It was a cloudy evening in Bogota, Columbia when we landed. By the time we got to our hotel it was dark, cool, and breezy. I had mentioned to the other three guys I worked with that the roof bar was open-it’s only open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. My crew had a great time up there last week when we arrived on Thursday. It was raining, but half the roof is covered, and there are heat lamps to help deal with the cool Columbian nights 15 floors above the streets of Bogota. This was a Friday, so surely it would be a bit more lively than the prior week.
After signing in at the front desk, I stated I needed fifteen minutes to change and I’d be up there. The purser said he wanted to check it out, but probably wouldn’t stay. He was returning to Bogota the following weekend with a friend, so would save drinking for then. The other two didn’t say anything, but I assumed they would be there, based on the enthusiasm they had before we left Houston.
The elevator doors opened on fifteen and I was greeted with loud music. Like the week previous, it was dark and attractively illuminated with low-level LED lights that slowly morphed from blue, to purple, to red, and back. The only other lighting was from the strand sort of party lights you’d find in contemporary back yards. There were a group of about six young college-aged ladies dancing and having a large time. Several tables under the awning were occupied. Beyond the planters along the covered portion is where the rooftop is exposed to the sky, with attractive heat lamps; flames flickering to its arched cover. I was happy it wasn’t raining—this is where I had hoped to sit. It was quieter and had much better views of the city than where the girls had taken hold of the dance floor.
I found a nice 4-top table near the glass railing and between two heat lamps. According to my phone, it was in the upper 50s, and the sky was mostly cloudy. There were dark areas with views of the heavens, but I suppose due to the light pollution, were no stars visible. I ordered a Columbian beer and perused the menu for dinner, thinking I’d wait for my flying partners to arrive before ordering. I had my eye on the chips and guacamole with beef.
Andrew showed up as promised. He walked to the railing to take in the views of the city and of the nearby mountains before returning to the table to announce that he was going up the street to have Italian food. I thought it strange to be in Columbia and not eat Columbian food, which is quite good. But flight attendants know good places to eat in cities all around the world, and who knows, this could be the best Italian restaurant in the entire country, so I didn’t judge.
As he walked out, the DJ hit the girls with a request, making them squee and rush to the dance floor to shake and gyrate, belting out the lyrics to a popular Spanish song. Everyone was happy. At the table next me, two women and a man with fancy drinks of various colors chatted away. At the edge of the garden sat a man alone eating, his toes tapping to the beat of the music. A lady walked by my table, and as Andrew had done moments prior, went to the glass to see the views. I noticed her in particular. She appeared to be my age, or perhaps a younger 50s than I, with short hair and a colorful sweater. Her face was kind and she came across as a contemporary woman in a colorful sweater.
She turned and surveyed the area to select her perch for the evening, then walked up to my table. Her smile widened and she asked to join me. Without hesitation I obliged, rising to invite her to sit and immediately introduced myself. She was Joanne. I told her I was expecting a couple others, but that it had been half an hour and they had not appeared. They probably chose to slam-click, as we call it in the industry, when a flight attendant slams the hotel room door, locks it, and stays in for the night to do whatever tired flight attendants do behind doors with Do Not Disturb signs hanging from the handle.
Joanne and I spend the next ninety minutes in discussion of such interesting things. She asked where I was from and said she hailed from Toronto. I told her that I have had some really great times in Toronto, it’s such a beautiful city for someone like me, who loves modern buildings and vast skylines. “I can tell you aren’t from Canada,” she said. “How is that?” I asked. “You said Tor-ahn-toe. Canadians don’t pronounce the T.” She pronounced it “Tronno.” I’d never noticed. “I do enjoy saying that I’m going oot and a-boot,” the way Canadians say out and about, which made her chuckle.
We spoke of the pleasures of life, my close shave meeting Mr. Death after my eight days in hospital with COVID, and my four years of recovery from the brain fog effects of long COVID. I had given up on ever returning to the career I love so much, so now that I’m flying again, I’m happier than ever, even though I still struggle with fatigue, and spend most layovers slam clicking in bed.
She recently lost her father and I lost my mother in 2020. We shared our common thoughts on death and afterlife. We briefly touched on politics and the mutual disdain for the cray-cray we are enduring in America, and the shock of Canadians and other countries, of how America has chosen such a dark path. She asked about my favorite places (Sydney, Australia; Munich; Beijing) and I asked why she was spending two months traveling around Columbia.
Joanne had been in Bogota for a week and was about to transfer from the hotel to a B and B for another two weeks. She had spent time in Medellin, which she adored. The contract job she was doing concluded; she had some money come in from her father’s passing; and had always wanted to visit Columbia, saying that as a Spanish speaker, it was her opinion the language in Columbia was the most pure and beautiful Spanish, even more so than in Spain.
At one point I mentioned my love of heights and the pleasure of being at the top of the CN Tower in “Tronno.” She was impressed that I pronounced it so well, and asked about my lack of a Texas accent. Although my family all speak with one, Mom’s was never strong, and for some reason, as a kid who traveled a lot with exposure to many cultures, I seem to always blend in with where I was, fairly easily picking up local dialects, and not wanting to give myself away...keep ‘em guessing. I guess I wanted to sound more worldly, or sophisticated.
She smiled to herself as she looked to the girls, line dancing under the awning. “What?” I asked. “You’re talking about Texas accents and yours came back.” I laughed, “You know, it’s funny. Years ago I was dating a girl from Annapolis, where I lived before my job with the airline, which took me to San Francisco. My brother was getting married in Austin and I wanted to fly her in to be my date. She asked what there was to do in Austin, and I talked about the grand state capitol building, the town lake, the numerous clubs with live music in what is the live music capitol of the US. She laughed on the other end of the phone. ‘What?,’ I asked. ‘Your accent’ she said. ‘I have never heard your Texas accent so strongly.’ So apparently, when I talk about Texas, my accent sneaks in.”
I was so enjoying our conversation. I mentioned how it was akin to being on a cruise, where it isn’t at all odd to sit with a stranger. Sadly, it’s much more accepted to do so outside the US. We each ordered another drink. My nachos were better than the previous week, the beef winning over the chicken. “I’m back next weekend, when I think I’ll try the fish and chips,” I said, continuing, “I’m SO glad you stopped by and asked to join me. I would have had a nice evening alone, but it was so much better getting to know you. It’s these little gems in life that really make this job so wonderful.” “You’re fortunate,” she said. “You get to see the world and meet people, probably good and bad, but you so much more appreciate the good with the bad to compare to.” I couldn’t agree more.
“This is the only job I want in life,” I told her. “I used to own a Harley-Davidson dealership with my dad when this job fell in my lap, I didn’t want to be a flight attendant. I thought I’d use it to move into management. But one week in and I fell in love, and have never looked back. At one point I considered becoming a pilot, but realized I was much happier on the passenger side of the cockpit door. As a pilot, you only go where your plane flies. As a flight attendant, we work all of our aircraft fleet, so Sydney one day, Spokane, Washington the next.” “And here you in Bogota,” she beamed.
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