About the landing preparations

I dreamt about the San Francisco.
It looked more like New York city encompassed with the dense Hong Kong mist.
It looked like some place that San Francisco is not, but I knew it is,
I tried to take my mother and a dog out to walk a bit around the golden gate, she said no.

Why can’t we go and walk a bit around the golden gate bridge
Why can’t we

My mother was busy, so was my father. Busy was my sister, my cousins, grandparents, aunties, uncles, friends from school, university, kindergarden, the friends I missed and loved.
My dog wasn’t my dog. He looked different, bigger and more polished, and not like my dog at all really.

Come, let’s go see a world, we’re in San Francisco! We are not here forever. We’re only here for a while. How can you know we will not be in a whole new place by tomorrow.

Let’s
go
and
see

But everybody was too busy.

So I took a metro a couple of blocks away from our San Francisco house, the one looking just like in the Mrs. Doubtfire and went to the Golden Gate park. I sat by the river and looked at the tones of red lines and cables, rapid waters of the blue river. There was nobody else just me and the dog that didn’t remind my dog in any way, the endless lines and splots and contextures, the red of it, the metallic.

The intimidating beauty, and the power, and the time, the cold wind smacking my face, tearing my hair, pulling it, ugly, the face of the dog I didn’t know, faithfully smiling to mine

And so I cried

I cried because I have never felt more lonely in my life. I cried because it was me and the powerful intimidating beauty surrounding me from every angle while everybody else was gone. How powerful the world felt by just surrounding me, the world created and remained, forgotten and dismissed.

Everybody else was too busy.
People got to work you know

I dreaded whether they would see what I saw? How I could I know they wouldn’t say

SAN FRANCISCO IS FOR JUNKIES.
YOU NEED MONEY
MONEY IS IMPORTANT
YOU WILL MISS THE MONEY
IT BUYS YOU A BIGGER HOUSE
YOU NEED TO PAY MONEY TO OTHER PEOPLE WHO NEED MORE MONEY TO BUY A BIGGER HOUSE
YOU NEED MORE MONEY
YOU NEED MORE MONEY
WORK
WORK
WORK
WORK
WORK
WORK
WORK
WORK

But I just sat there. I sat on the grass, green minty grass and I felt what I saw with every bit of my soul like I looked at it through a little piece of a pink glass.

*

Two years ago on the sunny friday morning of October I launched the Apollo 13 from the small ugly Warsaw airport. I waved to my family and friends and the love of my life, I pulled the blue pulsating heart out of my bleeding chest, put it inside the big metal, flying Apollo, and launched it. Since I have done it, two years, seven hundred thirty nights and days of comparable length has passed on the planet earth, the third planet from the Sun, the densest planet in the Solar System, the largest of the Solar System’s four terrestrial planets, and the only astronomical object known to accommodate life. My mum, dad, sister, grandma, grandad, aunties and uncles went to bed around seven hundred thirty times and saw around seven hundred thirty sundowns.
I feel like all these days I have been in a different galaxy. I escaped time as I knew it.

I left earth in Sydney on Friday night and I saw it again, twenty hours later, in Dubai on Saturday early morning, just to leave it again with a repacked suitcase to see it again in London
I like going west, because it makes your day last forever. If you drink coke and coffee you can do with it anything you want.
You can get a little cute wrinkle throughout the day.

Can a fly live the day longer than me?
Does it make me the ambassador of the inequality of days and nights?

I’m so lonely
but that’s okay
I shaved my head
and I’m not sad

Some of my beloved friends has fell in love throughout these seven hundred thirty days. I am so happy for them. Some has changed their style and career, moved to another city, broke up with their boyfriends, got a big pretty tattoo, some stopped smoking and finished universities.
I just fly and fly, just ride you know,
keep on rolling like there’s no tomorrow
jump from one island to another, oh what the world is but islands, making passionate love to the Empire State Building in the May sun, in December nights.

I cried when it started raining in Coventry and I couldn’t explain why. I think I cried because it was so beautiful. It sounded so pretty, like little twinkles on the window sill. It felt so clear, so simple and normal, it felt like my soul has been taking a little shower, so I sat down, with my face wet in raindrops and cried.

I saw a grizzly bear. He has been eating a plant on the side of Canadian Highway number one, the longest Highway in Canada. He could kill you with a paw, but he ate the little green plants.
It was beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes away.

