ASK A FLIGHT ATTENDANT - Positano, Italy

While on a flight to Stansted, England, on our way to Venice, the New York based international flight attendant working on my side of the cabin eyed the book, Frommer's Italy 2008, in my hands as she poured a little cream into my coffee. "Are you on your way to Italy?"

"We are," I said, nodding my head at the husband who was asleep beside me. When she placed the cup of coffee on my tray table, I said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. So where exactly are you going in Italy?"

"Venice, Positano and Rome. Have you been?"

The flight attendant laughed, "Have I been? Too many times to count!" Click went the break of the cart. "I'll be back as soon as I'm done with the service." And like that she was gone, off to the next row where she offered the passengers behind us coffee, tea, cordials and dessert.

Want to know good, yet affordable, places to go and eat on your next vacation? Ask a flight attendant. Flight attendants are much like cops in respect to knowing great places to go. Yet unlike cops, flight attendants aren't just familiar with one city, they know the ins and outs of many different cities. Don't believe me? Just ask the flight attendant on your next trip. You'll see.

Ten minutes later the flight attendant on my trip was back at my row, a pen in hand. She placed a piece of paper on my tray table, a customs and immigrations form, and flipped it over. On the back she wrote the word POSITANO, and then began to draw as she said, "I go to Positano two to three times a year. Here's what you need to see and do..."

"What?" said the husband who was now leaning over my shoulder.

"Positano," I said. "She's giving us the scoop on Positano."

"My favorite place in the whole world," said the flight attendant.

What I didn't know at the time was Positano would soon become my favorite place in the whole world, too. It's that amazing. That beautiful. The kind of place where you can just sit on your balcony with an ocean view and let Italy come to you.

To read more, and see a gallery of my amazing photos of Positano, Ravello and the Amalfi Coast, go to GALLEY GOSSIP

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CUBAN FOOD - THERE'S MORE TO MIAMI

"There's more to Miami than La Carreta," said the well dressed passenger seated in 9D, the seat directly in front of my jump seat, as we slowly climbed to our cruising altitude.

"Oh I don't know about that!" I laughed, as I loosened my seat belt so I could lean into the aisle and see why the woman three rows back kept waving her hands at me.

"The seat belt sign is on," I told the woman as I pointed to the ceiling, at the illuminated seat belt sign, after she had asked if she could go to the restroom. "I'll let you know when it's safe to get up."

NOTE: If the flight attendant is still sitting in the jump seat, you should certainly be seated in your seat. It's not safe to get up yet.

The passenger wearing the nice suit seated directly in front of me just shook his head. Then he looked at the handsome guy with the longish hair from Chile sitting beside him and said, "tell Heather there's more to Miami than La Carreta!"

The Chilean just smiled at me sweetly, so I smiled back. I don't think he even knew what we were talking about. But the father and son team from the Dominican Republic wearing matching New York Yankee ball caps across the aisle from the Chilean knew exactly what the stylish one and I were talking about, because in unison they cried, "there's more to Miami!"

Now this conversation began right after the passenger, the well dressed one, had asked "Do you fly to Miami often?"

"No. Not really," I said. "Not if I can help it. I can't even remember the last time I had a layover in Miami." Then I went on to explain why I'm not a fan of the New York - Miami trips, which had more to do with the Miami International Airport than Miami itself.

"I think you need to give Miami another shot. It's a fantastic city!" he interrupted.

I'm sure it is. But how would I know? Long gone are the days when I can actually do something on my layover other than shower, eat, and sleep. You see my Miami is not his Miami - the sexy exciting international Miami. Oh no. My Miami is a four hour sit at the airport between flights. My Miami is wearing a navy blue polyester dress and sweating my you know what off as my hair begins to frizz because of the heat and humidity inside the airport terminal. My Miami is swarms of passengers carrying too much heavy luggage wrapped in plastic. My Miami is a plane full of scantily dressed passengers who get angry as soon as they realize we don't have blankets on board. My Miami originates from New York. Enough said?

I explained this to the well dressed passenger after the flight attendant working in first class made the announcement that it was safe to use electronic devices. Of course the woman three rows back who had waved her hands at me earlier began waving the hands again...

To read more, go to GALLEY GOSSIP

And if you're the type of passenger who worries about checked luggage, visit my other site and you'll see exactly what you need!

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Dear Literary Agent...

Dear Literary Agent,

Heather Poole

1.

Diet Coke no ice, Club soda with lime, coffee with cream, the never ending beverage service, that's what I'm doing when I hear the muffled sound of a cell phone ringing. I shove a plastic scoop into a drawer of empty ice and trudge up to the front of the aircraft in a pair of combat boots and make an announcement that it is time to put away and stow all electronic devices, we'll be landing soon. As I'm walking down the aisle and checking each row for compliance, I notice my bra, hot pink satin, is on the outside of my dress. I'm running to the galley as fast as I can when I hear it again, the Ice Castles theme song, and that's when it hits me, that's my special ring!

