A New Dawn...

 

When does the child pass the baby pacifier of its first years onto the challenging years of adolescence which , in turn,  hands the bridles of its life over to the mature adult without knowing how, without training , if only through words of mouth and the wise parental guidance ?

And through all these stages from the very first breath of life?

Although I had cashed my first real pay check, I must confess that within me, the impulsive pangs of a singing and carefree youth still tickled me.

Celebrating my farewells to childhood or teens might have been easy because of the excitement I felt to grasp life with a serious mind. I was thus overpowering the left-over of innocence which, of course, made me stronger, when in truth, words such as responsibility, obligation or commitment hadn’t appeared in my vocabulary yet. They were even frightening me a bit.

Only the calm poise that I had felt emerging slowly in my heart made me realize that I had indeed changed in between my two good-byes to France.

After the triumphs of my surprise visit at my parents house in France, which had brought me right back to the homely comforts of the child , I had left, once again but this time , I would cherish the memories of seeing my parents’ happy faces. They had admired my success.

Their pride weighed more in my favour now.

Forgiveness had replaced the agonies of a long silence I had imposed upon them.

I had turned my head and heart once more, pointing west towards my life in the USA.

It was exactly what I had done. I had declared myself totally independent, cutting the invisible umbilical cord now and forever, the bonds from my birth country and its own future.

I had become a proud and respected member of the great TWA flying family.

Americans had accepted me with open arms, I loved them and the land, the varieties of everything, especially the way I was treated. Not as a foreigner who speaks English with a pronounced French accent, but as a compatriot of all passionate Latin souls or everything else which came from the Old continent!

Upon landing in JFK-I in New-York, if anyone had asked me then, I would have smiled triumphantly and declared myself totally in charge of my own destiny.

Shortly after I had entered the apartment, closing its door from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, so relieved to find it empty.

This lovely safe haven of inner peace would be the perfect companion for my thoughts.

Being able to, or having a safe place to drop my shoulders completely, and then enjoy the silence and the absence of trivial conversation through the quietness of the rooms had been a balsam for my soul.

I needed to think in total solitude.

Now that I had a fantastic and secure job, how to settle my private life as well?

This studio occupied by five airline hostesses whose relationship to one another had been the kind of “off-and-on”, the throwing of light hellos and the “have-a-good-flight “in a hurry, either coming or going, when the only greetings were the click noises of suitcases or the clacking of high heels on the wooden floor -all this had been our first living place and situation right after graduation but we all knew this was not a permanent one.

With a head boiling with ideas and at the same time a body so terribly exhausted, the emotional journey to France had drained the last ounces of energy in me.

When sleep fell upon me, one last thought:

I had decided time had come to inform my lovely and invisible roommates that I was ready to fly on separate wings!

A new dawn was about to begin…

“Let every dawn of morning be to you as the beginning of life,

and every setting sun be to you as its close.”

- John Ruskin -

Carry - On ...

When I was created and delivered to my final destination, it didn’t take too long to wait until I was offered as a personal gift from TWA to an Airline Hostess upon graduation day.

I was so thrilled to enter the life of one as an international escort and my joy had no limits when I was assigned to my French mistress. I would always be ready to move upon her instructions.

I was born in 1910 in Denver, Colorado USA and my creator was Jesse Shwayder. I was named after Samson who was the Biblical strongman and later, my entire family was called Samsonite…

My mistress was ever so tender and proud to have received me although she knew I had many siblings which looked just like me… beige coloured, thin and with own key but it was the personal luggage tag which distanced me from the others as it clearly stated I belonged to one special person.

I had to be carried by the top handle whilst my grandchildren today have wheels which increase, of course, the pressure upon their bottom through asphalt, rain or snow.

When I entered my mistress’s life and along the million and half miles of duty, I became her faithful companion around the world.

I was her first, the strongest and I served my mistress well during the longest time of her flying assignments, until I retired due to wear and tear.

But I was carried and taken good care of during all moments of active duty and I know for sure that I would be regarded as a sentimental value, which is what humans feel.

