I love my job. First and foremost, I love flying airplanes. It’s a job with physical and mental satisfaction like no other job I’ve had. Along with that, it pays well and I love the travel aspect. Every place I’ve visited in the world has a history and a culture different from what I’m used to. The local cuisine is also a very large plus to me. Red beans and rice in New Orleans, lobster roll or chowder (properly pronounced “chow-duh” up there – when in Rome, after all), Cincinnati chili in Cincinnati (properly served over spaghetti – it is not Texas chili – you are not in Texas. If you let your hair down and try it, you will love it, over spaghetti with shredded cheddar cheese and diced fresh onions – like God intended), seafood in Florida and Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, salmon in Alaska or the Pacific Northwest, TexMex in Texas, crepes and pastries in Paris, pizza and pasta in Rome, schnitzel and sausages in Germany, tapa hopping in Spain, and my list goes on for the culinary secrets to any location I’ve ever visited. The culinary aspect to travel is one of the best parts.
Another best part to travel is to immerse oneself in the culture and history of another neighborhood besides your own. I can find something interesting to visit or see anywhere. Every city has something to offer: a wonderful running trail along a picturesque river, an interesting city walk to see buildings, architecture, and areas that outline that city’s persona and historical significance, a stroll in a nice park, or even a shopping spree in a nearby shopping center.
If my layover’s timing is in hours of darkness or the weather is nasty, I find entertainment inside by watching movies, reading books, or writing. I’m never bored.
I flew domestically for decades, and was happy with that for the seniority I held and the trip choices satisfied my desires for time at home (you know, where the heart is). Suddenly a few years back, they decided to get rid of the domestic side of the category I held, combining the domestic trips with international. I could have bid anything I wanted, so I chose to remain on the same airplane, but accept the fate of now flying internationally also. The first thing I had to do was get trained on this.
The international training was interesting and while more complicated than my domestic flying, they found me to be trainable. Next, I had to go on a couple trips to gain my international qualification, where a line check airman comes along acting as a copilot to show the new international captain the ropes. I was set up for the prescribed number of crossings – four or two each way. “Crossing” is what it is called to cross the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans. It’s different from a navigation and communication standpoint than what I was used to domestically, where we are constantly in reach of an airport and in radio contact.
My first such trip with my first two crossings (over and back) was to Brussels. I was so excited. I’d done quite a lot in Great Britain, France, and Spain in other periods of my life, but I’d never set foot in Belgium. I couldn’t wait. I looked up the area and couldn’t wait to see the Grand Place and I definitely wanted to see the little fountain where the statue of a naked little boy peeing into it is lovingly dressed in different costumes every day. They even have a museum displaying hundreds of his outfits.
My first crossing was exciting to see how the operation all came together in real time. The line check airman and the copilot were very nice and filled me up with tips, pointers, and advice for the procedures new to me.
The crew compliment for this operation is normally one captain and two copilots. Since the line check airman was along, he took the place of the second copilot. He was a captain. Technically, I was the pilot in command on the flight, but a line check airman gets a deferential spot to the fact that he is training me. It’s complicated and can be awkward, but this line check airman did his best to check me off on my qualifications without stepping on my toes as the captain. I deferred to him on all international questions and together we got the job done.
One of the delightful things about this type of operation is that there are three pilots. Some of the really long hauls have four. There are only two pilot seats so we all take turns. When it’s not our turn to fly, they send us to the back to rest. They have special curtains to shield out light and movement, and it’s not very hard at all to lay back and get a nap. It is an all night flight, after all, so this makes an all-nighter almost easy. On a normal all-nighter domestically, there are no naps. This seemed like such a luxury to me.
We were on the way to Brussels and the line check airman and I went over every little bit of what I was supposed to know as to the international/ocean crossing thing that I didn’t normally do on domestic flights. The copilot went to the back for his nap.
After a few hours, the line check airman went back and the copilot came up. He was very experienced and had several good inputs to help me on the procedures and he was also a ready conversationalist. We spoke about many topics.
Running, a pastime I enjoy, came up. He said, “Oh, I used to run quite a lot, but I don’t at all anymore.”
