It was sunny and
perfect on the first Saturday of May when my hiking path at Lula Lake crossed that of two elderly ladies enjoying their first visit there since way back
in 1957. As I was looking at the picturesque waterfall from above, they stopped
to cheerfully suggest the new rock trail descending to its base offered a much
better view. Looking refined in Miss Jane Hathaway bird-watching chic with
hiking sticks, the ladies reported the trail was a piece of cake for them, worth the effort for what one could see at the bottom. I confidently headed in that direction, and ten minutes past thanking them, I fell hard on those rocks and ended up with a shattered iphone and hematoma destined to last
forever as souvenirs. But through broken glass I could see a missed
call from a 17-years-long-lost flying friend.
It was a good news-bad news-good news kind of beautiful day.
~~~~~
In another
lifetime, I was a flight attendant on Delta jets to Dublin most every
week, traveling with a varying arrangement of mainly the same bunch of crew
members. We dropped into Shannon coming and going, every time with the
same great feeling about landing in Ireland and also anticipation about which SNN
Delta family member would open the jet door. Everyone pretty much knew the
basics of everyone else’s life and, for the most part, it all worked out really
well. The world was a bigger place without social media and, no matter where you went, going to work
always meant getting scoop.
Before 9/11, stargazing
and cockpit chit chat worked well in the wee hours on the way over
with passengers sleeping, and the pilots were always interesting. There
was the Irish-American captain who gave Delta guests their every penny’s
worth with a rambling travelogue/monologue every single step of the way. Another
provided passenger education with miniature lectures about the flight tracks
used by jets flying to and from Europe (“Picture, if you will, a vast system of
parallel highways high up in the sky, stretching all the way across the North Atlantic
Ocean . . .”). And another boarded the jet wearing a silk scarf and leather
aviator hat, always inquiring, “Are you ready for the crossing?”
The crossing eventually led to the 6th floor of the big and bustling Burlington Hotel, home
away from home for many days in the winter, and a tiny 24 hours in summer.
Arrival protocol included an affectionate greeting from the hotel
manager who just loved Delta flight attendants (and was always available),
a greeting from one of the two charming and splendidly uniformed hotel
doormen, Tommy and Charlie (a fascinating pair, said to know every good secret in all of Dublin), and upstairs the last order before sleep was a word with hard-working
housekeeper Kay, she of nebulous age, forever turning those Delta rooms
between crews. (Early on, senior flight attendants advised that Kay always appreciated a little Port tribute to her labor).
For the layover,
Dublin was really great—history everywhere, walks with amazing scenery, and ever-congenial people. Dinner activities kicked off around 5:30, meet downstairs and hope the captain was buying. Weather could be paradise or interesting (depending on the hour), so sideways-raining days meant for good fellowship with Delta residents back in the warm and dry Burlington. While trips could serve up weather,
mechanicals, delays and unusual people, flying annoyances were always easier with friends in a terrific place. And this
was just how everyday living worked.
But in all the days
and nights spent on the jets and in the Burlington, I never considered these
good times cleverly disguised as work would someday end.
~~~~~
So it was exceptionally nice to sit on Lula Lake rocks, miles and years removed from the old lifestyle, with an invitation to the retirement festivities of one of the finest Dublin-flying pilots ever. It was like a little
meteorite from the olden days had landed amongst those rocks on the trail with the beautiful view of
the falls.
Time and distance make me forget what it was like to fly, to be in a uniform, to sit on the jumpseat swapping stories during the night, to be part of a crew. I forget about being tired and looking out the window of a bus, taking in the sights and sounds
of a Dublin morning. I forget what
it’s like to walk around a city 3,937 miles away. Mostly, I forget the flying
version of me.
I went to ATL in May to see a great captain retire. I loved the water cannon salute that welcomed his arriving Dublin 777 back for the final time, the speeches, the stories, and the toasts. Flight attendants and pilots reappeared in my eyes after a long time gone. It was nice seeing them, and also good to see the flying me again. Driving back, my mind was full of people, places, sights, sounds and smells from what was just yesterday. I thought about all the SNN folks, the hotel manager, the affable doormen, receptionists, Kay the housekeeper, friends in the shops, assorted pilots and a million other flight attendants. I wondered where they are and what their lives are like now.
So there is a pattern in these return journeys to special places. I have written about going back to our beloved former home, about walking on beautiful streets where I used to be every day, about being back in spots where the kids were little, and now I write about flying. When I was living the life in all these places--sometimes exciting, sometimes mundane and often somewhere in-between--I did not appreciate the significance of being there, and how moments in time pass so quickly. Every now and then it takes a meteorite falling from the sky, inviting me to come back and see how fortunate I have been.
And there's no cure like travel
To help you unravel
The worries of living today.
When the poor brain is cracking
There's nothing like packing
A suitcase and sailing away.
Take a run 'round Vienna,
Granada, Ravenna, Sienna
And then a-'round Rome
Have a high time, a low time,
And in no time
You'll be singing "Home, Sweet Home!"
from "Anything Goes"
