He Said He Was “In a Band.” I Almost Didn’t Believe Him.

The first time you ever pick up the PA as a brand-new flight attendant, it feels like you’ve just been asked to perform stand-up comedy for an audience that cannot leave. All those faces in rows as far back as you can see, all looking at you, mostly because they have nothing else to look at.

And you’re standing there in the galley, knees quivering, voice quavering as you read from a thick binder, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard…” Meanwhile your stress quietly exits your body as beads of sweat dripping down your back, soaking into the waistband of your uniform-mandatory pantyhose.

You try to sound normal.

You do not sound normal.

You sound like someone who has just realized they are being perceived in high definition for the first time in their life. The blushing is so intense the temperature of the air immediately around you increases by three degrees.

But give it a few months. A few hundred flights. A few thousand announcements. A couple moments where you absolutely embarrass yourself and live to tell the tale.

One day you find yourself comfortable with picking up the handset to remind people that the numbers do, in fact, increase as you walk further back, and no, row 33 is not directly behind first class.

You’ve got timing. You’ve got presence. Maybe you've even found a little moxie.

So let’s take a trip to 2011. It's my third year as a flight attendant. I'm single and—I say this with full confidence and just enough delusion to make it charming—I was bangin' hot. Statuesque. Rocking it. Wearing that iconic Delta Red Dress.

Squint your eyes. This was 15 years ago.

I am feeling myself, and I am fully owning the responsibility that my vibes set the tone for the entire flight.

That’s the thing people don’t realize: the lead flight attendant—the one working in first class—sets the tone for everyone coming on board. Theirs is the first face you see stepping on the aircraft and if that flight attendant is in a mood, the whole flight aligns with that mood.

I believe that my job is not just serving drinks; my job is curating an experience. It's up to me to decide, are we having a good time today or not?

So picture it: it’s a Saturday night around 8 p.m. and we are boarding one of the most notorious, quietly dreaded routes in the entire Delta network: West Palm Beach, Florida to LaGuardia Airport in New York.

Now if you’ve never been on this flight, I am so happy for you. Because this is the flight of…

how do I say this delicately…

very wealthy, very particular, very entitled passengers who have Opinions about everything and expect you to treat them accordingly.

And also? Miracles happen on this flight, regularly.

Inevitably, any flight originating out of South Florida will have eight, ten, twelve, sometimes twenty passengers pre-board in wheelchairs. They need extra time. They need assistance. They need care.

And then…somewhere between Florida and New York…they are touched by the hand of God. They're healed!

Suddenly, they don’t need the wheelchair anymore. The wheelchair attendants in these airports are familiar with these "miracles" and not in the least bit surprised when their services are not needed when the plane arrives at its destination.

You can make of that what you will. I simply report the miracles as I witness them.

But, anywho, it’s Saturday night. I’ve just had an 18-hour layover in West Palm Beach. We got in late the night before and I got to wake up slowly, then I laid by the pool. I had a good meal.

I am rested, hydrated, and emotionally prepared to absolutely crush this final leg of a four-day trip.

I’m working with two slightly older, slightly more senior flight attendants who are hilarious, grounded, and fully supportive of my energy as long as I keep it in the front of the plane and let them handle economy.

I’m in my red dress.

I am fired up.

We’re on an Airbus A320. Four rows of first class. Two seats on each side. That’s my domain. The rest of the plane is behind the curtain.

I’m up front, doing what I do best: flirting. Not in a “let’s go home together” kind of way. (Although most men can't tell the difference between a woman hitting on them and a woman being paid to be nice to them).

I'm flirting in a “you are going to feel like the most important, interesting, delightful person on this aircraft for the next two hours” kind of way.

Because that’s the job. That’s the art of it. I've got a lovely couple in the front of first class and we're laughing at our witty repartee, the rest of the cabin is in a good mood, too.

And then there's Seat 3D.

3D is…invested. Making eye contact. A little too much eye contact. I clock it immediately, because I am not new to this game.

But here’s the situation: he’s my dad’s age, like at least.

And I’m tall. Like…tall tall. I'm 5’10 in bare feet, which means in heels I am easily 6’1, and I am fully embracing my Amazonian era.

And this man? He is maybe 5’6 on a good day.

Which does not stop him.

At all.

Mid-flight, after the meal has been cleaned up, he comes up to the front galley. I'm standing at the counter, doing a crossword puzzle in pen. And I already know what this is. I just don’t know how it’s going to play out. Inside, I smile knowingly. It never gets old to feel wanted, you know?

He walks up with a hint of swagger. Steps in a little closer. I smile at him.

And he goes—

“So…I’m in a band.”

And without missing a beat, I look at this man—this fully grown, salt-and-pepper-haired, confident little man with a goatee—and say:

“Aren’t you a little old to be in a band?”

