So You Want To Be A Stewardess

Moscow, we have a problem

It is fascinating to observe how men around the world drink.

It's not about what they drink -- it's their whole approach.

Aussies and Brits treat the plane just like a pub. They hang out by the emergency doors and stop us to get them a round of drinks when we go past. They don't even have to know each other to hang out. 

Usually it starts off as a couple of guys stretching their legs, or waiting in the bathroom queue. Guy A makes a remark about needing to pee, Guy B chuckles and just like that, they become best buds and decide to grab beers right there, right then. Cue me serving them their VB.

Then Guy C might walk over to stretch his legs. He also doesn't know either of them, and it also doesn't matter. In 2 seconds flat they are all laughing and asking for more beers. Instant pop-up pub. For the most part, their relationship with alcohol is social.

In sharp contrast, the Russians' relationship with alcohol is extraordinarily solitary.

I remember when I first got rostered a rare Singapore —> Dubai —> Moscow —> Houston flight pattern. Fellow crew passed on comments that the Russians drank our planes dry. I thought this was an exaggeration, but as it turns out, it wasn't even half the story.

On the 5 hour flight from Dubai to Moscow, we took off with fully loaded bar carts. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, the drink orders kicked off, steady and unceasing. Every order was short, sharp and to the point. No preamble. The Russians weren't chit-chatty, not that I minded. There were so many orders to get through.

Before I knew it, the vodka was out. The bourbon went next. Wines and beers flew out the carts.

The crew from the next zone came over. "What have you got left? We're out."

We took stock of what remained. It was woeful. When the next passenger asked for a drink, I said apologetically that there was only a bit of Cointreau and Campari left. Turns out they didn't mind. They drank it all, at their seats, staring out into space.

In less than 5 hours, all our bar carts were completely emptied. By the way, this never happens on any other flight. Not even close.

As word got out that we had no more alcohol to serve, the call buttons stopped lighting up. I took the sudden free time to tidy the cabin, and I stepped in just in time to see an unusual bustle of activity. The passengers were all either standing and opening the overhead compartments or crouching under their seats. One by one, they pulled out the same bags -- duty free alcohol.

With their stash, they sat back down, ripped the bags and drank straight from the bottle. It was a sight to behold, all these men chugging away silently. I got a glimpse into what I would be doing if I got the news that the world was ending.

Walking on, I saw a man lying down along the aisle, eyes closed. I nudged him, told him he wasn't supposed to do that, and he shuffled off, uncomplaining. I saw him again at the bulkhead this time, on the ground, passed out.

Then I saw another at the next bulkhead. And another. Empty duty free bags and bottles were everywhere. Finally, as I strapped into my crew seat for the final descent into Moscow, I felt a flutter of pure excitement. If the flight had been a sneak peek, I couldn't wait to meet the city.