“How come?” I asked.
“My shoes won’t fit well in my suitcase.”
“What?” I returned to the lamest excuse I’d ever heard for not running. I laughed at him and offered no small chastisement.
He explained. He was a member of a group of friends from as far back as college. These fellows love to fish. Almost monthly, they go on a fishing trip, sometimes nearby, and sometimes they travel to exotic locales or exciting fishing venues.
He said, “I’m in charge of the beer.”
I looked at him funny, so he explained, “Once I got senior on this category, I was able to hold the German destinations or Brussels on a regular basis. I go there every week. Every week I fill any empty spaces in my suitcase with beer to take along on our fishing trips.”
I stared at him.
He said, “Have you ever had Belgian beer or German beer?”
“Well, I think I have.”
“Were you in the States or over there?”
“Oh, I’ve never been to Germany or Belgium.”
“Oh,” he said firmly, “then you’ve never had it. Do you like beer?”
“Yes. I’m not a big drinker, but I do enjoy beer if alcohol is served.”
“Well, you are in for a treat!” and he went on at length as to the attributes of the beer in the locality we were about to visit. He was quite the connoisseur. He suggested a couple brands I might have tried that were supposedly imported, but he said that the likelihood was that they were not actually imported. They bottle them in the U.S. “It’s the water and the hops,” he said. It’s different,” he said with sureness. “You’ll see. If you like beer, you’ll love it there. It’s why I don’t run on trips anymore. My friends are spoiled.”
Well, there was much I was looking forward to in Brussels. Now I had one more. Before I knew it, it was my turn for the nap. It made me nervous and I was sure I was missing something, but the darkened, quiet space won the contest and I conked out.
As we rode to the hotel, the line check airman explained “the nap.” After we get to the hotel, he explained, everyone goes to bed for three hours. Three hours, no more, no less. I commented that I was feeling pretty good to go having slept on the plane, and I was very excited to see the sights I’d read about. It was late morning, early afternoon. A three-hour nap was burning daylight. I didn’t want to do that.
“No!” the line check airman barked. “Three hours. No more, no less. When you get up, take a shower, go to a grocery store for snacks, exchange money if you need to. We’ll meet down in the lobby at 5. We’ll go to dinner and have a look around.”
That seemed final, so I went upstairs and attempted to comply. The meetup was over five hours away. I set my alarms as instructed and tried to lie down. No good. I was crawling out of my skin. I opened the curtains and took a look outside. Beautiful buildings. I’d studied a map and could see where I should go to see the Grand Place. Less than half an hour of fidgeting, I muttered a, “Screw this,” got dressed in my layover clothes, and headed out the door.
A short ten-minute walk, and I entered into the Grand Place.
Wow. I gawked unashamedly at the incredible architecture. I strolled through, fascinated by the people, the tour groups hearing all about it in a few different languages, and others strolling about as I was. There were shops and eateries all around nestled in among the gorgeous buildings. I wound my way around to the spot where I could see Mannikin Pis, what they call the little statue peeing into the fountain. I found him surrounded by a crowd, but he was still plainly visible, and the crowd shifted around comfortably so that everyone got a chance to make photo ops. That day he was dressed in a Buckingham Palace Guard outfit, complete with tall furry hat. How fun. Of course, the coat was open to allow the fluid from him to flow as normal to the fountain. I loved it!
I made my way back into the plaza, a.k.a. Grand Place, properly pronounced as they do with an “ah” sound for the letter a. So pretty. I walked around the edges and inspected the shops: lace, chocolate, and souvenirs. Yes, please! I also saw stands for waffles. Of course! Belgian waffles! Where better to eat one than in Belgium? I stood in a small queue at a small stand and observed the fare and the operation. They made them to order from a dough that was much thicker that what I knew about. It was almost a ball placed in the maker rather than poured. There were many toppings to choose from, sweet and savory choices. The couple of orders before me went for the Nutella. They had humongous jugs of the stuff in the same labeling and shape as what I see at home. Pass. I get Nutella at home. There were many fresh fruits that were enticing. Then I saw the chocolate and I was done looking. Belgian chocolate on a Belgian waffle. What else?
