Presbyterian summer camp is where I learned a black person could get tan lines. Who knew? I grew up during the sixties and seventies in a prefab suburb of Chicago, devoid of diversity and surrounded by corn fields. After completing college amidst more cornfields in central Illinois, I became a flight attendant in 1978 and welcomed the opportunity to get a broader view of the world.

One month, I was able to hold a trip with decent San Jose, California layovers. This is cool because I get to visit an older brother living there and earn money doing so. On my first San Jose trip, I mention to my brother that my flying partner and I want to go to a nightclub near our hotel on the next trip. He casually tells me he thinks it's a black nightclub. He didn't say we shouldn't go there, he just felt we should be aware of it.

Terri and I went to a black disco back home in Chicago and ended up making a hasty exit as the women made it clear we were unwelcome and they didn't appreciate our novelty in the eyes of the regulars there. I picture Terri with her Polish, naturally-blonde, buoyantly-permed hair and me with my German, pale, ruddy complexion walking in the door of the San Jose club with identical, fire engine-red, Bill Blass uniform coats, creating a gaper's block beneath the mirror ball.

So naturally on the next van ride to our San Jose hotel, when my flying buddy mentions the possibility of going to the club and the captain pipes up: "You girls gonna shake your groove thing?", I respond accordingly: "My brother told me it's a black club." The oh-so-subtle implication we should reconsider risking our lily-white asses going there comes through.

Zoom in to a close-up of the person seated directly behind me. It's the extra flight attendant who worked the last leg in with us. She's not part of our regular crew. She hasn't said a word the whole ride. I totally forgot she's even there. She's African-American. The only African-American in the van. Flashback to "The Invisible Man" by Ralph Ellison. The entire crew is aware of her quiet presence now.

Nothing I can say will cure this blunder, so I proceed to make it terminal. I sheepishly turn around and ask the sole Afro-American representative: "You don't think they'd mind, do you?"

She responds with a death glare. I'd hang myself, but a self-inflicted lynching could be misinterpreted as well. How could I be so feeble? Something else I learned at church camp comes to mind: "Words are like toothpaste...once they're out of the tube, you can't squeeze them back in." Too bad you can't choke on them.

The captain fills the void: "May as well get some sleep anyway ladies, tomorrow is a long day."

Terri adds: "Yeah. Maybe we'll try it another night."

Sure we will.

I toss and turn all night. Going to the club would have been more restful. I don't consider myself racist, but try and convince someone you've just insulted of that. The extra isn't based in Chicago so hopefully I'll never work with her again and I can forget the whole awkward moment.

The next morning the very same flight attendant is in our van heading back to the airport with us. She's working our flight out. Perfect. Her demeanor is slightly colder than the dry ice from the catering truck. We will be trapped together on a narrow-bodied 727 for the next several hours, working in a galley the size of a vintage lunch box (thermos included).

Sometime during the frigid flight-of-shame, I hear four bells. This takes my mind off my self-absorbed discomfort immediately. It's the designated signal for an emergency situation. I grab the phone. The captain tells me to report to the cockpit immediately.

This is huge. Who cares about putting my foot in my mouth now? I hope I have my manual in order. We're supposed to keep it current because of moments like this. There is a very specific sequence to follow in the event of an emergency. Do I even know where my manual is? Did I check the fire extinguishers before we took off? Good thing I'm just sleep-deprived from embarrassment and not hungover from dancing the night away.

I discreetly bolt to the front of the jet trying not to alarm any passengers, unlock the cockpit door and slip in. The captain, co-pilot and first officer simultaneously turn around in their seats. Silhouetted against a backdrop of blue sky and fluffy clouds, each one holds a white paper napkin in front of his face with eye-holes torn out.

Peering through his makeshift white hood, the captain says: "Uh, yeah, Amy...we were having a little meeting up here and thought you'd want to join us."

I laugh so hard I actually shake my groove thing. When I collect myself, I return to the cabin vastly relieved and tell the rest of the crew there is no emergency. There never was.