Flights of Fancy in Praise of Cabin Crew

My ideas come easier if I watch football or something equally bizarre, it's not so much the skill and pace, it's the commentary; sports commentary, especially on radio is a sublime skill. I absolutely loathe golf, but I could listen to the commentators on the Ryder Cup when it was in the K Club as if they were performing a cantata.  I just saw the equaliser in the Barcelona v Paris St Germain match, how very exciting, maybe that's inspiring me to keep this post somewhat international and about teamwork.

Cost Centre # 2 Flying by the Cliffs of Moher with
Baron Von Richter Scale

I'm  part of a crew on a racing boat, I take orders, and get wet and very cold and it's all over in two hours, then we have a pint after dusting ourselves down. If anything goes wrong we blame the equipment or the course. Luckily, I've even got to do some short cruises at the invitation of friends, in warm waters. There is something about being cut off from land that removes life's complications and scrunches them up for a few hours, I think that's why yacht racing is so popular.

I've always thought flying for a living would be a totally glamorous job, despite the fact that the crew have a slew of people in various stages of inebriation and panic attacks to deal with. But you know, on those long hauls, they get to cocktail and shop in New York, Boston, Chicago maybe even Singapore, Shanghai, Sligo-Knock. Or just to pop over to Paris for a night at the opera, London for dinner and back.

I never knew an actual stewardess personally, my ex-husband's ex-wife was one, but I never really knew her and he'd used up all his wanderlust by the time I'd met him, story of my life. Became a stay at home slippers type of man by the time we'd had our boys. Now, I have a real live senior cabin crew girlfriend, it sounds like the next best thing to being in school, with actual exotic destinations and getting paid to boot. I love the idea of Galley FM where all the gossip we don't get down on terrestrial gets scooped in the cloud. That's the real cloud not the i-Cloud.

Racquel doesn't think I write enough bad stuff about myself in this, so here is a confession, I've just cycled to her house to collect duty free cigarettes, have a chat, drink and cycle back uphill in a bit of a wobble. I'm not sure if any of that's illegal, but it felt bad. I think it's ok once it's still bright outside.

Having had years of working for myself, either in track suit at home or Armani suits in a board room, I quite fancy a uniform again, with a badge, I could be designated work hours, somebody else would even check all that for me, meaning the rest of the time was actually free, like not to having to worry about work, whether I'd got my report written and will the client pay, ever.

While it might be too late for me, I think I'll be recommending it to one of my cost centres, there's great fun and serious leadership skills required up there, not to mention diplomacy, patience, humour and all important, manners. Way more serious than you realise as you hide behind your Cara magazine and order that third quarter bottle of merlot. It's more like IMF meets Croke Park and we know what a mess they've made of that on Terrestrial. They could do with some cabin crew skills down here. And by the way, gentlemen, don't tap the stewardess's bottom with your finger when you want more coffee.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland, in Spring

Absentee or Long Suffering Boyfriend says he’s taking control of the situation, no way was I going to be allowed to ski and the skis are going back to the rental shop.

‘I’ll be fine by Wednesday’ I assure him. He’s not in the least perturbed, but, sadly says there is no point staying in a ski hotel if we’re not skiing. We can drive somewhere else I helpfully recommend, have car will travel, I think. I can see he’s already diverting back to work. If I had a few bob and no job, well that is half the case, I’d drive to Lake Como and be there in time for Easter when the season opens in the middle of the lake, or Venice where there’s bound to be some carnival atmosphere, and let the lodgers and cost centres take over the bills.

There’s a short train ride from Davos to Klosters, it’s on my itinerary, and we might not have got there if we skied each day. It’s also a 24km ski run, which is a bit much even without an injury.

I’m expecting to find somewhere spectacular; this is where Princess Diana came with her boys, and where all those other royal skiers get papped in Winter. The train trundles through pine forests sloping dramatically on both sides, glimpses of frozen lakes appear, ABF keeps saying he can’t believe there’s so much snow this time of year, there’s usually green fields by the end of March. We arrive in Klosters and guess what? The streets are empty, as are the bars and restaurants. We go in search of a quintessentially pretty Alpine bistro; there are none open for lunch, probably only high on the slopes. Most buildings have classic Alpine character, unlike Davos, making it at least a pretty place to visit. I had wanted a stroll around Klosters and I’m certainly getting that in the search taking us to all ends of the town, hobble, hobble.

I’m beginning to think Dublin is as vibrant and alive as they say in Failte Ireland adverts.

I have morphed into a restaurant critic, but since I’ve left landladyland all I’ve done is eat and drink and fall. And I’m not even here forty eight hours.