I placed my order and watched with interest as they made mine just for me. After a few minutes, they retrieved my perfectly done, thick Belgian waffle and placed it in a small paper plate with turned up edges to contain the toppings. Then she poured a generous ladle of warm Belgian chocolate over my freshly made waffle, and I thought I might pass out in anticipation of this treat. I paid and she handed over the little plate, sticking a rather small flatware device that was a little like a spork only small. I grabbed several napkins and retreated into the plaza.
I took a bite and I have never tasted anything so amazingly wonderful in my life or since. That moment was a serious highlight in gastric ecstasy.
Forgetting all about architecture, shopping, history, and culture, I worked happily on the consumption of the Belgian waffle with Belgian chocolate. I was walking along, and I thought I was minding my own business. I hadn’t been cognizant that I was moaning audibly, until a man crossed in front of me with a big smile on his face.
I thought, oh dear, has anyone heard me?
He paused in front of me, smiling big, and said something in German, I think. My language abilities stink. I smiled and said, “I’m sorry,” and shrugged.
He said, “Ist gut, yah?”
Oh – I got that. I think enjoyment of wonderful food is a universal language. I smiled, nodded, and said, “Oh my God,” whereupon he laughed heartily.
As I scraped the last possible morsel of wonderfulness from that little plate, I found a receptacle and turned my attention to shopping. We were going to need more chocolate. Loaded with that, I stepped into some lace shops. Bedazzling. I chose a couple small things to start with, figuring I might be back if any larger order came to mind. Then I went into the souvenir shops. One of the treasures left to my sister and me by our Mom was her demitasse cup collection. We divided them and enjoy having them from her. In my travels, I have added to the collection as I find something she would like. I found one in Brussels with a picture of the Mannikin Pis on it. Perfection. She would love that little statue and the way they dress him in all the different outfits. I picked up a few t-shirts just for fun, not sure my family would appreciate them since “someone they knew went to Brussels and all they got was a lousy t-shirt,” but I was feeling like celebrating my international travels in some way. I found a little grocery store and loaded up, as advised, with snacks. I got some yummy looking bread, some cheese, and some fresh fruit. That ought to do it.
I looked at my watch and realized I had about an hour and a half before I was to meet my crew in the lobby for dinner. I returned to the hotel with my treasures, and laid down to try to nap. I dozed but didn’t really sleep. I was getting hungry. The waffle with chocolate had all been used up and I hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since the plane, almost twelve hours ago. I thought about stopping for something heartier, but didn’t for the appointment I had with my crew. Their prescribed timing for all this was not measuring up to my liking. I’d stick it out to assess though, since I agreed to be there. I was starving, so I didn’t sleep. I resisted diving into my grocery snacks, which were supposed to be for the weird wake up in the middle of the night because your clock is backwards, or the chocolates I got, which were for the family. I dozed and woke several times in an hour. I finally gave it up for a bad job and got cleaned up to meet my crew.
As I got downstairs and the other two arrived, we launched outside and down the street. The line check airman was in the lead, and had a definite destination in mind.
We got to a bar, went in, and he ordered three beers and placed them on a table where we all sat. We toasted the crossing and sipped. It was ok. I’d been expecting Wow, from the copilot’s raves over the local beer. This was plain and not spectacular in any way. It was a huge glass, and I sipped because there was nothing else. No peanuts, no pretzels, no menus. I looked around and was pretty sure they didn’t serve food here at all. Finally, at a lull in the friendly conversation, I asked about getting a menu to order food.
“Oh no,” the line check airman said, “they don’t have food here. Another?” he asked pointing at my half full glass.
“No,” I said, “I’m not ready yet, but I am really hungry.”
He waved that away and pointed to the copilot’s nearly empty glass, and the copilot nodded in appreciation.
As the line check airman went to the bar, I asked the copilot if this was the beer he’d been telling me about.
He said, “Oh no! This is a Celtic bar.”
I looked at him quizzically.
