Daniel and Samantha were lounging in first class when I walked onto the airplane. We exchanged introductions and the typical pre-departure small talk. How long have you been based here? Are you flying this trip for the remainder of the month? Do you live in town, or do you commute to another city? Do you know if the flight is full?

Suddenly, Samantha leaned forward and whispered, "I hope you guys know Big Bertha is working this trip." Daniel's eyes grew to the size of silver dollars. Apparently, he hadn't checked the crew list.

"Have you flown with her?" I asked Samantha.

"Yeah. And let me tell you, it wasn't pretty."

"What happened?" said Daniel.

Then from our seats, we heard the thud of heavy feet. It was Big Bertha.

We scattered like thieves.

I rushed to the back of the plane, while Daniel went up front and Samantha just froze. She was alone to face the beast.

I peeked out to watch the confrontation. To my surprise, Big Bertha actually shook hands with Samantha. Daniel popped out of the forward galley and she shook hands with him as well. They stood in the aisle chatting for a moment, but I was too far away to hear anything.

Big Bertha then walked to the back of the plane and extended her hand. She was a large woman, but not nearly the Jabba the Hut she had been made out to be. "I'm Bertha," she said. "Would you like me to help you set up the liquor cart?"

Her smile opened like a desert flower. Corpulent cheeks bore the rosy tint of a department store Santa. Her brunet bob swayed as she tilted her head, waiting for me to answer.

"No," I said. "But thanks anyway."

"You sure, sweetheart?" she said. "There's always too much work for the galley flight attendant. I'm happy to lend a hand."

I was magically transported to Sunday mornings in my mother's kitchen, where kindness oozed like the syrup she poured on homemade pancakes. A feeling of goodness swelled inside me. Bertha wasn't the flight attendant from hell, she was the kind-hearted co-worker from heaven.

"Ahhh ... well, maybe I could use some tea and Equal from first class," I said.

"Be right back."

The horror stories were all lies -- flight attendant folklore aimed to break up the boredom of a trans-Atlantic trip. Bertha was no monster. No airborne antichrist. This was a woman of good intentions, a sweetheart by all rights.

By the time our plane reached cruising altitude, Bertha and I were best buddies. Having been squished together (literally), I learned that she owned four cats, not 26. She lived in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., not Pasadena, and that she was definitely not the type who would pull down her pantyhose to freak out pilots.

In an action that proved her dedication to her job, Bertha almost leapt up when a passenger rang his call button.

But a moment later, I poked my head out to find Bertha locked in a heated debate. Judging by the way she jabbed her finger at the passenger's face, Bertha had fallen off the happy wagon. When she finished giving a piece of her mind, she straightened her skirt and stomped down the aisle, which suddenly seemed too narrow to accommodate her swinging hips. Big Bertha turned into the galley where I had retreated, hunkering over me, allowing no means for escape. Gone was the sweet woman who reminded me of grandma. Like Bruce Banner after a precipitous rise in blood pressure, Big Bertha had metamorphosed into the Incredible Hulk.

She looked me in the eye, her face twisting into a scowl that vaulted her eyebrows, curled her lips and distorted her speech.

"I hate assholes," she said.

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