SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2019 AFAR 65connect essay
W
E LANDED ON Heraklion, the
largest city in Crete, fizzy with
the excitement of being in a new
place. Corinne, my flatmate,
and I had no plans, not even a guidebook. The
year was 1978, and we’d chosen our destination
at random, drawing upon our perks as flight at-
tendants. Just six hours earlier, we had arrived
at London’s Gatwick Airport with nothing
but one bag each and a week’s vacation. Within
15 minutes, we had chosen our destination,
received our tickets, and headed for the gate.
Now, as we walked out into the sunshine, we
were about to do what we’d done from the mo-
ment we’d begun traveling together: Wing it.
I’d met Corinne on our first day of training
to be flight attendants. I was 21, fresh out of
college in London, with a desire to see the world.
As an insolvent graduate, I wanted someone
else to pay for the travel, so I searched for em-
ployment that would meet the demands of my
wanderlust. Corinne had been working a desk
job for the travel agency Thomas Cook and was
experiencing that same urge to seek adventure
minus the cost. So, there we were, one day
learning how to serve coffee without scalding
a passenger and the next launching ourselves
down emergency slides into a swimming pool.
We also learned that, should an aircraft crash
in the Arctic Circle, eating polar bear liver was
to be avoided—it’s highly toxic. I remember
glancing across the room of young women in
red-and-black uniforms, wondering if I was
the only person suppressing laughter. Every-
one else was taking notes—and then I caught
Corinne’s eye. We both started to giggle, and
I knew that she, too, was visualizing herself
in wild pursuit of a polar bear somewhere in
the Arctic.
We found a flat together near our base at
Gatwick, and from our first flight we knew
that travel together would be a blast. It was evi-
dent the moment we dropped a box contain-
ing 30 airline meals while trying to secure it
in a locker. Most new flight attendants would
have been mortified, but we couldn’t stop
laughing as we scraped lurid red Jell-O off
individual servings of chicken and coleslaw.
After discovering that for many air crew, being
“down route” meant hanging out in a bar—
which didn’t appeal to either of us—we started
requesting matching flight schedules so we’d
have someone to adventure with in a new city.
On that first afternoon in Crete, we ambled
around Agios Nikolaos, watching locals pre-
pare for the Easter holiday as the sun beat down
on whitewashed houses and market stalls
dense with fresh produce and olive oil. We
stopped to watch women clustered around the
back of a van, waiting while two men brought
out a fresh tuna and began chopping away with
a cleaver. We moved on, listening to the holiday
buzz in the air, people calling out to each other.
As dusk fell and the traders began to pack up,
we thought we’d stop at a tavern for a bite to
eat and a glass of wine.
We’d only just sat down when two men
settled in beside us and introduced them-
selves as Greek shipping magnates. Shipping
magnates? We weren’t falling for that story. It
became clear that they were trying to separate
us. We exchanged glances, and I knew Corinne
was feeling the same discomfort. It was time to
leave. Five, by the door.
From the time we became flatmates, there
was always a party to go to in London, but
we’d made a rule that we would always leave
together, and that as soon as one of us wanted
to leave, we would both go. And we had our
special signal: Whoever wanted to depart first
would catch the other’s eye and hold up a hand,
fingers splayed, then give a nod toward the
exit. That meant, “Five minutes, by the door.”
Then we would chug home in my old blue VW
Beetle, the car I had to park facing downhill in
case I needed to pop the clutch to start it.In the noisy tavern, I nodded toward the
ladies’ room and told the “shipping magnate”
that I would be back in a minute. Weaving
through a cluster of people, I detoured toward
the exit, where Corinne joined me.
“These Greek blokes are all on the make,”
Corinne said.
As we walked away from the tavern, we
heard one of the men shout after us, and then
they moved in our direction. It was dark now,
but we acted fast. I looked back and saw them
pulling out a scooter. There was a staircase
leading to the beach a few yards away, so we
ran and clambered down, hiding in the lee of
the seawall, listening as the men zoomed
back and forth on their scooter along the road
above, searching for us. When all was quiet,
we felt confident enough to emerge from our
hiding place, freezing cold. As soon as we were
back at our guesthouse, the peril behind us, we
laughed until we cried.
It was in Crete that I realized just how good
Corinne was at getting free stuff, a skill that
has continued to serve us well. (My skill? I’m
the one who remembers the way back to a
hotel after a walkabout—or after hiding under
a seawall.) Corinne had met a lovely British
woman who owned a hotel with her husband
and who had invited us to use the pool and
enjoy a free lunch. Great! Except that, in re-
turn for this golden opportunity, Corinne had
volunteered us to be “models” for a photogra-
pher working on the new hotel brochure. ThisNow, as we walked out into
the sunshine, we were
about to do what we’d done
from the moment we’d
begun traveling together:
Wing it.