Why do we underestimate the world so badly? Why do we let the system close us in the box, why do we let it make us breath the fake filtrated air and make quick unpassionate love to the computer screens.

It’s beautiful.
It’s wild.

That girl said i want to be like you
And who is that?
Red hat?
Glamorous lifestyle, the big glass doors of the beautiful hotels
London New York Paris oh baby
Tones of make up, red lips, sad eyes

That made me sad.
Can’t you see that’s everything I am not?

I worry my Apollo 13 will crush when touching down. I worry the atmosphere will torn it apart into million pieces, breaking my heart, turning it into something ugly.
I worry I will come back to all the busy people who couldn’t go to the Golden Gate park that day with my arms opened and it will not change a thing. I worry I will leave you, Empire State, to hear no sorry, go by yourself

That go by yourself I dread the most

And so I went

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about sleeping in the night and eating breakfast in the morning

For the last couple of weeks I gave up on writing.

I would probably say that for the last couple of weeks I gave up on living in some acceptable human way, and that is my only excuse for abandoning my writing.

As I opened this blog, or journal, or anything you would call the thing you are looking at in the moment, I understood how much it is missing, and for all that I have the poorest excuse the world knows: I’ve been busy.

There is not a single word about how I caught the last metro in Paris to see my old friend and spend a night in a student house that looks just like Hogwarts, nothing about how I went on my sixteen hours flight to Houston, Texas, how I visited the actual Apollo mission centre. I didn’t write a single word about how great I felt with the wind in my hair when I rented the city bike in Houston city, or how beautiful it was to get drunk on the beach of small Texas island Galveston and run in the water with my clothes wet.


I did not write a word about how after a night of no sleep I was refused to be taken on board of the plane to my country and how desperate I was to go, how much it hurt when after travelling for 12 hours I had just one day to stay at my parents house.  I probably wouldn’t even know how to explain how I tried to make that day last forever and spend some time with all the people I miss, and how it felt when I had to get up in the morning and take the airport train, again, again, again.

I moved my flat in Dubai. I packed everything I have, a mountain of books, heavy photography albums, Buddha mask made of mango tree, frozen food, all my pillows and clothes I keep on buying to make myself happy. I used some superpowers of my new flatmate and we moved it all, from A to B, so maybe I can start everything from another beginning, in another place.

I was busy and this word is empty. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. Words busy and tired lost its meaning long time ago and I naively keep on using them, with a little trust that maybe this time I will be understood and learning over and over that the vocabulary I brought from my previous life does not have much communication to offer.

Tired, more tired, the most tired

Busy, busier, the busiest

During last month I probably went around the globe some three times, but it does not impress anybody anymore, and most importantly it does not impress me.

I did not write a single word about how after a night of work I jumped on my seven hours flight to get rejected on the assessment day for my dream job, and how I cried a river in a hotel room, the place I live in, with my boyfriend holding me and patiently saying

it will be okay.

It gets my eyes wet right now when I am writing about it too, but I learnt my lesson and I am thankful for it. It always hurts to get back to ground, and I suppose it hurts even more, when you spend most of the time around thirty two thousand feet above the ground.

Growing up in the world of dreams, books, summers and winters, cats and cakes, it gets hard to face the life as it is.

I should have written about how I met an Italian stranger once walking on the Milan main square in the chilly autumn afternoon and how he showed me the city . Maybe it was the smell of the European winter and my Christmas scarf, or maybe his italian accent and refusing to speak in any communicative English, but I couldn’t stop laughing for a second.

The smell of italian bakery, Poland covered in red and yellow leafs, the taste of pierogi. My dad and sister smiling at the airport arrival doors, the wind in my hair once I opened the car window on the Texas journey, the warm nights, the cold evenings. My friend laughing at me at Paris Cité Universitaire station in the night, the wind from the massive engines tugging my uniform once I’m standing on the airport and directing my passengers to the bus. Eating cheese crepes by the river Thames and holding my boyfriends’ warm hand, birds flying around my head in Milan.

Conversations with strangers. Sun rise

from

the

plane

window.

My job is taught, but beautiful. I have too many memories to share them with my friends. I have too many memories happening to watch news. I am too busy to tell my parents where am I going next. I am excited about evenings when there is nothing to do so I can go to bed early.

