The Presidential Connection

Dear Shawn,

On my flight from Houston yesterday, I worked with a young woman I’d not flown with before. She was from Arkansas, complete with the sweet southern accent. As we taxied for takeoff, she disappeared into the aft lav. Next, I could hear a series of flushes and the distinct sound of one getting ill. There’s nothing worse than getting sick on an airplane, or being far from home when it hits.

I recall the first time I fell ill while working at this job. I had enjoyed a long layover in New Orleans. My crew had gone out for drinks, as one does in New Orleans. We had gumbo, beer, etouffee and hurricanes- not necessarily in that order. We sang Karaoke, too, and I rocked it, I’m sure. I’m just happy there does not seem to be audio/visual evidence.

Needless to say, I was not feeling chipper the next day. If only I could make it for one last flight from Chicago back to San Francisco, I’d have five days off to recover from my illness. My body would have none of that. I called out sick in the middle of the trip. Mother Airline placed me tenderly in a nearby hotel. When I finally felt well enough to fly home, I regretted doing so as early as I did, as the bumpy flight played havoc with my sensitive stomach.

The next time I went sick in the middle of a trip, I had flown from San Francisco to Washington, DC, where, on my flight in first class was Al Gore, shortly after his run for president. He was a wonderful passenger, chatting us up in the galley and posing for photos. Later that night, in my DC hotel room, I began to empty the contents of my stomach. As for Mr. President (as I called him, since he had won the popular vote), I prayed I’d not made him sick.

There was a third time that I fell ill while working. This time it was on a trip to Osaka, Japan. The date was historic, leaving California the very day of the US elections when Obama became president. I’ll never forget being on that 747- the captain calling in the middle of the flight, most of the crew were down for their mid flight rest, passengers were all sleeping. He told us Obama had won, and mini celebrations began in the galley. Some of the passengers caught wind and it was very thrilling.

By the time the bird landed in Japan, I was so ill, they removed me from the flight in a wheel chair. To avoid facing a bus ride to the layover hotel, which was an hour away, we were sent to the hotel attached to the airport (I was not the only one to fall ill on this flight!). It was a good thing, too, as the minute I locked the hotel room door behind me, I had to run to the oval office to let loose a torrent of foul that seemed to come out of every opening in my body. We both returned to the states flying in first class a few days later. I was too ill to enjoy the fact that I was flying over the Pacific in a first class 747 lie-flat seat.

My flying partner eventually emerged from the lav just in time to be prepared for takeoff. She assured me that she was feeling much better, now that it was all out of her system. Being sick at home is bad enough. Being so in flight or in a hotel room far from home is bad, but having to call out sick in the middle of a trip is the worst.

The Answer is Always Spokane

Dear Shawn,

A few years ago, I began to play a game on line about my travels. I have always loved to learn more about the places to which I travel. One of the things I love best about my job is the chance to see and explore more of the world. It doesn’t matter if it’s Paris, Cairo, and Beijing, or Boise, Wichita, and Omaha, I always enjoy getting out to experience the local customs and foods.

I once heard that a few years of being a flight attendant can be the equivalent of a college degree. To ensure that this is correct, I always research the cities to which I fly. One day, I thought some of the things I learned were so interesting, that I started to post them on line, which is what lead to my game, “Where is Penguin.” I leave clues based on my research and hope my friends can guess.

My friends can be quite crafty, and some the of the responses could induce laughter. One friend always guessed correctly, but another always guessed the same city...Spokane. She had a good story behind it, too. Years ago, a friend of her mother’s, a travel agent, booked a flight from the West Coast to the East with a stopover in Spokane. She always thought it was the strangest place to have a stopover. Most people do so in Denver, or Chicago- maybe Minneapolis or Dallas. No, this flight routed through the mighty metropolis of Spokane.

A while back, I started to see the same cities over and over again, so I stopped playing “Where is Penguin.” Lately, with my seniority on the decline, I’ve been touring America, once again. I’ve been to a few cities, which I’ve not been to before, and a few that I’ve not been to in many years. The timing was right, as my friend, and a few others, have recently stated to me that they really miss the game. I’m really enjoying playing it again, even though not many people actually respond.