We decide on the Bars (Bears) Bistro in the Piz Buin hotel and agree it’s the kind of hotel we’d prefer to stay in. Very hip detail. Of course, we’ve missed the lunch window and have to opt for pizza. It was, without doubt, the most feathery light, even healthy, pizza ever seen or tasted. So there’s the place to eat next time you’re in Klosters with the Middleton Classes.

Back in Davos I meet Mr Tel Aviv again, I’ve emerged from a massage and he is waiting to go in. The masseur did something to help my knee and certainly seemed happy there was nothing broken.

Tel Aviv and I chat idly in our bathrobes; he tells me they’re doing retail therapy in Zurich the following day. He seems really pleased about that – men who like to shop, that must be another unusual Israeli trait? He says the skiing wasn’t great, low visibility and wind chill. I’m pleased, as Absentee Boyfriend assured me the same, we wouldn’t have been skiing much on our second or third day even if I hadn’t fallen. Always good to see the glass nearly full to the top, I say.

I’m due to meet ABF for a visit to the sauna; I’ve brought my swimsuit as instructed and go looking for him, it’s not the kind of thing you want to do, open sauna doors and peer inside. Especially when the occupants are fully naked.

Oh, dear, I’m going to look like an eejit in a swimsuit. Well they weren’t exactly super models in there so off it comes and one just gets on with it. Quite easy really. ABF tells me my return flight is booked for the following evening. Oh dear yet again, we’re not even here forty-eight hours, which I point out and then start singing ‘48 hours in Davos’ to the tune of ‘24 hours to Tulsa’. He’s only slightly amused; I think it’s my pitch rather than my humour. We are alone in the sauna by the way.

You can cook your own horse at the table

Later we go in search of some famous steakhouse in Davos Platz, back on the bus again. It’s called Ochsen as in Oxen. I haven’t done this before, cooked my own steak on a piece of stone in front of me. White bibs are tied around our necks and off we go. I simply had to photograph the menu with all the horse dishes and was expecting a rap on the knuckles by the surly waiter, who wasn’t impressed at the arrival of late diners. My eye was drawn to the horse filet steak at 37 Swiss Francs compared to the beef filet at 48 Swiss Francs. Not as wide a difference as the burger meat processers would have us believe.

It’s Argentinian rib-eye beef for him and American filet for me. Now, I was sure most of Europe was buying Irish grass-fed, open grazing beef these days. The indoor grain fed American variety is tougher, but very flavoursome as it turns out.

We’re still not here 48 hours and it’s the last night. We venture up the town for a nightcap, there are really gorgeous wine bars here, but still empty. I guess they make the most of it in January when the politeratti and regalatti are in abundance.  

Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 'View of Davos'

We make it to the Kirchner museum next day and a heavenly snowy walk. The German Expressionist artist, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner was one of the founders of the Die Brucke (The Bridge – between academic art of the past and modernism) movement; he’s also one of the artists labelled Degenerate by Hitler. The collection is in a purpose built modern gallery which conveys his range of woodcuts, oils, timber sculpture and tapestry really effectively, over a life time dogged by mental illness. There is a wonderfully vivid streetscape of Davos in the 1920’s which shows the town before the very pedestrian high-rise blocks went up. As far as town planning is concerned, I thought we were the worst culprits in Europe. We’re not. And, believe it or not, I am a historic building planning consultant, nothing pleases me more than an old wall.

Later in the day, we’re back at Zurich airport, ABF will take a train south and I have four hours before my flight. Time flies as I grapple with the duty-free conscientious decision. A carton of cigarettes for distribution, or not. At less than 4 euro a pack I know many takers.  Conscience takes over, especially as I haven’t been tempted to partake in four days.

I still have the relic of the boom days, a Gold Circle Card which I’ve had to pay for by giving up points rather than earning points. When there’s a four hour wait the luxury of a lounge with wi-fi, armchairs, let’s face it, free wine and hot food, I think Zurich is one of the last to do the hot food, helps take the sting out of not being able to shop. I thought there’d be lots of quiet moments on this trip where I could continue the tenth edit of my novel. It’s been such a short time, not even 72 hours and I try to catch up on editing in the lounge. Not a good plan, a novel takes some serious head space and concentration, even to re-craft a sentence. So I start writing blogs of course. And remember to text the cost centres to tell them I’m on my way home, give them time to sort the mess before I hobble in.

At the boarding gate I’m reminded of the article by Melanie Reid in last Saturday’s Times’ magazine, she broke her neck and back falling from a horse in 2010 and writes The Spinal Column about the experience. Last week she was being moved from her hospital bed to a wheelchair for the first time in over two years. She felt lucky to be sitting in a wheelchair. When you have two injuries, you’re glad you don’t have three, she says, and would put up with having one. As I see two other skiers (I guess) in wheelchairs with black eyes and slings. I agree, a short trip was cut shorter and a couple of sprains are not a lot to put up with. I had a great time and now I’m looking forward to my own bed.