I feel constantly guilty for people I care about. I feel guilty for not having answered the messages, for not meeting friends the day I was supposed to meet them. I feel guilty because I’m missing birthdays, weddings, Christmas, mother’ days, family arguments, for not knowing what day it is, sometimes even being lost in another month. I bring wrong currencies to wrong countries, sometimes I forget to eat, sometimes I eat in the night and sleep in the day.

All the things I wrote make me realise one fact, which is, I am pretty much left alone with all my memories and my work. To spend most of your time in the sky is beautiful, but pretty lonely.


My life at some point has divided into the life itself and its narration. It is the nature of my job and I don’t want you all to listen to me whining, but instead of describing the places I see and get amazed with, I thought, at once I will describe the place I am in, so maybe you can understand it a little bit.

And if you don’t, it’s okay too.

About how for the one day I was an American / New York City

For the one day I was an American.
That one day I was walking on SoHo and watching the mannequins with my eyes wide open, I was riding on the Wall Street and observing with disbelief how true is what they say, “slow down” said noone ever on the Wall Street.
I was eating a creamy chocolate ice cream of the size of my two fists together in the Central Park and laughing at the tiny dogs struggling to follow their jogging owners along 8th Avenue, five minutes walk from Broadway.
I was smiling to the massive billboards on the Times Square, and they were smiling back, and while listening to the Nat King Cole singing Smile, what’s the use of crying, you’ll find that life is still worthwhile If you just smile I thought,
the life is great.


This journey has started a bit different from all the others.
Once a year I have a reserve month. This means that I get no roster for the following month and have basically no idea where am I going next, how long for, and whether I’ll sleep in my own bed or in the one thousand miles away.
I suppose it does sound exciting, but believe me, it costs a lot of nerves too. My bag is lying on the floor packed: half filled with sweaters and jeans, the other half with bikinis and flip flops.
I pray that once I’ll pick up the phone the voice in the speaker will say “hi Emilia, you are going to San Francisco”. Or something like that. Or at least somewhere with grass. And trees. After all these days spent in melting Dubai, that is more than enough to keep me happy.

So I’m lying in bed, watching Al Pacino in Donnie Brasco and feeling like a proper New York gangster. I feel so much like an American wise man that if I had a cigar I would be sitting there smoking it in my bed. If you know what I mean.
The phone is ringing like stupid and when I pick it up mechanically what I hear is that in four hours I’m going to the New York city. It feels great. It actually feels so great that I put Louis Armstrong’s What a wonderful world and we sing together when I’m putting my clothes on.
It is okay that I’m tired,
I’m leaving today
I want to be the part of it
New York, New York

The first thing I remember is the view of the old cemetery. All the concrete crosses looking the same, a bit too tall and a bit too grey, set into the long rows measured with mathematical precision contrasted with the background of all the tall buildings in any possible shape and size you could imagine, smiling to you with the promise, if you make it here, you can make it anywhere. This view had something powerful in it, the contrast of the dead cemetery and the city more alive than anything I have ever seen in my life kept my eyes wide opened for the whole New York morning traffic journey.
And the New York traffic is the real deal, I’m telling you.



It hasn’t even crossed my mind to get into the bed after twelve hours flight. The New York city is not a place to sleep. It doesn’t matter how tired you are: every street forming another square filled with another high building, carrying another yellow taxi that sound merged into one melody with thousands of others will call you to come and become a part of it.
The thing about New York is, that the moment you get there, you don’t feel like a tourist or outsider anymore. You are a part of it. It doesn’t matter whether you are black, or white, or Asian, or whether you wear funny pants, or your dog is wearing funny pants. It makes you fit.
The moment you step out, you become the part of the picture.


As much as I like going out and exploring with others, I couldn’t wait to be in New York by myself. When you are on your own, everything gets more vivid. You know where you want to go and what you want to do there. Strangers are more friendly. Shop assistants and homeless people talk to you, people on the streets smile when you’re passing by. The possibility of getting lost makes your brain draw a map, and constantly fill it with new nooks and crannies. This is how you make friends with a place.
And I really wanted to make friends with New York.