The best part of the game, and it’s only happened twice, is when I actually get a trip to Spokane. The first time I did so, I gave a bunch of bogus clues, things that made no sense at all, knowing that she’d guess Spokane and I’d have the pleasure of telling her that she was correct. This time, I was thorough in researching interesting facts and odd laws about Spokane.

Any time I see the airport code of GEG, I get excited about the chance to go, just so I can play this game. I don’t see these trips often, they may be seasonal. When I saw that I was awarded a line with this trip, I made sure not to try to trade out of it. It’s a nice place to visit, but it’s a better place for “Where is Penguin!”

My Personal Heaven

Dear Shawn,

Someone once told me that heaven was going to be different for everyone. To them, Heaven was an eternity of doing your favorite things from Earth. I realized today what that might look like for my version of Heaven.

In Penguin’s Heaven, I’d be flying around in a plane, all over the planet. While up high, at altitude, I’d have great views of mountains, valleys, forests, clouds, colorful sunsets and towns dotting the countrysides and deserts down below. I’d observe the majesty of the Grand Canyon with her nooks and crannies, and witness the dazzling colors of the sky, clouds and terrain as the sun sets. At night, I’d look up at the glorious full moon surrounded by stars and see the moonlight bouncing off the tops of the clouds below, or dance with the Aurora Borealis. I’d do these things time and again, as I have enjoyed doing in the past.

Over cities, we’d descend to a comfortable height to watch traffic on streets and look at the various homes with their pools and yards. I love to try to pick out what home I’d want to live in, one with a large back yard and neighbors that aren’t too close, and maybe along a stream or river. I’d look for people walking on sidewalks and kids playing on play grounds. I always enjoying looking at these views of 3-D maps as I fly overhead. There’s nothing like it. I love sitting at a window flying over a city on approach to landing.

These planes in my version of heaven have seats filled with people I adore. The carts are full of great food and wine and the in-flight movie always makes me laugh and cry and cheer. The landings are always perfect, the takeoffs light and fast.

I guess that it’s a good thing I love flying so much. I don’t have to wait very long to experience heaven. I only have to wait until my next flight. When you see me flying overhead, give me a wave so I can wave back!

The Horrors of South America

Dear Shawn,

Many years ago, I used to watch a lot of TV. You miss a lot of TV when you’re a flight attendant, unless you have a good programmable VCR. I was a pro at programming a week’s worth of shows and making sure I had a tape with enough room for all my favorites. The bad part was trying to get caught up on eight or more hours of shows on my days off. I quit television shows cold turkey.

Now I have a Roku device, and when partnered with my Netflix, I can binge-watch like no one’s business. I watched season three of The Walking Dead in two nights! What I really love, is getting reacquainted with shows from the seventies, and even sixties. Bewitched, I Dream of Jeanie, Mary Tyler Moore, Gilligan’s Island and currently, I’m on season five of Dallas, one of my all-time favorites!

Today, while flying from Bozeman to Chicago, a man asked me if I fly mostly domestic. I let him know that I try to fly South America as much as possible, and he remarked strongly to this- a combination of shock and awe. It reminded me of the show Dallas, and the manner in which they dealt with the passing of Jim Davis, the actor who portrayed the Ewing patriarch, Jock. For nearly the entire season, they had him down in South America prospecting for new oil reserves in the jungle. I remember how exotic that sounded, in much the same way as it did in the movie, Nine to Five, when the boss gets sent there to the delight of the women who worked under him.

Maybe that’s why, for so long, I had such a strong desire to visit South America. Not because I was a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot, as Frank Hart was in Nine to Five, but I love adventure. After 9/11, I was furloughed from my job for six months, and unsure if I’d ever be invited back, I took advantage of the fact that I had a big savings account, and spent that time traveling with my flight passes. It was basically my goal to visit all of the countries to which Mother Airline traveled. One such destination was Santiago, Chile- and that was my next trip planned when I heard they were recalling us to come back to work. It became known to me as ‘the city that got away.’

Now that I’m based in Houston, I love going to South America often; Lima, Santiago, Buenos Aires, Rio- all such great cities to visit with warm, inviting people and vibrant culture. It’s a shame Jock Ewing didn’t just get to go to these cities. Maybe his character would still be alive- simply enjoying life and great Chilean wine. I love good Chilean wind. Speaking of which...

