hands as I slid passed them to face Mr. Morton from orientation. “It’s a glorious morning, isn’t it Mr. Morton?” “Walk Miss Schmitt. Dignify your position as a future Pan Am stewardess.” “Yes, Sir. My apology. ” I curtsied with an impish smile, walked away, but couldn’t resist not turning back for a second glance at the new male arrivals. I was met with six smiles, Mr. Morton included. I left the building thankful I was born a woman.

My sister, Linda, had warned me about the dreadful witch, Ms. Lander. She was tough when it came to personal grooming and just last month she dismissed two trainees for not meeting Pan Am standards. The airline had an international image to maintain and I for one loved the demands placed on its employees. Sucking in my stomach I entered the classroom ten minutes ahead of schedule. To my surprise my small class of eleven, not counting myself, were already seated. Heads moved, as one, in my direction. It was almost comical except that now I was the focal point of Ms. Lander’s attention. Don’t stand there I told myself. Move, but do it with pizzazz. My inner voice of spontaneous wisdom was my trusted guide. I lifted my carriage as if a puppeteer from heaven was pulling the string. I didn’t rush the walk, but glided like a model on the runway. I chose a seat in the front row holding to a Miss America smile. With a straight back, not touching the chair, I tucked my left foot behind the right and looked directly into the eyes of my instructor. Ms. Lander raised an eyebrow. “Your name?” she asked. I swallowed, but kept my voice pleasing. “Paula Schmitt.” “You’ve modeled.” “Yes.” “You’ve had training. Where?” “Twentieth Century Fox.” “Hollywood?” “Yes.” “Stand please.” As I rose to my feet daggers flew at me from my classmates’ eyes. I was being singled out and they hated me for it. Ms. Lander clapped her hands together and spoke. “What we have here ladies is the model of the Pan Am look and stature. Now Miss Schmitt, demonstrate that wonderful walk. Yes, go ahead, that’s it, now turn. Perfect.”

That evening at the Miami Airways Motel, my room was filled with laughter, walking the walk, and trying out different make-up. I knew this feeling of sisterhood wouldn’t last. Any further attention I received would only encourage a back stabbing hostility from the girls. Lisa, the alpha of the group, was the only one I trusted. She hated me and found no shame in letting me know. Even now she isolated herself from the rest of us, lounging her petite body on a double bed with pillows stacked under her head. As much as I disliked her she had a Grace Kelly beauty that was irresistible. The phone rang and the princess answered it. “Who,” she said. “Yes,” one moment. Lisa handed me the phone. “It’s for you . . . some guy.” “Hello,” I said. “Hi, my name’s Mark. There are four dashing available men, in the lobby of your motel that are dying to meet you and the other girls. We’re trainees with Pan Am. Service Reps. You ran into us . . . remember?” I laughed. Curious I turned my back on those eavesdropping on my conversation and asked. “Why call me and not the others?” “That was easy. You smiled at us. The vote was unanimous.” “Well Mark. I’ll see what I can do. Give me five minutes.” I hung up the phone and Lisa immediately asked, “Who was that?” I quickly gave her a short version of what Mark said. Lisa’s eyes narrowed. “Why did he call you?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.” “But I heard you ask the question.” “He didn’t tell me, Lisa. Come on, let’s go and have some fun.” I pulled her off the bed while the other girls hurried to their rooms to change.

The Perfection Dilemma \ Linda Joyce

2011-10-10T08:08:00.000-07:00

It seemed like every other morning as I stepped out into the fresh air, but I knew it wasn’t. This was the first day of training at the Pan Am International Flight Academy, and the first day of my new life. There were twenty-two of us, and we were sleeping two in a room at the Miami Airways Motel, which sat directly across from the Academy. I knew that being on time was essential, so I rose early and didn’t wait for anyone – I wanted to be the first girl at the door when it opened. It wasn’t until two minutes before class that I noticed I had forgotten my nametag. This was not a big faux pas -- but my need to be perfect turned it into one. Since I could never please my mother – her standards rose as you met her marks – I had trouble accepting simple mistakes. Now because of this, I was about to make one of the worst decisions of my life. I turned to my friend Pam, “I’m going back for my nametag, tell the teacher.”