Y’all.

He does not flinch.

Not even a little.

Because this man has game.

He smiles with that nod of 'oh okay, I see you.'

Calm. Suave. Unbothered.

“Well…we’re playing in New York later this month, and I’d love to invite you.”

And now I’m intrigued.

Because confidence like that? That's sexy. I won't just shut that down immediately. I'm willing to explore where this goes.

So I say, “Alright, write down your little band information and I’ll think about it.”

A few minutes later, he hands me a torn-off piece of a paper ticket—because this is 2011 and we are still living in a paper ticket world—and it has:

• the band name
• the venue
• his phone number
• his email
• and, thankfully, his name

Written in what can only be described as aggressive doctor handwriting.

I can barely read it.

But I take it.

I tuck it into my universal pocket (my cleavage, obviously).

“Lovely. I’ll see whether I can make it happen,” I say. He goes into the lavatory.

And because I am who I am, I write down my number on a napkin. I am a classy bitch, and I do not call boys first. I have standards.

So once he's sitting back down, I walk down the aisle. Playing it cool. Keeping it casual. Not making eye contact with anyone else because mind your business.

And I hand the napkin to him.

“Thanks for the info. I don’t make the first call, but here’s my number.”

And then I keep moving, because commitment to the bit is everything.

I get to the back and I find my flight attendants ing the galley.

And I’m already giggling so hard about this. “Oh my god you guys, this old man in first class just hit on me. How cute is that? I sweatergawd he's my dad's age.”

And they’re immediately looking over my shoulder as if they can pick him out of the crowd at this distance, trying to figure out who in first class would have the audacity.

“Wait. What? Who?”

“He said he's in a band. I don't know his name.”

So I pull out the paper. And they’re like, “What band is he in?”

And I’m squinting at this thing like it’s written in hieroglyphics.

“I don’t know…it says…Bon…jou…ie? Playing somewhere called MSG?”

Silence.

Then, one of them SNATCHES the paper out of my hand. Looks at it. And I swear to God, she almost slapped me. She swung at my face but didn't make contact (on purpose, I think).

“Bitch. This says BON JOVI, you idiot.”

And I’m like—“Oh. Ohhh…well, that’s different then.”

“YOU just got hit on by Tico Torres.”

Now, if you’re musically illiterate like me at that time—you’re thinking: “Who?”

“The drummer. Of Bon Jovi. They’re playing MSG.”

“What’s MSG?”

“…Madison Square Garden. You absolute pumpkin.”

And now everything is rearranging itself in my brain in real time.

“Oh…then maybe I will go.”

And I did.

He texted me. He emailed me. He got my dad and my brother tickets to a show in Raleigh. He got me and a friend tickets to Madison Square Garden, along with backstage passes.

Of course I go. What am I, an actual idiot?

At the concert, I’m in the "family and friends" seats, next to Richie Sambora’s cousin, who has been to many shows, knows every song, fully in the joy of it all.

And then there’s me. I do not know a single lyric. Not one. Well, except for the part where everyone screams "Liiivin' on a prayer!" But I am committed to the experience, because there's nothing like being live at a show where everyone is having the time of their life.

So for almost every song, Richie Sambora’s cousin (bless his sweet heart, I don't remember his name) leans over and feeds me the next line like I’m a karaoke puppet, and I just go for it.

I am all in, participating. Zero knowledge. Maximum enthusiasm.

It was…legitimately incredible.

Truly. These guys put on a hell of a show.

Me and Tico go to dinner a couple of weeks later. He’s charming. He’s kind. He’s respectful. After dinner, we're walking in Manhattan, and he leans in to kiss me.

And I have to, very gently, recalibrate the situation. It's a little bit of moving my feet and a little bit of hunching, because again—I am 6’1 in heels and I am not putting on flats to make any man's ego feel better. This man is 5’6. Geometry is working against us, but we figured it out.

I later looked him up online and he, apparently, was used to dating tall women; his second wife was the supermodel Eva Herzigová.

He was a great kisser, I’ll give him that.

He invites me back to his hotel.

I say, “Sorry, I’m not that kind of girl.”

And he says, “I respect that.”

Then he puts me in a cab, hands me cash to pay for it, and I ride all the way back to Kew Gardens with a smile on my face.

I never saw him again.

Which, honestly, feels exactly right. Some stories are not meant to turn into relationships. They’re just meant to be moments that you get to experience. Perfect, self-contained, slightly ridiculous moments that you carry with you forever.

And to this day, one of my favorite things I’ve ever said out loud, with my full chest, in complete sincerity, is:

“Is Bonjouie a French band?”

And somehow, it worked out extremely well for me.