Review of Cruising Altitude: Tales of Crashpads, Crew Drama, and Crazy Passengers at 35,000 Feet by Heather Poole

Published 2012 by HarperCollins

What an exercise of vapidity Cruising Altitude is; within the first few pages, I put the book down and refused to give it any more of my attention.  Then, I decided I wanted to review it online and determined to finish it; I promise you, I am that much more dumb for finishing this inane, poorly-written “memoir.”

Heather Poole does not suffer from anything remotely resembling a self-esteem problem; if anything, her narcissistic delusions seep across the narrative like an egregiously-placed fart in a crowded room by a pretty woman.  Poole cannot write, Poole cannot thread together any sort of story, Poole cannot do anything but condescend to the reader and preen about her own amazing awesomeness.

For instance, here is this gem on page 14: “Only the most qualified applicants are hired [to be a flight attendant].  Even though a college degree is not a requirement, there are very few flight attendants who do not possess one…This should tell you a lot about me, and anyone else you encounter in navy polyester.  Think about that the next time you’re on a plane.”  And yet, mere pages later, she is touting that her “bachelor’s in psychology” will help her “way to a real career [in] something…oh, I don’t know…I could figure it out later!” (25).  As someone who has experienced the collegiate life myself, I know that a monkey could walk out of those walls with a B.S. in psychology.  Try harder to impress me, Poole.

When Poole attempts to get down to the actual grit of being a flight attendant, it is lost with her vapid complaints about packing, uniforms, other peoples’ looks, and the like.  When she first got her training assignment, instead of focusing on “[memorizing the] more than five hundred airport city codes before training began” (“Did the airline really expect [that]?”) she worried more about what to pack, and spent more time describing the contents of her suitcase (27-28).

And really, I can go on and on.  She’s an idiot who speaks disparagingly about passengers, about her friends, about the people her friends love (“Jake, John, Jack, whatever his name was”…ad nauseum).  Poole makes no attempt to flesh out what could be interesting anecdotes about the not-so-run-of-the-mill people she has met throughout her years, but instead she’s too busy preening for her own reflection.