Never did I join the rest of the awesome travelling crowd in the aircraft’s belly - although the sheer pleasure of jabbing my sharp corners at a Louis Vuitton trunk would have been an extraordinary feat for me - I felt privileged and honoured to be placed inside the cabin, in First class, right in front of the dividing curtain, supporting the back of its last row’s seat.

I remember the care I was given. Although the tossing and bumping, the hardships of intense travelling were very much a test of endurance, it was all worth it. 

Upon each return from a journey in the air, from a night in multiple hotel rooms to the countless examinations by Official uniformed custom officers, men or women of the world, and finally arrive home to rest, along with some of my sisters, in the tiny studio flat in Manhattan, I experienced a hectic and passionate life which reflected very much the personality of the emotional human pretty face of my mistress.

During this short moment of respite, only three days for my lady to rest and resource in between flights, have her uniform dry-cleaned and the silk lingerie hand-washed, I was never forgotten.

First emptying the personal contents I had protected with great responsibility, I was for each time cleaned, inside out, towards the final check just to make sure I would be ready to be locked to follow my mistress for new adventures in the skies, carrying everything she needed.

Sometimes I felt her mind to be elsewhere and there was nothing I could do about it, except watch her disarray or frustration when she became angry for her forgetfulness during a stop somewhere in the Middle-East or anywhere else in the world…

You could say I was the perfect silent partner and from the very beginning, I realized I was the one which meant everything in the life of my busy lady at the time. She didn’t own anything else therefore each item placed inside my bosom would always have a special significance.

I ended my services but would forever exist in a special collection my mistress called memory.

“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go.                                                    But no matter, the road is life."

                                                        - Jack Kerouac -

The Human Factor...

Sitting in First Class, upon the aftermaths of a divine feed, I had gone into a dreamy half-consciousness, letting my mood flow forward - with soft thoughts as its escort!

However and, gradually, although a passenger enjoying the comfort of a spacious First Class seat , I couldn’t help but feeling totally helpless and, for the first time, nailed as I was, being constricted to a seat with belt on, had not only begun to stress me but had killed Morpheus brutally!

I knew the signs …

High above the Atlantic, between New York and Paris, in the middle of the night, some four hours away from France, while I had been offered a fantastic time to dream and in luxurious surroundings, my instincts were telling me something entirely different.

I had become acclimatized to night watch.

My well-adjusted biological clock had made no mistake.

No matter how much I had tried, the ramblings in my mind had made so much noise that my eyes had popped open whilst my heart pumping the usual adrenaline rushes.

Without further ado, the dreamy state faded away.

Slowly unbuckling the belt, quietly moving out in the aisle for fear of disturbing those who were mercifully sound asleep, I had opened the galley’s curtains with great care - knowing the crew was behind it, whispering to each other, taking a break.

Pointing to my glass - it had been filled instantly, no words uttered, only the tenderness of a smile…as a caring recognition.

Back to my seat, I had tucked myself in again.

With Champagne and a Camel cigarette - let peace come to me naturally, I thought.

Apart from the fact that I had been now fully awake in the middle of the night, realizing that I had altered my own clock and developed this mental awareness while working in flight, in order to survive through the temptations of a blissful sleep - I had found it awfully frustrating as a passenger. I had huge problems to calm down.

However - was it the “clock” the only one to blame?

Oh no - I had reasoned - as an unknown observation made its entrance …

Being “in control“ of so many souls, in such a restricted-space-flying-machine and humanly foreign environment, had changed me very much as well and I had shamelessly concurred with myself that I had fallen in love with - me!

So - while I had gained so much self-confidence working in the cabin and my whole posture oozed with it, I felt totally helpless and weak sitting there, desperate and counting the hours left to the flight with nothing to do - except light another cigarette or cogitate some more …

I had been given the ability, not the power, to interact easily with “my“ passengers and I had often found myself in strange situations when this attribute of mine - the extrasensory perception - had made me able to foresee a passenger’s wish - or anyone else’s.