"Flight Attendant Connors," mumbles a manly voice in my ear. I quiver when I feel the warm breath on my skin and a hand reaches up my skirt and a finger…oh my!

Gasping for air, I bolt straight up and open my eyes. I'm awake. And I'm not on an airplane. Nor am I in a cheap dumpy airport hotel room. I'm in an apartment. A very nice apartment.

FUCK!

I think what I really mean to say is FUCK FUCK FUCK! Because I'm sitting up in a bed that is not mine. My bed, you see, is white and fluffy with dainty rosebuds embroidered around the edges. This bed is big and blue and cold. Yet very nice. And the room, it's nothing like mine, which is small and light and cheery, cluttered with clothes and paperback books. Oh no, this room is huge and dark and meticulously clean. And ummm…there's a man, a naked man I do not know lying in this strange bed beside me. I gulp as I take in the back side of his broad muscular shoulders and dark wavy hair. He looks like he might actually be hot. Not that it matters. Really.

Did we? I wonder, pulling the softest bluest sheet up to my chin. I bet we did. This is when I have to remind myself that life is all about the choices we make. And more importantly, it's about taking responsibility for those choices. Even the bad ones. Like this one. Because what we do, what we say, what we even think, impacts us in ways we can not imagine in the future. This is the kind of crap I've been telling my friends whenever they come to me for advice on love, life, men, whatever. It's the same crap I've chosen to live my own life by. Which is why, and I can say this with the utmost certainty, I've made all the right choices in my short twenty-nine years.

Until now.

God this is bad, real bad, worse than bad. I mean…did we? Honestly, I don't know. I don't want to know. What I do know is I have to get out of here and fast! Only when I try to move I can't. My legs are tangled in the sheets. There's no way I'm about to disturb the guy before I can get my thoughts together. Not ready to face reality, I slowly lean back into the pillow, careful to keep the bed still, holding my breath, trying not to hyperventilate, not to panic, not to freak out. What the hell happened last night?

Think, Nicole, think!I remember the bar, a hole in the wall kind of place on the Upper East Side that caters to airline personnel with dollar drinks. I was there to celebrate a coworker's birthday. Flashing my crew badge at the bartender, I jokingly ordered a gigantic apple martini with an investment banker on the side. After one (or two) very strong drinks, I found myself on the dance floor doing the electric slide (Yes, I have a sick obsession with disco. Even when I'm not drunk.) As I slid to the left, I remember making the announcement (oh god, the announcement, why in the world did I make that announcement!) that while I may have been the dry humping queen of Queens, I'd only had sex with six different men in my entire life. But they were all different men, totally different men, I swear! That's when, at least I think it's when, First Officer Richard Meyers did what he always does whenever he's had one too many. He placed both hands on my breasts and squeezed.

Okay it's important to point out, at least it's important to me, that the only men I typically allow to squeeze my breasts are either in love with me or have the potential to fall in love with me. Actually, I take that back. The pathetic truth is the only action my boobs have seen in the last few weeks came from my gynecologist, my two year old nephew, and some drunken perv on the subway. Unfortunately, I'm sad to report, the only drunk perv last night seemed to be me. And another thing, so I don't come off like some ho, some drunk and slutty disco dancing ho, the only reason I allowed Richard to continue squeezing my boobs for what some might consider an unusual amount of time was not because he had a lot of fantastic things to say about my B cups, though it did warm my heart, but because he was drunk and gay and dating my best friend John.

"Girl, you need to loosen up and have some fun," I vaguely remember John saying, snap snap snapping his sassy fingers in front of my flushed face. We all slid to the right. "For Christ Sakes, Nicole," he said, lifting a knee and clapping. "Try taking a walk on the wild side!" And that's the last thing I remember before it all went black.

Looks like I finally took that walk. Too bad I can't remember it.

The crazy thing is I'm so not a walk on the wild side kind of girl. I'm not! Okay, I'll admit, there are times, plenty of times, I wish I were that girl, the mysterious I-don't-give-a-shit kind of girl. But for reasons even I don't understand, I care too much about what people think of me. Of what I think of me. I'm a good girl, a nice girl, a girl who doesn't get drunk and sleep around! (Though it does kind of sound exciting, doesn't it?) Okay, okay, so I may have had that one week stand last year with a Dutch medical sales rep from Curacao, the one I'd met on a flight from London whom I spent a week with in Amsterdam. But that was different. It was romantic. It took place in a foreign country. It just doesn't count okay!

But this one might.