I knew as I entered the room “late” I had made a terrible decision and a bad first impression. My performance from this point on would probably not matter. I had placed myself in the category of unreliable and it would take every ounce of my talents to move me out of that box and into one labeled “fabulous”, but that was the mission. Doing well was not a problem: I received A+’s on every test, I was a master chef in the kitchen, I could roast a prime rib without overcooking it, and turn out perky sunny side up eggs in an oven. I gave mouth to mouth resuscitation without hesitation, and when they took us to the top of the tall tower and put us in a mock plane and asked us to slide down the shoot which dropped us into a deep dark pool of water, I never even blinked, after all I was a champion swimmer. In spite of my successes, I felt the teacher’s disapproving eyes upon me. I was marked. Then the dreaded moment came: “Linda, would you please stay after class, I’d like to speak to you.” Was I about to be fired and sent home? As I sat next to Ms. Landen, I tried to appear confident and calm. “We’re very happy with your test scores, so you must be paying attention . . . however, there is a problem.” I raised my brow. “We can’t put our finger on it, but if you don’t change you won’t be with us much longer.” I could feel my heart pounding; I needed a miracle. “What can I do to improve?” She shrugged with indifference. “Can you give me advice . . . anything?” She looked more interested. “I want to be a Pan Am Stewardess; I’d like to be like you.” “Personally,” Ms. Lander said, “I think it’s your facial expressions.” That of course, was no help at all. As I rose to leave, I found myself in a perfectionist’s nightmare - it didn’t matter what I did, because the person I wanted to please was incapable of being satisfied. That night I ran a hot bath, the place I go to solve my problems. I lit a few candles and closed my eyes trying to figure out a plan. Be brutally critical, I told myself. My harsh evaluation revealed that I didn’t have the military look they were trying to shape us into. I slouched a bit at my desk, even though I took great notes. I had to “appear” more attentive. The plan was to laser-lock my eyes with Ms. Lander and never let her go. The other instructors were not a problem. It took three days, but she began to avoid my gaze -- had I gone too far? Then my second request to stay after class arrived. “We’re very pleased with your improvement, Linda,” Ms. Lander said with a smile. ‘Congratulations, you’ve turned yourself around.” I was ecstatic. I did it. I had changed her mind. I had done something I was never able to do with my mother, and from it came the first feeling of real power.

Letting Go \ Paula Wesselmann

2011-10-05T20:03:00.000-07:00

I could no longer resist change. The letter of acceptance to Pam Am was in my hand. I had no choice but to move out of my comfort zone. It was time to evolve and face two of my greatest fears – not being around to keep Mom happy and the other, a secret that not even Linda knew, my fear of flying. Choosing a full cup of optimism, I flew from the outside mailbox and into the living room offering ‘coffee, tea, or me’ to Mom and Dad. One look at Mom and I absorbed her longing for my adventure and her desire to be young again. If she could keep me in Tucson, I knew she would. She needed me. I was her happiness, her life as she vicariously lived through my experiences. Guilt tightened my chest. I hated it, the pressure to please and to be the perfect daughter. Life was calling my name and this time I took it. I swept Mom into my arms and danced her around the room. Dad grabbed the moment and sat at the piano. His strong hands raced across the keyboard. He played to our song and dance routine, until out of breath Mom and I collapsed to the floor.

That night reality hit me in the middle of my third eye, the ‘eye of insight.” I was going to have to say good-bye to Jim, at least for now and maybe forever. My parents were counting on distance, time, and Pan Am to change my feelings toward Jim. If I was going to see him before I left Tucson, it would have to be under the radar. I had no intention of spoiling my moments of joy with one of mother’s Italian hysterias or worse yet a curse that would stick in my head for the rest of my life. My solution came through a dear friend, Wayne Satzs. He’d be my pseudo date for an evening. Outside Jim’s apartment, Wayne stopped me from getting out of the car by turning off the engine. It was clear he wanted to talk. “You know I’d do anything for you. I’d push you out of the way of an ongoing truck and take the hit if I had to. Are you sure this is what you want?” Then I heard the silent words he couldn’t say. “Let me be the one to love you.” I held his dark eyes – touched and speechless. A long moment passed between us. I don’t remember what happened next or when I left him or how I ended up in Jim’s arms, but Wayne’s words would stay with me for the rest of my life. To be loved and set free with no strings attached was a priceless gift.