Thanks For Flying With us, Now Move Along

Dear Shawn,

The funniest thing happened today. Our plane arrived at the gate and as the passengers were coming off, my crew walked down to board, since the inbound was a little late. When I got to the end, near the plane, there was a man standing there. There was nothing remarkable about him. He didn't seem odd or out of place, as it's normal for someone to be standing there, if they were seated on the plane in front of someone they are flying with and choose to wait there for their other party to exit the aircraft.

For a few more minutes, passengers continued to exit and finally, the parade of life ended. The man was still standing there. The purser from the inbound flight came to the door and looked out and saw him there. She asked if he was waiting for a checked bag. Sometimes, we have to gate check a bag, which comes up in baggage claim, not plane side, but some people think we are like Mother Airline Express, where the bag is returned in the jet bridge. He didn't indicate that he was waiting for a bag. He just stood there, sort of expressionless. She didn't know what else to say.

The other two flight attendants emerged in the doorway- one was holding a back pack that had been left by one of the passengers on the plane. When they saw the man standing there, right in front of me, they knew instantly that it was his, so they assumed that was the reason he was standing there. They handed the back pack to him, and he placed it over his shoulder, and still he stood there, as if waiting for something else. The purser even asked him, "Are you waiting for someone? There are no more passengers on board."

"No," he responded. There were next a series of blank stares. He stared at the crew, they stared back. My crew stared at him and then the inbound crew, who stared back. It was very strange. We needed to board and no one was saying anything. So finally, I broke the silence, "Well, sir, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

A light seemed to come on in him with my little cliche, and he turned to start walking up the jet bridge towards the terminal, but he stumbled and nearly fell. Catching himself, he continued on as if nothing had happened. The crews all got wide eyed.

I knew two of the crew members, and we hugged in passing, and they mentioned that he had had a few drinks. I'm guessing he had more than his share, based on his performance. The whole thing lingers in my mind and has continued to make me laugh as I think about it. The odd, stares, the way he just stood there. How I finally had to say something to encourage him to walk away from the airplane. Just another day at the airport.

Oh, Are You a Pilot?

Dear Shawn,

Shortly after the devastating events of 9/11, Mother Airlines decided that we needed to update our image. She gave us new uniforms. I don’t mind change, and I did love the old uniform, especially in contrast to the new one, but in order to save a few nickles, they did away with our stripes. The pilots kept theirs, but the flight attendants lost out.

I was upset, mainly, because we now looked like any ordinary person wearing a dark blazer. I was working in the back of a 757 during boarding, helping people get settled in. I heard the purser make an announcement for all passengers to take their seats. “Good,” I thought, “I’m ready to push back and get home.” A second announcement was made asking for all passengers to be seated. I looked around and saw no one out of their seats. Who was she talking to? When the third announcement was made, I realized that she was talking to me. Without my stripes, I was a nobody.

Secondly, as a safety professional, I felt that I had earned my stripes. You’d never see the pilots get new uniforms without them, why would we? We are the ones in the cabin dealing with the masses and are the face of the airline. We should have our stripes to maintain our image of being just those professionals.

Fortunately, I was not alone in this feeling, and a few years later, we got new uniforms once again, and this time, our stripes returned. The uniform I wear now has two stripes on my epaulets and blazer sleeves, which I love, especially when people mistake me for a pilot. “Look out, Billy,” I’ll hear as I’m walking through an airport, “that pilot is trying to pass you.”

Tonight, while waiting for my flight, a young man approached me and asked if I was a pilot. I let him know that I was not, that my two stripes meant that I worked in the cabin, and explained that the first officer has three stripes, and the captain has four. I then asked if I could answer his question, anyway, and he told me about how he wanted to become a pilot. I encouraged him to follow his dream, wishing I’d started my career in the skies much sooner than I did, and reminded him that we will soon be facing a shortage of pilots. He was enthusiastic and grateful for the chance to talk to someone who obviously loves the career. And something tells me that sometime in the future, I’m going to see this young man come onto one of my planes with three, or possibly even four, stripes.

A Snowball in Hell

Dear Shawn,

For the first time this year, I got to see a winter wonderland. I was in Calgary, up in Canada (eh?) and noticed the snow as we descended in the darkness of night. I certainly noticed it waiting for the van out front in the 7 degree night air. It wasn’t until I opened the window this morning that the full glory of the wintry snowscape captured my attention. I stopped, grabbed my camera, and took a photo of the airport in the distance, where nothing was between it and me but snow, snow, snow!