He said, “This is an Irish beer, imported. I explained about the imported beers – they are simply not the same as the ones made in country. Irish beer is very nice. I like it well enough in Ireland, but my favorite is German or Belgian. Irish beer is good in Ireland,” he stated emphatically.
“Well what in the world are we doing here then?” I asked with a small seed of irritation. “And I need to eat!” I said pointedly.
He replied, “All the crews come here to start with. They don’t have food here. It’s just a bar.”
“Why do they come to a Celtic bar in Brussels?” I queried.
“The beer is cheap,” he replied.
“Oh.” It became clear. Pilots are notoriously cheap. “I get it.”
The line check airman returned with the two beers and they enjoyed them as I continued to sip the one I had. The conversation was fun and interesting, but I was becoming distracted with hunger. I mentioned it a few times. It didn’t seem to be making an impact. I wondered what I should do. This whole international thing was a different animal at our company, and the customs and mores were very specific. I didn’t want to step on any toes.
The line check airman pointed to the copilot’s second empty glass and to mine with about one quarter remaining, and said, “Again?” with a cheery smile.
I covered my glass and said, “No. I can’t have anymore until I get some food. I’d like to get dinner now.”
The line check airman guffawed at me for a lightweight, but paid his tab and we left. We got outside and a short walk later, we entered into the Grand Place.
He motioned around with his hands and said, “These are some really old buildings, to do with the government, I think. They’re supposed to be a big deal architecturally, but,” shrugging in indifference, “whatever.” Then he said, “Over in that direction is a little statue of a naked kid peeing in a fountain. They dress him up. People think it’s a big deal.”
I confessed, “I saw him today. I couldn’t sleep so I came out and wandered around a bit.”
“You mean you didn’t take the nap?” he boomed.
“Well I did sleep off and on for about an hour,” shaking my own head at this Impossible mission.
“You’re never gonna make it!” he exclaimed. “You have to learn to take the nap.”
I thought it was funny, but didn’t comment, on how he called it “the” nap. I supposed I had a lot to learn, but I’d rather lop off a limb than give up my expedition from this afternoon. I tried to redirect the conversation, “So where will we eat?”
He said, “Well since you already saw the little boy peeing, did you see the little girl?”
“There’s a little girl?”
“C’mon,” he said jovially, and led us both down a couple streets that were bar after bar after bar.
At the end of an alley, he said, “Tada! Little girl peeing.”
Sure enough, behind a wrought iron fence, there was a statue of a pretty little smiling girl, squatting in some plants, and appeared to be doing just as he described. I’d never heard of her and was delighted to see her. I took a few pictures, and thanked my tour guide for this.
In that little alley and up and down a couple more, there were several bars of apparently famous repute. Two that I recall were the Coffin Bar with coffins all over the place filled with creepy, macabre figures.
He asked, “So would you like to have a drink?”
“Do they have a food menu?” I asked.
“No,” he said, barely hiding his disgust, “C’mon,” and we followed him out.
Next, we saw a bar called Delirium Tremens that was decorated stem to stern in pink elephants. Cute. The line check airman led us through the place and said, “Would you like to have a drink here?”
“Do they,” but I was cut off by a deep sigh, and him turning on his heel to leave. We followed.
He showed me the entrances to a couple more places. The patrons were starting to take on a wild character. One lady was dressed in a body suit that matched her skin tone. She looked naked from the rear. As she turned to us, we could see her outfit was complete with appliquéd nipples and sewn on hair. I thought it was shocking and kind of gross. I was quickly becoming not happy.
He finally gave up on me and as we stood in the Grand Place, he asked, “So what do you want to eat?”
“Belgian food,” I answered.
“What? Belgian food!” he answered like that was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.
I said, “Well I enjoy eating locally wherever I travel. I’ve tried their waffle and their chocolate. What else do Belgians eat?”
The copilot spoke up and said, “Mussels. They eat Mussels in Brussels.”
I laughed at that and said, “Really?”
“Yes,” he laughed back. “They fix them up in all different ways. There’s a place I know of. Delicious!”
I nodded happily and we turned to the line check airman.
He barked, “I’d rather eat boogers.”
M’k. Maybe not mussels. This group approach to layovers was definitely starting to be a pain.