However now, buried in deep thoughts, time had quickly ebbed away and without realizing it, we had been approaching Paris.

How would I foresee this future event?

Although the feelings that I had accomplished so much already in my life had made me so happy, now the family obligations had shown themselves in hordes, and these were nagging me with anxiety.

A test!

Would being “on top of the world“ in as many wonderful ways as possible give me enough courage to keep me in full control over – myself - or would my emotions take over?

Yes, a test!

                          “It’s Your Time to Rise above Today’s Bumps In The Road.

                             You Are Closer To Success Than You Think! “

                                                     - Billy Cox -

Qualifications For An Airline Hostess !

The Royal Treatment... Eastbound!

It had happened so fast!

In the space of two years, my American Dream had become a wonderful reality.

USA had proven to be just like I had envisioned the land of opportunity.

Never abandoning my goal after the first turn-off, I had returned to a new audition which was not a surprise for the interviewers and later I had succeeded through all “obstacles “.

Fully appreciating the true glamour of the job which was to be able to enjoy hours on board, in such an intimate and subdued atmosphere of a Boeing 707’s cabin, a melting pot of cultures, with the world as my playground, and the luxury of First class.

On this particular evening, since my arrival in Boston as a Mother’s helper, I would travel again, for a second time, as a passenger on a transatlantic flight but, this time, sitting in First class, my gold wings safely tucked away…to show my “family-in-waiting”.

However, when I had boarded TWA’s flight 800 bound for Paris, although I had set forth this mission of surprising my family, I had decided to enjoy the exquisite prospects of being treated as a Royal in First class!

My window seat was on the last row, its back forward the dividing curtain, separating both classes of service. Out of twelve seats, eight were occupied and no passenger sat next to me. I was enormously thankful to be alone with my thoughts.

Taxiing out, on the ground, my colleague working the First class cabin smiled at me but didn’t acknowledge my status for the other passengers. I was now her guest and would be catered with the same deference …

After take-off, shades had been drawn down, cabin lights softly dimmed, giving an imaginary candle light environment, but with enough clearness to perform cabin’s services.

Cocktails had quickly been served in First class, not from a liquor cart, but individually concocted in the galley then elegantly placed on a small tray on the armrest table...and I had continued with my “pre-take-off “Cordon Rouge … drinking it with tiny lady-like sips.

For dinner, I unfolded the tray in front of me and it was directly set by the hostess with white linen and napkins rolled around real silverware.  Crystal glasses had joined the artistic lay-out.

The first serving cart had been quietly but efficiently filled in the galley…with the bountiful hors d’oeuvres which delicately shared the top tray with a non-metallic bowl nested inside a larger bowl filled with crushed ice.

That was the designated place for the Beluga caviar. It rested coolly, garnished on the sides, with hard-cooked eggs (yokes and whites chopped separately) and minced onion. Finally iced-cold vodka or Champagne was to match the sturgeon eggs with perfection….

I had followed, watching and observing each gesture… like a happily fed copy cat…in silence…and at the same time, relishing through each second of this first event of luxury in my life!

The first course had ended…and the cart had reached the galley to be undressed…for the next chapter.

It was wheeled out ago a few minutes later.

The Purser, leading it down the aisle with the hostess opposite him serving directly from her side, both personally addressing each passenger by their names, was solely responsible for slicing the exclusive piece of meat which had been grilled at high temperature and at the last minute, in the ovens of the galley, and then placed in front of him, on a wooden carving block.

From where I sat, I could see the steam moving upwards from the top shelf which had been adorned with a most delicate pre-charcoaled Chateaubriand Sirloin steak and hunger twisting anxiously in my stomach, I let my nostrils happily accepting the fumes of gravies, mixing harmoniously with the steamed vegetables own scent and the Gratin Dauphinois…and all of these impressions were making me drowsy with extreme pleasure!

The gentle doze off …with my head …after one (etc…) flute of Champagne, anyone would have arrived at the natural assumption that I had now reached a certain stage of inebriation?