We got in the hotel van to leave this morning and I enjoyed the views on our short journey. The driver had the heat on, and it made me wonder about people and heat in vehicles. For seventeen years, I’ve enjoyed traveling the world with this job, relishing the chance to see a landscape covered in snow in the winters, since I don’t live where that happens, and for seventeen years I’ve dealt with hotel vans that seem to either be witch’s tits cold, or Satan’s crotch hot.

The heat was on full blast. We all had coats and jackets, it was only a short drive, so why did it have to be 130 degrees inside the van? Can’t we just deal with something more like, 75 degrees? I think I noticed snow melting as we drove past. The driver appeared to be from India. Perhaps he simply missed the heat of his home country. I was in India once, on my birthday, in December. I remember when the wind stopped blowing onto the beach, and instantly my sweat glands went into overdrive and my shirt was as wet as a college beauty at a wet tee-shirt contest. It felt like 120 degrees. Miserable.

We finally arrived at the airport and as I stood in the cold, waiting for the driver to get our bags out of the back, I think I saw steam rising into the air from my jacket. It was nice to feel the cold again. My name sure is appropriate for my love of cold. I do love to visit it, but I’m glad I don’t live in it.

Let Us Entertain You

Dear Shawn,

Until the day I die, I may never understand why people don’t push the ashtray back in. For some reason, the functioning of the lavatory door seems to escape a great number of people. I see it nearly every time I fly. Someone approaches the lav door, looks it over, as if they are searching for something other than a bathroom, can’t seem to figure it out, and pulls out the ashtray, thinking that by doing so, it will open the door. Usually, the brain kicks in right after this, and the next thing they do is open the door, as if the ashtray tells them how to do it, but they never push the ashtray back in.  

Of course, planes are required to have ash trays, even these days after smoking has been banned on aircraft. The reason for this is that should someone actually light up, and it does happen, there must be a safe place to put it out, so we don’t have fires while in the air.

Perhaps the big mystery ends for them because once they pull it out, the brain kicks into gear. This leaves a puff of smoke, much like starting a go cart, and that puff of smoke clouds their thinking, so they forget to push the ashtray back in. It is an amazing thing to watch, how people from all walks of life can be so similar. We see this happen in all countries- Asia, South America, Europe, the USA- people are all the same.

We only have two types of doors on our planes at Mother Airlines- either they push in and fold in half, or it swings out with the turn of a lever. I’ve heard some flight attendants say, “Think of your trailer home,” because it really is the same kind of door knob you’d find on a travel trailer. When I see someone go for the ashtray, I tend to say, “Oh, no smoking please.” Others tell passengers immediately, how to open the door, “Push, ma’am. Push. No, just push,” (usually, it takes more than one telling for them to understand the concept). I don’t say anything- as this is my entertainment.

Watching passengers use the lav entertains many a flight attendant. We groan when we see people go in with bare feet or in only socks. We wrinkle our nose when they come out ahead of a smelly, green fog that wilts the wallpaper. We wonder about some being raised in a barn when they leave the lav door ajar as they head back to their seat. But, hey, we have to have ‘something’ amuse us on long flights, and we’re stuck right there. So if you fly, and can't figure out how to open the door, and end up pulling out the ashtray, please push it back in.

And You Are...

Dear Shawn,

Soon after I transferred to Houston, I flew with a guy who looked familiar, and he thought the same of me. I wasn’t sure when we had flown together, or where, and that is quite common with this job. Of course, I can forget people easily, until we talk more and something reminds me of having flown with them in the past. I can fly with someone for a four-day trip, have multiple meals together, work the other side of the cart ten times, and two weeks later, I have no idea what their name was. Since running into this guy that day, we see one another from time to time, and we’re friends on Facebook, and it’s because of this that I remember his name.

A couple of months ago, I was going through some old photos and came across some that I had taken on a trip to Sydney, Australia. The trip must have been over twelve years ago, and I remember parts of it quite well. Someone had a debriefing. Now there are times when a debriefing comes into play for a reason other than social, such as after an incident, but normally, debriefing is code for a crew party. This debriefing was one of the more memorable ones, as it involved crews from different bases and days.