I said, “I’m hungry. I need to eat. What do you recommend?”
He stroked his chin in thought and said, “Greek food! Do you like Greek food?”
Greek food? I said, “Well yes when I’m in Athens!”
This went right over his head as he said, “They have a Greek street with several Greek restaurants. C’mon.”
We followed.
Soon we were on a street with a lineup of Greek restaurants. The line check airman settled on one and we sat at a table outside which was nice on such a beautiful evening. The menu was full of various grape leaf wrapped meats and such, feta cheese, and lamb chops. I settled on a sampler platter to try some different things, even though they were Greek. Might as well enjoy something different. They brought me a huge plate of food that had several appetizing-looking items on it along with a mountain of fries. I was having water to drink. Just as we tucked in, the waiter placed one of those huge glasses of beer in front of me.
“Oh, but I didn’t order,” I began to protest.
The copilot spoke up, “I ordered it for you. This. This is what I was telling you about.” He had such a nice smile on his face that I had to accept.
I held up the glass to toast my cohorts and took a sip. Ohmagosh. It was delicious. Night and day from the beer I’d had earlier. It was quite the most delicious beer I’d ever had. He was pleased that I was so impressed.
I sampled the sampler plate, and everything tasted very nice. As I picked around my plate, the copilot said quietly, “I think I can make you feel better about that plate of food in Brussels.”
“Oh? How?”
He said, “Did you know that French fries are actually a Belgian invention?”
“No! They are? Why are they called French fries?”
He said, “The Belgians had a habit of frying strips of potatoes in oil, and wrapping them in a cone of paper to have them on the move. When the Belgians came to France during World War II to fight, they brought this custom with them. The French picked it up readily. When the Americans came, they saw a large number of soldiers in France (some French, some Belgian) walking around with those delicious fried potatoes wrapped in a cone of paper. It was the Americans that dubbed the treat, ‘French fries.’”
“Oh!” I exclaimed in delight. “Thank you! That does make me happier!” whereupon I picked up a fry and enjoyed it with relish.
As I cleaned my plate of its last crumb including all the fries, I drained the last drop of that delicious beer. The line check airman pointed at it and said, “Again?”
“Oh no. I couldn’t. I’m completely full.”
We got our checks and paid our bill. I was orienting myself to the direction of the hotel. I was very full, had consumed well more beer than I normally do, and I was finally ready for “the nap.” As we began to move, my cohorts stopped and asked me, “What next?”
I said, “I’m headed back. I’ve had enough for one day.”
The line check airman delivered raspberries and disdain at my apparent lack of fortitude, but I smiled and said, “Good night,” and headed in the direction of the hotel.
“Oh, we’ll walk you,” the line check airman grumbled.
“No need,” I said. “I can see it from here.”
“Nope,” the line check airman groused. “We’ll walk you.”
Suit yourself, I muttered to myself. I had enjoyed sufficient. It was time to go in.
We walked back to the hotel quietly. As we neared the front of the hotel, my two escorts peeled off in formation to continue on their preferred mode of layover entertainment. I went back into my room and slept hard for about five or six hours. I woke up, read a book, and was ecstatic for my fruit, bread, and cheese that I was wondering if I’d need at all. I was so happy I followed that bit of advice. It was so delicious. I fell back asleep soon enough and slept another five or so hours.
I woke up refreshed and ready for the day, even though to my body it was 1 or 2 in the morning. I tried not to think about that. The sun was coming up and it was another beautiful day. I’d had a great time on my own the previous afternoon, and a salvageable good time with my cohorts. I slept more than I normally do on a night even though it was in separate chunks. I was going to enjoy this international angle, now that I knew the ropes. Heading home today. Tomorrow Paris. How great is that?
As I was on my way to Paris with a different line check airman and a different copilot, I learned that the copilot had a girlfriend there and stays with her every week. The line check airman apologized for not being available on the layover. He explained he had a project he was working on and planned his layover in the room to work on it. He said, “I’m so sorry. Will you be all right?”
“I’m sure I will,” I assured him.
He counseled a long time on “the nap.” I nodded obediently.