I think a lot of what makes New York, is what you have already seen and it doesn’t matter whether you’ve been there or not yet. If you have a little bit of imagination and you’re able to see Frank Sinatra singing in the old style jazz club on Broadway filled with a smoke from long, thin cigarettes, or a man playing a solo on his golden saxophone from the little balcony above the street on SoHo, if you can see with your eyes how Jay Gatsby crosses the Brooklyn bridge in his car, how Marilyn Monroe presses a dress to her knees on the Times Square, how Al Pacino walks down with Johnny Deep on the streets of Little Italy wearing dark glasses and heavy coats, it doesn’t matter whether you’re there for a day, or forever, you will feel like the happiest person on the globe, just like I did.


So that would be all that I wanted to say about the New York.
And if you are wondering whether Downtown and Central Park look the way they show them on the movies, and all that fuss about America is there for any reason, and if you’re curious whether it’s worth to fly around the North Pole to see it all, I suppose I’m too much of a dreamer to give you the right answer.

Unless you are thinking about selling your fridge and buying a plane ticket.
Than listen, sell your fridge and get a ticket,
if you know what I mean

Osaka, Japan

Where to start?

I remember it was a summer two thousand and five. It must have been August, because it was raining everyday and the Sun was going down pretty early. My mum was on holidays with my little sister and I was left home alone with dad, pretty cool time. We both have always been horrible cooks, so I didn’t have to come back home at any certain time for a dinner. Instead I was getting some twenty zlotych to get myself a pizza and was let free. Twenty zlotych is not a bad money for a fourteen years old, who reminds more of a bony boy than a girl, and can survive a day on big cup of hot chocolate. These days twenty zlotych felt like you got a freedom.

That summer they opened the big shopping center in the town, twenty minutes walk from home. It was a pretty big thing and a great first step in forming my generation of consumers. I remember how after school we were all going there and window shopping all the things we couldn’t afford. Anyway, that end of summer two thousand and five was particularly boring. So I was taking my twenty zlotych and going to this shopping center. I remember they had a big book store. It was a proper thing: with all the CD albums you could think about, rows of books and red sofas, so people could sit down and read a book. I remember it was a pretty cool thing.

I went around that bookstore and grabbed some books with nice covers. When you’re fourteen you only want to read books with nice covers. I got to the sofas hoping that any of these pretty books wasn’t totally boring so I could sit there still for a short while and look smart. These sofas were always full of people looking smart, especially these days.
There was one book looking particularly interesting. The cover was pink, the kind of Japanese cherry blossom pink, with the name of the author written down to up. It was Murakami’s Norwegian wood.

When I think about it, it is actually quite funny that this was the first Murakami’s book I bumped into. Even thought I think he has many greater novels, this is the one that has made him famous in Japan and all over. Apparently you can find t-shirt and pens with that title in Japan. It is the only one of his books ever filmed. I am not a particular fan of it now, but that day I was miles miles away, and hardly even noticed how it became completely dark outside. By that time I was the only person reading on the red sofas.

That was my first trip to Japan.
It was a first trip to many other things in my life too. It was my choice of later studies and many other choices too. But let me tell you about Japan.

After Norwegian came all the others: South of the Border, West of the Sun, Dance, Dance, Dance, Sputnik Sweetheard – from this one I still have a picture of a woman imprisoned on a top of a still Ferris wheel in my head and I remember it every time I look at one, 1Q84, later Tony Takitani, Wind-up bird Chronicles which is still my favorite book, Kafka on a shore, Sleeping woman and blind willow in a hard cover that I got from my childhood best friends for eighteenth birthday. All of them.
I used to be pretty obsessed about Spirited away which was the beginning of my romance with Hayao Miyazaki movies. When I remember Howl’s Moving Castle it makes me want to get into bed and watch it over and over again. At uni I discovered Kazuo Ishiguro.

Saying all that, I had a pretty vivid picture of Japan in my head when I was boarding on my Osaka flight. It probably doesn’t make me the best person to tell you about Japan. I have pretty much loved it, long long before I even knew I will ever get to see it.

I must have looked pretty stupid using my both hands passing the tiny chopsticks, bowing million times saying “arigato” and doing all that just to be at least a little bit Japanese. Japan is a good lesson on culture.

First thing that made me smile once I got to my room was a toilet. I know it sounds ridiculous, but Japanese toilet is the highest art of technology. I don’t want to tell you too many details, but once a European person sits on the heated toilet desk and see around four or five buttons with other toilet shower options, it feels a bit confusing. A light shower, spraying shower… let’s not go into the details.