The Sydney layover was two nights, so when we landed, we met up with the crew who had arrived the previous day, as well as members from the Los Angeles crew. There were copious amounts of beverages, a sampling of snacks, and lots of laughter. It’s a great way to unwind after a fourteen-hour layover. I felt sorry for the person in whose room we all met. It must have been a hot mess in there.

I don’t always take photos at a debriefing, but I did at this one, and lo and behold, there was my friend, who, like me, had left San Francisco for Houston. I sent him copies of the old photos, and we laughed at how young we both looked in them. It was nice to finally figure out how it was that he and I knew one another.

Her Tears

Dear Shawn,

The last time I had looked at her, she wasn’t crying. She seemed just as normal as any woman sitting on an airplane during taxi out for takeoff. This time, she was crying. If she was trying to hide it, she wasn’t doing a very good job. It wasn’t a huge cry. It wasn’t one of those with the shoulders shaking up and down and the sad, distorted face. There were tears streaming down her cheeks, a bit of a frown, her forehead marked with lines. She wasn’t looking at me, and when I thought she might, I averted my gaze to the right to look past her to the back of economy.

As the purser on the Airbus, my seat at door One Right inboard allows me to see nearly all of the cabin. This is a requirement, that a flight attendant be able to see 90% of the cabin from the jumpseat. This is why, even though I sit at the double jumpseat alone, unless they add a fourth flight attendant, which is rare, or we have someone sitting in the jumpseat as non-revenue employee, the purser always sits in the jumpseat furthest from the door, next to the aisle. It’s also why we ask that head rests be lowered.

In this seat, I have a perfect view of any passenger sitting in 7E. This is the first row of economy, on the aisle. And today, there was a woman seated there in a pink blouse. She appeared to be in her fifties and up until the point just prior to takeoff, she had appeared just as any other passenger. The only reason I wound up taking notice was when I looked up, I saw her with tears falling from wet eyes.

Instantly, I felt badly for her. With this job, I see people cry often- people saying goodbye, traveling to a funeral, tears of joy at a long-awaited reunion. I wanted to comfort her. I thought about offering her comfort or some kind words after we got in the air and it was safe for me to get up. I wondered why she was crying. Did she break up with someone? Was she thinking of doing so? Had someone she loved passed away? There are so many reasons to make one cry, but to do so in such a place as on an airplane...there must have been a real reason.

Her sadness made me feel more human. I know I have a lot of stress at times, but I am not alone. For a moment, I felt as if her tears represented my own. I felt as if her sadness reflected some of the sadness I feel in my own life. Maybe it was for this reason that I averted my eyes. That, and, I can be like a typical male, not wanting to deal with a woman in tears.

By the time our aircraft reached the heavens, she was composed and back to normal. The tears had dried and her face looked calm again. Surely, she hadn’t been crying due to a fear of flying. She certainly didn’t appear nervous or stressed. No, this was some grief that weighed on her to the breaking point of shedding tears, and as they usually do, seemed to work in helping her get past that point.

I never did say anything to her, but as we prepared to land and I stood at the front of the economy section to make sure things in the cabin appeared ready for landing, I glanced down at her as she glanced up at me, and I smiled. Her smile in return was a comfort. She and I will be just fine.

Act Your Age

Dear Shawn,

In a good year, I will go on two cruise vacations. Since buying my home, this hasn’t happened very much as I always seem to be working on projects around the house instead of exploring the seas and their many ports. One of the first things I do when I get on board is to start looking for the people my age. I seek out the thirty-somethings, twenty-somethings, and people in their forties, if they seem to be acting young. The last few times I was at sea and I did this, I realized later that something’s not right. I am no longer in my thirties and it’s starting to show. I’m afraid people are now thinking, “How nice of those young people to be hanging out with their father!”

One of the best things about this job is working with fun people. I don’t have much of a social life at home, so hanging out with a fun crew is often the only social life I get, and that is usually fine with me. Long layovers allow for a chance to have dinner, drinks, maybe go to a movie from time to time, or just hang out in a hotel room and commiserate. It’s a great social life, but with different friends each time. Sometimes the ages can vary quite a bit from one person to the next, but as flight attendants, we all have a lot in common.