As we landed in Paris and got the bus ride to the hotel, I was entranced. Mostly everyone else slept. I rubbernecked the whole way. The countryside was gorgeous. As we got to town, I recognized the Champs-Élysées. My heart rate increased as I recognized the Arc de Triomphe, and I was amazed and thrilled by the statuary, fountains, and monuments on every corner. So beautiful. As I was very busy looking at the sights, one of the flight attendants was talking up the bus driver. I don’t speak French, but I got the sense she was practicing hers on the bus driver. It seemed like he would repeat what she said with a nuance of difference. They laughed and laughed. After awhile, he started speaking in rapid French. The flight attendant said, “Ooh la la,” which cracked me up and almost made me snort. I wasn’t at all sure whether or not French people said that phrase with regularity, but I had started to notice that her French consisted nearly exclusively of that singular phrase. I began to wonder if she understood any French at all, but she said, “Ooh la la,” to everything the bus driver said in a nearly hour and a half ride.
We got to the hotel and the line check airman said he’d see me on the ride back to the airport the next day. The copilot had already departed to be with his girlfriend. The flight attendants, including Ms. Ooh La La had kept apart from us at sign in. Fine with me. As the line check airman and I headed up to our floors, he asked about my plans. I told him I planned to go for a walk and see some sights.
He said, “Well set your clock. Three hours, no more no less. Have fun.”
Hmm. “The nap.” Sheesh, it was a thing.
I got upstairs and settled in. I set my clock and got comfy to attempt “the nap.”
As I got everything just do, I sat on the edge of the bed and caught a glimpse of my view. The Eiffel Tower! Right there! In sight! Ok. That’s it. I’m outa here. I got dressed and hit the bricks. So much fun!
I saw the Eiffel Tower up close and personal. I walked along the river and enjoyed the views. I stopped about every little bit to eat: chocolate croissant, deli sandwich on baguette, crepes, cheeses, pastries, and repeat. I procured a beautiful demitasse cup for Mom’s collection. I admired the beautiful scarves I saw so many ladies wearing and was delighted to come upon a flea market where they were for sale. The tag says, “100% Soie,” which was almost the best part. I bought a bunch of those. I also bought t-shirts, still unsure if they were appreciated or not, but here I was, and here were some cool shirts. Oh well. If he didn’t like them, I’d take them and not buy anymore for him. I came back on a different route, enjoying every step. I swung by a grocery store to get a stash of bread, cheese, and fruit, never mind I’d eaten my way through the streets of Paris for hours. This was too good. I had my international layover routine now set in stone.
On subsequent trips, I would explore maps ahead of time, check guide books, and browse apps like City Walks. I’d pick a list of sights and a basic itinerary. On arrival to the hotel, I’d change clothes and hit the streets. I’d see the sights, get that “ooh” rush of the history that happened there, and move along to the next sight. Enroute, I’d stop along the way for anything that caught my eye: profiteroles, a pretty blouse, a crepe stand, a cute purse, and so on. I’d make my way back to my planned route to the sights and press on. I saw so much! I enjoyed so much fun and interesting food! I found so many wonderful treasures that I really enjoy using or giving. I was loving everything about these trips. They were tiring though, so I got in the mode of doing no more than one per month. Some of the crews acted put out that I wasn’t hostess to a crew drinking fest or fine dining experience. No thanks. I don’t go for that. They get over it, maybe. I’ll nap after I get a look at the Eiffel Tower. That’s just how I roll.
My husband accepted my t-shirt offerings in good humor, and wore them with a pleasing frequency. I asked him one time if it was dumb for me to get him a t-shirt to places he’d never been.
“Oh no!” he asserted. “I like wearing them.”
“Well that’s nice,” I answered dubiously.
He said, “People ask me all the time, ‘Oh did you go to London, Paris, Dublin?’ and so on.”
“What do you tell them?” I asked.
He said, “I say, ‘No. I’ve never been there. My wife is an international wide-body captain.’ They go, ‘Your wife? Really?’ and I get to brag about you.”
Does it get better than that? He’s a keeper. I have the best husband. I have the best job. I have the best life.