Osaka is busy. If you don’t know where are you going, you will be lost after passing two crossings. Hundreds of people run somewhere, they all look like they knew where they are going. Heads up, look straight. They wear white shirts inside the black office trousers, some of them have surgical masks on the faces. Women hide their white skin under umbrellas. Some people look straight into my camera. Later on I find out how empty these looks are.



The trees are singing. Everything is Japan is living. Streets are full of people, grass is full of grasshoppers. Osaka is loud, but not noisy.

After getting lost in the massive underground train station and struggling with buying a ticket we went to Arashiyama, the bamboo forest. Arashiyama is a small place. It looks exactly how I imagined Japan when reading all these books. It is green and quiet. You can hear the birds singing, it is green everywhere around. Ice cream shops sell two types of ice creams: milk, white one, and a green tea. Everything is a bit smaller than in Europe, the ceilings are a little bit lower, you take smaller steps on the stairs. Seventeen meters high bamboos give a misty light to the path. It feels very spiritual. Girls in kimonos walk slowly in their high Japanese shoes looking like they were some forest creatures. Some of them hold the phones in a pink cover and text somebody. Geishas must be texting somebody too.

In the middle of a forest there is a wide river. Maybe fifteen meters wide and maybe forever long. It has the colour of the trees. The forest is so dense you can’t see it properly at the first sight, but it is there, surrounded by the mountains. When you look at the water you can see it’s moving in all the different directions. It is full of fish, turtle. There is a three meter snake sunbathing with half of the body out. Pilot is running around trying to take a photo of it from every possible angle. It makes me laugh. The little girl in kimono covers the face with both hands when I try to discretely point my camera at her. I feel like I discovered the sense of sight for the first time in my life, that is how beautiful this place is.


After the walk we catch a train to Kyoto. There is a boy and girl sitting on the opposite side, I can see them taking photos of us and laughing. Me, pilots and the other girls must look for them like some crazy creatures from a different world.

Kyoto is much much older and quieter than Osaka. Have you seen Rob Marshall’s “Memoirs of a Geisha“?

Imagining little geishas running between old Japanese houses for their music lessons comes pretty easy. Me and another girl went to the tiny hidden local sushi place for a dinner. Even though we probably have made the older lady who was serving us a little bit uncomfortable, you could see we were a bit of an entertainment. There were only us and an older local lady eating something from her tiny bowl with chopsticks. I ordered sushi and the other girl tried to communicate with a lady and order a same thing, but at the end it didn’t work quite well. The older lady tried to talk to us, and the fact we could not understand each other at all gave her a great laugh. The place was tiny and very tidy. There was a quiet traditional Japanese music in the back, and it all smelled like a seaweed and a green tea. I loved it so much that I almost left a tip, which is a rude thing in Japan. Yes, that’s right – no tips.


My impression of Japan is just the same as it was nine years ago when I read the first serious book in my life sitting in the bookstore.
It sounds like Claude Debussy’s Clair de lune and smells of million scents. It is full of helpful hands and kind-hearted, focused faces.
Everything goes smooth like a wide river.
If you lost your cat than you probably should go on a walk to find it and if it takes five years, it doesn’t matter. If you decided to invent planes, you go to school and invent planes.
Life is so easy – This is how I feel in Japan.
The cherry tree blossoms, people run to work. If it starts at eight, be there at seven. Some people hold hands. Their skin is very fair. Girls are very skinny, they hide their doll-like faces under colorful umbrellas. There is a man with an electric guitar playing on a street.
I buy two bottles of sake in a local market and go back to the hotel.
It’s time to go back.



About being 32,000 ft above the ground

I love my job

I love my job

Juices, water, soft drinks. More cups. Too much water. I am preparing the cart for the next service. I am doing it mechanically, I feel like I’ve done it so many times now. In the meantime somebody pops up in the kitchen and asks me for the tea. I make the tea, we talk.

Where are you flying to?

This is the question I asked so many times, it could be my name now. It comes out of my mouth naturally, feels almost like I was breathing it out. But it isn’t worn out. The answers still make me smile. The interest on my face is not fake. I want to know. I still can’t believe all the crazy places that people go to, and all the different reasons they have. I am just as passionate about traveling as I was being seventeen. There is more that one million reasons to fly.