Straining my neck, I read ten o'clock on the sleek Bose alarm clock. Way too early for me. I sigh, as psychedelic colors swirl across the large flat screen computer sitting on the contemporary metal desk on the far side of the room, which just so happens to be next to the bedroom door, the door that's only a mere ten feet away. But on his side of the bed.

Hmmm…maybe, just maybe, I can move so fast he won't notice, like a magician pulling a tablecloth out from underneath the plates. That's it. On the count of three.

One.

Two.

Oh shit! When the bed creaks I close my eyes.

He rolls on top of me and knees force my legs apart. His body presses me deep into the mattress. As he nuzzles my neck with his scratchy face, I finally find the courage to take a peek at his face, and inhale sharply, because he's looking at me. Those dark brown eyes are staring straight into my blue ones. Nervously I smile, wondering if I should say something, something like good morning, want some breakfast, how was it by the way, but before I can get the words out he smiles. One big sexy smile. I melt. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. How I wish he'd say something. Anything.

He yawns, stretching long limbs overhead. "Mornin Skydoll."

"Good morning," I mumble back, thinking Skydoll? Oh no. That's my match.com screen name. What the hell, did I tell him my whole life story already?

I pull the silky blue what has to be a one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand thread count sheet over my mouth, praying my breath doesn't smell bad. I'm sure it does. It has to. Abruptly he throws the covers back. "Sleep well?"

"Fine," I say as calmly as I can for a person in bed with a man whose hand is wandering across his perfectly hairy chest, over his taut tan belly, slowly, slowly making its way down down down to the…the ummm area that's now standing proudly at attention.

I gulp. Hello. I'm impressed.

"Mmm," he moans, and a sexy smile creeps across his beautiful face. I guess it's a little too late to claim I'm kind of shy, considering the circumstances, but even so, I wish he'd kind of stop doing…doing…okay what the heck is he doing anyway? And what in the world should I be doing while he's busy doing THAT! Perhaps if I knew him better I'd crack a joke, ask him to brush his teeth and then bring me a very strong cup of coffee and the morning paper first. But one night of passion and now I'm telling him what to do? Doesn't seem like a good idea. Only sex is the last thing on my mind. I'm not really a morning person.

While trying to think of a way to let him down easy, he grunts, squirms side to side, and wiggles out of his white boxer shorts, whipping them into the air.

Oh boy. Now I'm in for a treat...

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MORE THAN THIS, by Margo Candela

All you have to do is post a comment (any comment!) and you'll be entered to win an autographed book, More Than This, by Margo Candela. There are just a few hours left before the contest ends. So go to GALLEY GOSSIP: LOVE ON THE PLANE and get to posting before 5:00 PM today.

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Ma'am is that a frying pan in your bag?

"Ma'am," said the TSA agent as he stared at the screen in disbelief.

I gulped. Oh no, here we go, I thought, as I stood in line and watched him sitting on the stool inspecting my bag on the screen in front of him. I smiled a friendly smile and tried to act nonchalant, as if I hadn't been dreading this moment all day. Man, I knew this was going to happen!

The TSA agent looked at me, and back at the screen. "Is that a frying pan in your suitcase?"

"Yes, sir, that is, in fact, a frying pan in my bag," I laughed.

All I could do was laugh. Not only had my grandpa given me a cast iron skillet (or two - okay three!), earlier that morning, he'd also given me a pound of potatoes from his garden in Texas. Luckily I found all the items he'd hidden in my bag before leaving for the airport. I only kept one cast iron skillet, and in my defense, it was the smallest one.

"Is everything okay?" I asked the TSA agent as he looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with another agent.

Guess not. Because now there were three agents surrounding the screen. They whispered amongst themselves and studied the frying pan with great intensity. It's just a frying pan, I wanted to say, but didn't, because now all three of them were looking at me. I, of course, just smiled and held my breath. Normally, in this kind of situation I'll crack a joke, say something silly about cooking eggs for the crew, but this time I kept my mouth shut.

NOTE: Always - ALWAYS - keep your mouth shut when TSA is inspecting your bag. And do whatever they say. Whether you like it or not.

It seemed like an eternity before the backup agents walked away from the screen. The one left sitting on the stool just shook his head and didn't say another word as the conveyor belt started to move again. When my suitcase popped out on the other side I thanked the guy and went on my merry way. That was close. Maybe a little too close.

TSA, I'm sure, has seen it all. And then some! I mean if I'm hauling a frying pan across the country, I wonder what other people are packing in their bags. It got me thinking.

"Excuse me," I said to a TSA agent standing beside me at the Wendy's counter at La Guardia airport last week. I had just ordered an iced tea, a little treat before starting a killer three-day trip flying in and out of Miami. (I still don't know what I was doing on that trip.) After explaining to the TSA agent I was in the process of writing a post about weird things people pack, I went on to ask, "What strange things have you seen on the job?"

To read more, go to GALLEY GOSSIP

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