Three days later, in the lobby of the Miami Airways Motel, I came face to face with a handful of new arrivals like myself. There was an immediate warmth, excitement, and camaraderie among us. We had earned the right to be here and the plan was to graduate as a class, bound together by the wings of Pan Am. As we settled in our rooms with hallway doors wide open, someone popped the cork to a bottle of champagne and handed me a glass. I took it, but my smile wasn’t genuine. I felt on guard, afraid to be myself. When in the presence of men I could laugh and talk about anything. Women were more complicated. Tomorrow at orientation, I’d be charming, diplomatic, and self-contained. Somehow I’d win these women over. I just had to be smart and not stupid about how much I’d share of myself.

Goodbye Naïveté

2011-10-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

The idea of becoming a Pan Am stewardess moved from my head to my heart and became a passion almost immediately. I was amazed at the strength of my commitment, it revealed to me just how unhappy I was at home. I desperately wanted to live my own life. In the late Sixties it wasn’t easy for a woman to take off and do what she wanted to do, even if she had the money. It’s hard to imagine the limitations we fought against when you see all the freedom that young girls take for granted today. My Aquarian gift of adaptability was also my biggest problem now -- I needed to be critical and scrutinize myself so that I could see my weaknesses. I asked for help from above and the universe responded: American Airlines was holding its interviews for stewardesses a few weeks before Pan Am. If I signed up, I could have a dry run! I could make all my mistakes with them. I had no inkling how important this decision would be and just how naive and unprepared I truly was.

When you are raised in a good, close-knit family you are taught to tell the truth, to be honest, and your behavior would be rewarded. What they failed to add was that the real world has a whole different set of rules and it had nothing to do with honesty. “How long have you wanted to fly for American,” the gentleman in a cheap, blue suit asked me, as he took notes behind his desk. “Just a few months”, I said, and that was it, I lost him, it was a downhill spiral from that question on. I watched myself in a kind of out-of-body experience slip into oblivion. Walking out the door, I knew I had failed, but it wasn’t until I read the brochure I had taken from the waiting room, that I knew exactly why. They had an image and I didn’t fit it. Wow, it was as simple as that. To achieve my goal, I would have to let go of everything I was taught and all that I was, but only for 30 minutes. My mission was simple – I had to become the poster girl for Pan Am.

The clarity of my challenge gave me confidence. Gone was the naive girl that existed weeks before, I had to sell myself and do it effortlessly. My interviewer was a women and we were on the campus of my alma mater, the U of A. I took charge from the moment I entered the room -- I sold myself. I told them about working on live TV as a weather girl and how often I was forced to think on my feet and change my copy at the last minute because of breaking news. I told them how from a little girl all I had ever dreamed about was flying for Pan Am. I mentioned my love of people, travel, and how much I had traveled with my family. My major was Romance Languages, and that was a plus. I brought up my modeling, and when she had a question about it, instead of answering, I rose from my chair and did a quick pirouette right before her desk without blinking an eye. I was the epitome of confidence and that’s what they were looking for -- that’s what the world is looking for. Confidence can mask your flaws better than anything I know. When I left, I knew I had done well, but was it well enough? Two weeks later I held two letters in my hand, the rejection from American Airlines and the acceptance from Pan Am – same girl, one was just a little wiser because she was smart enough to go for two interviews instead of one.

Spread My Wings and Fly \ Paula Wesselmann

2011-09-26T15:12:00.000-07:00

I was at the Tucson International Airport, hugging my sister, Linda, goodbye. If I had windshield wipers attached to my brown eyes I could have seen her more clearly as she boarded the plane for Miami, Florida. She was off to earn her gold wings at the Pan American International Stewardess College. In two months she would graduate and be a jet-setting stewardess flying around the world and I would be finishing my senior year at the University of Arizona. You have to understand, this was more than just a separation for me. This was my sister, my best friend, my safe harbor when I felt like a wreck.With her went “my” chic and fabulous wardrobe, the latest colors of lipstick and eye shadow, and anything else I needed to look fabulous. How would I survive with just a closet full of hand-me-downs? Being the youngest has its disadvantages. Somehow I’d have to manage until we could be together again, but at this point I had no idea how I was going to do this without my Aquarian twin – minus, of course, two years and eight days’difference in age. Without Linda’s graceful presence to save me from myself and from fulfilling everyone else’s needs before my own, I wasn’t sure what I would do. At the moment I was torn between my boyfriend, Jim, a handsome grad student, who was studying for his master’s degree in engineering, and my loving parents who had other ideas on whom I should marry. Once again Linda’s choices were paving the way to my salvation. If I could just get accepted by Pan Am when I graduated, it would get me out of the house, and allow me some time and space to figure out my life.

