Back when I was a kid, right before I wanted to be Judy Blume, I wanted to be Eloise-that iconic, naughty, six year old who lived in New York City’s Plaza Hotel. It seemed so glamorous, hotel living. To reside in a place where others make the bed, where skating in the lobby is a choice, and where ice-cream sundaes are delivered right to your door.
I told my mom as much, making the announcement the day she refused to let me eat chocolate chip cookie dough for dinner: “Someday I’m going to live in a hotel,” I’d said. “And then you’ll be sorry.”
Years later, when I found myself spending yet another night in some anonymous, low budget, roach motel, the kind where the sheets are suspect, and showering in your shoes is a must, I realized that this is where my Eloise fantasy had led me. This is where my dream had gotten me. Into a bunion building, flammable skirt wearing, bag dragging, Buh-Bye chanting, not so glamorous career as a flight attendant. One where I spent more time in hotels than I did at home. One where I never, not once, got to skate down the hall.
Of course I’d been warned that it wouldn’t be all coffee, tea, or me, that I’d spend most of my time just picking up other people’s trash. But I refused to listen to that sort of heresy. I mean, how could it not be the greatest job in the world when they paid you to layover in Paris?
Let me count the ways. . .
Still I hung in there. Logging in over a decade’s worth of flying, partly because of all that free travel, but mostly because it provided lots of time for writing. My debut novel, Faking 19, was cribbed during boring layovers and long weather delays. And even though I followed it up with two more YA’s, the flight attendant story was always there, patiently waiting, occasionally giving me a gentle nudge and saying- Hey, what about me? When do I get a say?
Fly Me to the Moon is that book. It’s the result of eleven years spent “researching” life behind the navy blue suit, the control top pantyhose, and the little plastic wings. It’s a revealing, insider look at what it’s really like to work in a metal tube, hurling through the sky, at 37,000 feet.
It’s also the story of Hailey Lane, a lovable, bumbling, flight attendant/aspiring novelist, whose life undergoes a traumatic, unexpected reroute that propels her on a worldwide journey to fix her broken heart. A journey filled with mojitos at every layover, outrageous passengers in every seat, and a cute guy at every gate, as Hailey ultimately discovers she has more options than she ever could’ve imagined.
Publisher’s Weekly calls it- “Sex in the City at 37,000 feet.”
I call it my Valentine to flight attendants, and anyone who’s ever been curious about them.
