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.
It was after 11pm
and she was growing tired. We made our farewell pleasantries. Meeting
Joanne and having a rich conversation was such a joy. I hope she
looks me up and that I get to hear from her again. If not, I know
that I made her night as much as she made mine. I’m certain that
neither of us will think of our time in Bogota without thinking of
the night she stopped to ask a stranger if she could join. I wish
people did that more often. The wold is such a lovely place, as are
the states, with gems hidden throughout. All you have to do is be
open to them. I’m fortunate to be one of the US citizens with easy
access to the wonders that lie outside our borders.
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