The crew I am working with today are both in their mid-twenties. I feel like I fit right in when we were hanging out after our flights the other day. We had a long layover and there was talk of going to a few bars the following day. I was asked if that sounded like fun, and I said that it depended on the timing, as we had an early flight this morning, and there is nothing worse than flying home with a hangover.

Yesterday, I went to lunch on my own, wanting a little quiet time. I got back to my room and realized that I had never heard from the other two. As it turns out, they did go out to a few bars, and for about a minute, I felt really left out. Why didn’t they call me? Oh, yeah, maybe because they don’t want to be out with someone who could very easily be their father. Who wants to go out with a fat, old, bald guy, right? They ‘should’ be out having fun without me as a chaperon.

I’ve always had friends who were older. When I was general manager of the Harley dealership, one of the people I was closest to was our book keeper. She was a fun woman who could have nearly been my grandmother, yet she loved the music I listened to, was vivacious, fun and called herself Maxine, as in the cantankerous character from the greeting cards. Well, she nearly looked like the real-life model.

That will be me. I will the older friend who never acts their age. Like my father, I always love having a good time, and I can’t help it if the younger folk are having the kind of fun I want to have. I just hope they don’t mind me tagging along. And trying to keep up.

Time Served

Dear Shawn,

There are times when, even after a twelve-plus hour duty day at work, when we still want to hang out and have a few drinks when we get to our layover hotel. This is especially true when working with people who all really get along, as does the crew I’m currently a part of. Yes, we were beat and tired, but who wants to end a day like that? Let's have a drink and some fun!

To say that our day was long by only talking about its length is an injustice. The day began in Houston, where we pushed back from the gate, taxied out, paused, heard from our pilots of an engine issue, and then returned to the gate for what fortunately turned out to be a fairly quick fix. Amazingly, however, we wound up landing in LAX only a few minutes behind schedule. The pilots really wanted to get home!

Once in Los Angeles, we had a wheel chair passenger in the last row of economy, so it took a while for the assistants to arrive and then be able to board the aircraft with the aisle chair to assist the passenger. In the mean time, they decided to cater the plane from the rear, so immediately following the wheel chair passenger were two caterers, each with two carts. Of course, my bag storage location was in the overhead bins in the center of the cabin, and I couldn’t get to them until the passengers were all off of the plane. By the time I could get to them, I was now behind the caterers.

This was problematic for me to get off of the plane, because now, to put the four carts they brought with them into the spaces, they had to remove the carts currently in the way. So now I had five carts and two workers blocking me. I kept telling them that I had another flight to get to, that we were delayed and I was late for boarding my next flight. I had to use what my best friend calls my stadium voice to really get their attention, “Hi, I’m sorry, but listen, I HAVE to get off of this plane or my next flight is going to be delayed because you are blocking the aisle.” They heard me, and finally moved things out of my way. My two flying partners were ahead of me in the terminal by at least the length of a football field.

Leaving for San Francisco, doing my pre-departure service in first class, two passengers asked me what drinks I had to offer. This always has me thinking, ‘really? You have no idea what we have to drink? How did you get to be in first class if you don’t know what we have to drink?’ It’s always a good thing that inside voice stays inside! Oh, how I love to run the beers that we carry. How fun it must be to watch me look at the ceiling, as if the menu was up there, as I try to recall them all. I didn't know I was going to be tested today!

Finally, after our three hour sit in San Francisco, we were on our bumpy flight to Medford, where the bar closed five minutes prior to our arrival. No worries, we were still able to obtain some drinks and have a little debriefing in the hotel room. It was fun to unwind, tell stories, give toasts, and vent our frustrations. I love working with Richard, he’s like a mini me. He’s small framed, for one, but he and I share many of the same work practices and know of some of the same tips for making work easier. We worked very well together.

Today, I awoke not with what I would exactly call a hangover, but my body certainly knew, without a doubt, that I had subjected it to a long night imbibed with strong drinks. I didn’t hear from the other two, so I ventured out to get Chinese food, which is surprisingly good for such a small town in Oregon. It was nice to have some quiet time alone, after a day being surrounded by so many people. It was also fun listening to the man at the table across from me ramble on to his work buddies about his time running from having to spend ten days in jail due to drugs, and how ten years later he turned himself in, but since there were no issues in that time, the judge sent him home with time served. Did you know that if the police don't actually see you get out of the car they have been chasing, that they can't pin it on you? The things you learn over coconut shrimp!