You assumed wrong... and let me tell you why!

Forgotten were the industrial and arrogant odours of an airplane…

Disappeared were the fears that my heart had encountered for this mission…

Lost in space the Mumbo jumbo of my English tongue…

As I was returning naturally to my birth language after two years…

 All these elements were balancing, juggling around in my head…and along with the high altitude, I had reached the highest spirits of happiness …truthfully and completely...and I may have appeared “tipsy “to any insensitive soul!

Again... no, my lovely...

Because…you see...life events had made me stoned and, for fear of being exposed, sleep had mercifully fallen upon me!

Whether the First class dessert service had been disturbed by a passing turbulence or not, I would never have witnessed the damages…except the calories …on my body!

Good Night !

Going West ...!

The last time I had flown as a passenger, on a transatlantic crossing, had been two and half years before, on my way from France to USA.

When I had at last translated my young girl’s dreams into reality.

Remembering the feelings I had been filled with, I can still and with precision bring back the images. How I had parked the nervous butterflies of excitement deep down in my heart as I was leaving France and exchanged them with the controlled purpose fitting into the adult world…when I had landed at Logan International airport in Boston.

Yes, I had jumped over the first serious stepping stone in my life and it felt good.

From the clothes I had been wearing, a light blue hand-made coat-dress, a burgundy coloured pill-box hat with matching handbag and shoes chosen by me, just like my idol Princess Grace of Monaco, who had been my true inspiration as a child entering adolescence.

I didn’t see myself as a tourist or an academic…like the French young man who was my neighbour on the flight.

I played Madame Nonchalance but at the same time, clutching my handbag from time to time, just to remind me of its exclusive contents:

A contract attesting my position as a Mother’s helper for a family living in Cambridge, Mass. and a period of one and a half years…whose duties were exclusively laid out to care of a young boy, six years old. I would earn $50,- a month, minus the reimbursement of the one-way flight ticket my American family had advanced for me.

In addition, a French driver’s license I had earned which had been a condition to get this post and finally, the most important documentation of them all…the Green Card which gave me permanent residence in the USA.

Upon landing in Boston late afternoon, a bout of tension had slowly but surely made its appearance with its tickling around my belly button.

I recognized the signs.

The anxieties of not knowing what was ahead… were letting insecurity move in anew and stress my nerves.

However when brutally and literally my flying machine had landed on the American soil, I had quickly composed myself into a relative calm and had awoken to the real world.

I was definitely on my own now…

I hadn’t rested nor slept during the eight hours flight…and poked distractedly on the airline food which I tasted frugally, careful not to mess up my appearance.

 Upon landing, I had been deeply engrossed in my own thoughts and oblivious to my surroundings.

It was such a surprise really when it all happened so quickly, so efficiently!

After having gone through U.S. immigration and Customs, here I was standing, alone, with my suitcase, in the arrival area and looking at the many happy faces that were impatiently waiting for loved ones.

What to do now, I thought?

How or where would I meet or find my employer who had kindly offered to pick me up at the airport?

Acting as always on an impulse, I had come about a brilliant idea!

I had decided that I would first look around for a possible “candidate” who would match her portrait I had imagined, be cool and with my usual cheeky way, go to this lady and ask if she was (by any chance) Mrs. E. . .

I had been in a way profiling her in my mind, given parameters in advance about her background, age; profession etc… and I thought I would use such hints to guide me forward.

If not, I would then go to the information desk and ask them to page her.

So decided so done!

My eyes intently observing the many faces…as I was slowly making my way around.

 I approached a tall and elegant woman, with demure politeness and a lively, but deferential way, and asked in a rehearsed French-English:

 -“Excuse me but are you Mrs. E.? “

 My Guardian Angel had been working overtime because the first woman I go to answers me with the most positive word of the English language:

YES!

There and then, as bizarre as it may have sounded each time I have told this story, I had begun my American Dream with quite a strange piece of luck.

                         “Intuition is a suspension of logic due to impatience…”

                                                - Rita Mae Brown -