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Book: Pan Am Unbuckled: A Very Plane Diary by Ann Shelby Valentine, Ramona Fillman
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Authors: Ann Shelby Valentine, Ramona Fillman
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base pay was $315 a month, so $50 sounded like a very good deal.
I found a phone booth and dialed the number. Luckily, Robbie answered the phone and said that she had only just posted the notice. I told her I was transferring in from training school. Robbie said “Yes… well…I’m perfect for you! Come to 221 East 81 st . …take the Carey Bus to the East Side Bus Terminal… come uptown on the First Avenue Bus…then, walk west.”
Carrying my Pan Am tote bag and suitcase without wheels, I arrived just before dark and rang the buzzer on the stoop. The door unlatched and I pushed it in. I found myself in an East Side Manhattan, five story tenement brick house. Robbie leaned over the banister from the 3 rd floor landing and called down for me to come on up. I climbed the stairs with my two suitcases. Robbie led me through her apartment door —and it was just wonderful.
The apartment was small, with a sleeping alcove—which was for me, a bedroom that was Robbie’s, a studio kitchen, a full bathroom, and a big sitting room. It was spot clean, not too gussied up, and very inviting. A light breeze ruffled the curtains on the big, half-raised windows facing the street. I felt instant relief—relief that this would work. I liked Robbie and the apartment, and felt very lucky to have a place to live so quickly.
Robbie had been flying for two years— which sounded like forever to me. She liked to be frugal. Renting to me was one of the ways that she could do that. My fifty dollars would be two-thirds of the rent she paid for the whole apartment. It was a good deal for both of us. I barely unpacked and immediately fell asleep.
Day two in NY, I was on my own and I didn’t have any Pan Am responsibilities—other than to call scheduling with my address and telephone number. I discovered that our apartment was a short distance from the Metropolitan Museum. I spent the whole day walking around like a regular tourist. In 1968 I had lived and worked for 4-months in the West Village with a sorority sister, Susan Froemke—whose father had an apartment there, because semi-annually he taught economics at NYU. When he was teaching the other six months at Florida State in Tallahassee, Susan and I got to have the apartment all to ourselves. So, I had been in New York, but now I was really solo and independent.
The Guggenheim was relatively new and I had never been inside. The art did not impress me, at the time, but I thought the building was phenomenal. I ate from a hot dog vendor. I went browsing at Bergdorf’s and Henri Bendel’s—but didn’t buy anything. Late in the afternoon, I went into The Plaza Hotel. I was thirsty, so I ordered lemonade to celebrate my new life in NY. I found a phone booth and called my great-uncle Edward Franklin who lived in the Mews in Greenwich Village, and told him that I was in town. We made plans to meet later. Eventually I made it back to Robbie’s apartment—mostly walking and then coming part of the way on the subway. When I got back, that was the one thing she wanted to talk to me about—use of the subway. She was all for it, but wanted me to know that stuff on the subway had gotten worse, and I needed to be careful. She treated me to dinner and wine at Serendipity—a big, new thing in town.
The next day, scheduling called. They weren’t supposed to call me for one more day. There wasn’t such a thing as caller ID, so when the phone rang, I picked it up—to see who it was. I later learned to have a ‘sixth sense’ about who was calling. If it was scheduling— it just seemed to ring in a different way. Turns out, they wanted to assign me a trip. Robbie was in the background trying to coach me on what to say to get out of it. My attitude was “What the heck…might as well take the trip.” They assigned me a San Juan turnaround. Everyone with low seniority and especially new hires had a long period of time where their work revolved around the San Juan turnaround. It was the worst
I found a phone booth and dialed the number. Luckily, Robbie answered the phone and said that she had only just posted the notice. I told her I was transferring in from training school. Robbie said “Yes… well…I’m perfect for you! Come to 221 East 81 st . …take the Carey Bus to the East Side Bus Terminal… come uptown on the First Avenue Bus…then, walk west.”
Carrying my Pan Am tote bag and suitcase without wheels, I arrived just before dark and rang the buzzer on the stoop. The door unlatched and I pushed it in. I found myself in an East Side Manhattan, five story tenement brick house. Robbie leaned over the banister from the 3 rd floor landing and called down for me to come on up. I climbed the stairs with my two suitcases. Robbie led me through her apartment door —and it was just wonderful.
The apartment was small, with a sleeping alcove—which was for me, a bedroom that was Robbie’s, a studio kitchen, a full bathroom, and a big sitting room. It was spot clean, not too gussied up, and very inviting. A light breeze ruffled the curtains on the big, half-raised windows facing the street. I felt instant relief—relief that this would work. I liked Robbie and the apartment, and felt very lucky to have a place to live so quickly.
Robbie had been flying for two years— which sounded like forever to me. She liked to be frugal. Renting to me was one of the ways that she could do that. My fifty dollars would be two-thirds of the rent she paid for the whole apartment. It was a good deal for both of us. I barely unpacked and immediately fell asleep.
Day two in NY, I was on my own and I didn’t have any Pan Am responsibilities—other than to call scheduling with my address and telephone number. I discovered that our apartment was a short distance from the Metropolitan Museum. I spent the whole day walking around like a regular tourist. In 1968 I had lived and worked for 4-months in the West Village with a sorority sister, Susan Froemke—whose father had an apartment there, because semi-annually he taught economics at NYU. When he was teaching the other six months at Florida State in Tallahassee, Susan and I got to have the apartment all to ourselves. So, I had been in New York, but now I was really solo and independent.
The Guggenheim was relatively new and I had never been inside. The art did not impress me, at the time, but I thought the building was phenomenal. I ate from a hot dog vendor. I went browsing at Bergdorf’s and Henri Bendel’s—but didn’t buy anything. Late in the afternoon, I went into The Plaza Hotel. I was thirsty, so I ordered lemonade to celebrate my new life in NY. I found a phone booth and called my great-uncle Edward Franklin who lived in the Mews in Greenwich Village, and told him that I was in town. We made plans to meet later. Eventually I made it back to Robbie’s apartment—mostly walking and then coming part of the way on the subway. When I got back, that was the one thing she wanted to talk to me about—use of the subway. She was all for it, but wanted me to know that stuff on the subway had gotten worse, and I needed to be careful. She treated me to dinner and wine at Serendipity—a big, new thing in town.
The next day, scheduling called. They weren’t supposed to call me for one more day. There wasn’t such a thing as caller ID, so when the phone rang, I picked it up—to see who it was. I later learned to have a ‘sixth sense’ about who was calling. If it was scheduling— it just seemed to ring in a different way. Turns out, they wanted to assign me a trip. Robbie was in the background trying to coach me on what to say to get out of it. My attitude was “What the heck…might as well take the trip.” They assigned me a San Juan turnaround. Everyone with low seniority and especially new hires had a long period of time where their work revolved around the San Juan turnaround. It was the worst
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