Linda and I had already shared an amazing history; we had graced the covers of Tucson’s major newspapers many times. Together we were models, teammates on the U of A Fencing Team as well as taking turns winning the Arizona State Fencing Championships for four years in a row, we were weather broadcaster’s for Danny Thomas’s KZAZ station, shared the title of Miss Tucson simultaneously – Linda for Miss Universe with her sultry brown eyes, and leggy me with the winning smile for Miss America. We spent a summer in Hollywood, while I went after an acting career and snagged a contract with Twentieth Century Fox. Pursuing our dreams was as natural as a freckled face red head eating a hot dog during a baseball game.

Our parents had educated us well, supplying us with world-wide travel and the right ingredients to pursue an exceptional life. Emily Post polished our manners and with her book on our brunette heads she encouraged perfect posture while sitting and walking. I struggled to fulfill what my parent’s expected of me until my mother, in one of her controlling Italian moments, decided it was best for me to forget Jim and to put my energy into a more lucrative career, like entrapping a count similar to the one I had left behind in Spain, or a wealthy husband without a title. It’s funny how the heart speaks the loudest when we are voiceless in the presence of our parents. Suddenly, I realized how important Jim was to me. He was my best friend, next to Linda, and I cared deeply for him.Using our heads and our hearts Jim and I made a pack. If Pan American Airlines accepted me as a stewardess, I would fly for as long as I needed to. During this time we’d both be free to experience whatever life handed to us. If time and other interests didn’t pull us apart we’d marry in spite of the family. I prayed for the strength to leave Jim and my comfort zone to spread my wings and fly.

The Path To Adventure \ Linda Joyce

2011-09-19T15:52:00.000-07:00

The New TV series “Pan Am” is based on the glory days of Pan Am and is the inspiration for this blog. My sister and I flew for Pan Am in the late Sixties and we’d like to share our extraordinary experiences during this magical era and compare them to the show as it unfolds. Let’s see how accurate they’re going to be. It’s easy to be nostalgic about a time when travel was luxurious and fun: no lines, great food and a bevy of girdled, gorgeous women to fluff your pillow and hand you a blanket with a smile. The Sixties were a turning point in the world and in the lives of young girls. When I grew up, women devoted themselves to their husbands and families, they didn’t think about pursuing their own dreams, at least not like they do today. However, Pan Am changed all that, at least for a few lucky women, and my sister and I were a part of that select few. They offered international travel, excitement, and glamour -- you were seen as the crème de la crème, because it was not enough to be beautiful, you had to be sophisticated and intelligent too. They were looking for a girl with magic, and they could be selective because everyone wanted the job.

I had just graduated from the University of Arizona and was working toward my masters in Romance Languages when the way to leave it all behind was presented to me. It was my sister’s boyfriend Jim, who gave me the idea. He was sitting on the sofa in our living room in Tucson, Arizona with his best friend Gary, and we were talking about careers and what we wanted to do. That’s when Jim piped up and said “If I was a girl I’d be a stewardess. They have the best job in the world.” His words froze me as a series of flashes went through my head. This was my way out of my wonderful, close knit family that was beginning to smoother my adventuresome spirit – I needed to break free. My mother was Italian and my father was German and French. They were over-protective and resistant to allowing me to venture out on my own without a solid plan – what that usually meant was marriage. I knew one thing for sure, the airline had to be Pan Am --they were the best and in a league of their own! Getting accepted would not be easy, I was not experienced in being interviewed, and the only job I ever had was with my sister Paula as weather girls for KZAZ, a local channel in Tucson. If I was going to get picked out of the vast competition, I would have to be well-prepared and know exactly what they wanted. My parents were not wise in the ways of the world, they had given my sister and I a great childhood, with lots of travel, my mother spoke five languages, and my father had his own column in the newspaper, but they were invested in keeping their world within their control, and what I wanted for the next phase of my life lay way beyond their reach -- I wanted Pan Am.