The man asks me whether I miss my family. We’ve been already flying for ten hours. I haven’t slept for around twenty, the time zone change is killing me. It is dark in the cabin. All the windows are closed and most of the passengers sleep, some of them stretch their legs next to the kitchen, some watch the movie. From time to time I open the window blind just to look outside, but there is no Sun, it is still dark outside. All the big cities we are passing by look like Christmas trees. Looking at them calms me down. I think about what people do. I wonder whether they are happy. Once I saw how the half of some city got cut out from electricity. I looked at it, and the part of it just turned black, like it was never there.

You know, when the mine gets cut off, or some massive shopping center, everything just stops, people panic, some die.

But when I am up there and I see a part of the world going black, I don’t think about any of these. It is too far away to think about it. It just doesn’t feel realistic.

When the man asks me the question, I feel confused. I do miss my family. And I miss my friends. But I haven’t seen the Sun for more than fifteen hours, we are going West. What I miss the most at this very moment is the world. I think about blending strawberries. I want to blend strawberries. I miss the sound of the cars in the morning, when I sit on the balcony and drink my tea. I miss it how the day changes, how it cools down in the evening and people go out from their houses. I miss people riding their bikes. I miss making a grocery shopping and sitting in my bed eating chocolate. All these things feel so far away. They feel much more afar than these 32,000 ft that actually separates me from them and I don’t know which reality is real: the one up there, or the one I miss.

It is still five more hours to go. I feel tired. But not frustrated. I am doing my job. There is a young mum with a nine months baby girl on her lap in my cabin. The baby girl cries, and the older lady sitting next to her tries to help her best. She smiles.

There is around sixty people in the cabin I am responsible for. All the different kind of people: mother with babies, elderly going on the life trip, students, people who don’t speak any English, people who are tired, sad, happy, excited. I probably won’t recognize their faces on ground, but that is okay, they won’t recognize me neither.

One man comes to the kitchen to stretch his legs. I get him a water. His accent is Australian, but he tells me he goes to Warsaw. It makes me happy. We change to Polish, which uncomfortably distances us with it’s formal “Pan, Pani” (tr. Sir, Madam). It takes a while until our native language start sounding natural.

He moved to Adelaide in 1981, running away from the occupation in Poland. He tells me about these times, and they are still alive in the way he talks about them. There was nothing there, only fear, it didn’t look anything like Poland he is going to see again in next 10 hours. I asked him, why Adelaide. He doesn’t know. He didn’t choose. It was the only place he could go to right now, and back than he couldn’t wait, so he took his things, he took his wife and moved to the other end of the globe, knowing anything about it. We talk for quite a while. He says that life in Australia is just easier. It goes smoother, and that is where he belongs. But we also agree on the way it feels to hear your mother tongue up there, when you don’t expect to hear it at all. It feels a little bit like, out of a sudden, you were being reminded of who you are by a stranger. It is not an easy feeling to describe.

When I am in the plane I think differently. I think a lot about the consequences. I think what may happen, if this container is not latched properly. I think what may happen, when you stand up from your seat too early, or don’t put your seat belt on, or when I am too tired to think and to focus my vision at the fixed point. It is a job and as every job you do most of your time, it turns into a routine. But the part of my routine is also to think, at every single take off and landing, about how to evacuate all of my passengers the quickest I can. Whether I can open my doors or not. Whether I can open or block my doors if we land on water. I make sure whether the sound that the plane made, while the wheels got out is normal. Whether the wing looks all right. I think about where the oxygen bottle is, in case if the lady sitting in front of me looking pale faints. I wonder what medicines takes the older man in the other seat and whether it won’t work differently in the cabin pressure.

What I wanted to say is, that after fifteen hours flight you can forget you are the human being. You don’t think about whether you have to do washing next day or not, or whether your bills are paid. Up there everything is different. The air feels different. The sounds are different. Me, other crew (that I only met few hours ago), and all the three hundred people who go around the world for their own, unique reasons are in this all together. You can be tired to the point you are not sure whether you can stand straight, but you are responsible and there is no way out. I think this is my greatest lesson from my job. There is no way out different than patience.

Being a cabin crew is not only about going to all these amazing places and taking photos with the Eiffel Tower, buying all these great souvenirs and sending postcards to your friends, looking great on the airports.

You know what do I dream about when we get on the ground? That maybe somebody waits for me with the flowers on the airport. I always catch myself staring at name plates people hold on waiting in the arrivals meeting point. They stare at me too, but none of the plates has my name written on it. We go straight to the bus, load the suitcases.

The job is done.