The Distance Between Safe and Something More

My heart is beating way too fast for someone who is, technically, on “vacation” for the next 24 hours. Make that 22 hours, according to my watch. Vacation is in quotes because I’m a flight attendant and I only get 24 hours of freedom on an international layover. 

I’m standing at the window of my compact but very nice hotel room in Barcelona, and I pull the sheer curtains closed to give myself some privacy while I change. This room is actually quite adorable; I’m delighted by how cleverly everything is laid out. Like, if it had a refrigerator this would be a perfect little studio apartment. It’s so fancy, it even has a bidet! In New York, this would probably cost $5,000 a month. There’s no way I can afford that on my first year flight attendant pay anyway, but that’s not the point.

The point is that it’s 11:00 in the morning and tomorrow the crew pickup is 9:00am on the dot. Which means I need to be downstairs, in full uniform, bags packed, key turned in, ready to go. Which means I need to be up by 7am to get a shower by 7:30am. Which means I need to be in bed by 11pm if I want to get eight hours of sleep. Which means I need to be back in my room by 10am to get ready for bed, which means I shouldn’t drink too much, and shouldn’t stay out too late, and shouldn’t get lost or kidnapped…and now my heart is beating even faster. 

“Margaret, calm down. Breathe.” I stop myself from having a minor panic attack, but only just barely.

I’ve only been flying for two months. I’m just starting to feel like I understand what I’m doing, but I’m not comfortable yet. Everywhere I go is uncharted territory. I heard stories in training about new flight attendants who were late to crew pickup, who made a bad judgement call, who didn’t take it seriously enough and got fired. 

I’m so scared of doing something wrong, I’ve never gone more than a ten minute walk away from a layover hotel yet. Not even once. No matter where I am, I do my usual 3-mile jog and stay within a few blocks of the hotel. “Going out for a meal” means grabbing something quick to eat and coming right back to my room. I like the feeling of being safe. I like how calm I feel when I have things under control, and when my life is predictable. 

The flight from JFK was surprisingly chill and the crew was nice to me, even though I barely know anything about international in-flight service. It’s been just three months since training, and this is only my fifth international trip. There are nine of us on the crew in total, not including the four pilots, and all of them have way more seniority than I do. 

The flight leader, an older Spanish-speaking guy with a mellifluous voice, mentioned during the pre-flight briefing that he had family in the city so he wasn’t planning to hang out with us. He did recommend a cava bar close to the hotel along with a cooking school near something called Las Ramblas that flight crew members typically frequent. The pilots said they were going to sleep all day and then meet up later at an Irish pub nearby, which…feels like a strange choice, given that we are on a layover in Spain. 

Nobody asked me what my plans were during the briefing and I didn’t offer any up. I don’t really know what I’m allowed to do on layovers yet, so I’m playing it safe. My only plan was going for a jog, taking a nap, and finding something to eat for dinner; something close to the hotel.

But as we were waiting for our room keys, Kimberly leaned over and asked “So, what are your layover plans?” 

Kimberly is impossible to ignore. She’s a vivacious brunette with a thousand-watt smile. Former pageant queen energy, bold and chaotic in the best possible way. I noticed she spent half the flight flirting with a handsome guy in the exit row who was absolutely eating up the attention she dished out. I’m surprised she doesn’t have plans to meet up with him while we’re here.

“I think I’m just going to stay close to hotel,” I shrugged. “Jog, nap, find some food.”

She made a face like I suggested reorganizing the galley. “Girl, no. We are going to the beach,” she gestures toward Tiffany and Lauren, who are chatting animatedly on the hotel lobby couches.

“There’s a beach in Barcelona?” I probably should have looked at a map.

Suddenly I realized Lauren had stood up and was now inches from my elbow. “Not in Barcelona. We’re taking the train to the coast. It’s just a 40-minute ride.”

Lauren is basically the polar opposite of Kimberly; her energy is calm and grounded. Nothing flustered her on the flight. She exudes capability, and I appreciated how effortless she made service on our side of the plane feel, even though she also needed to do the announcements in Spanish along with the normal flight attendant duties.

I blinked, confused. “Are we allowed to go so far away from the hotel?” 

Tiffany, the Galley Queen, as she referred to herself, appeared at my other elbow. “We do this every time we get layovers together. This is our time. No one cares how you spend your time as long as you’re back and ready at crew pickup.”

Are they for real? I thought people got fired for doing things like this. But they’re all standing here, relaxed and laughing, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

“Come with us,” Kimberly encourages me. “It’ll be fun.”

I wish I could say it was an easy decision to join them. It wasn’t. I said yes because I knew otherwise I would spend most of my first time in Barcelona sitting in a small hotel room, trying to figure out what activity felt safe enough to do, and ultimately, doing nothing exciting at all. 

Didn’t I become a flight attendant so I could find excitement and a sense of adventure? Why do I feel like my sense of adventure would rather climb into the crisp white sheets, pull the covers over my head, and take a long nap? 

So I hung up my uniform and changed into my bathing suit, some shorts, and my favorite t-shirt. And then I put my travel-size first aid kit in my slouchy shoulder bag. Just in case. 

One step into the lobby and I realize that this is a vacation (with no air quotes) for Lauren, Kimberly and Tiffany. They are a colorful riot of bohemian joy; they look like they belong at the beach. I look like I might observe the beach from a safe distance. 

“You’re sure it’s okay if we leave the city?” I ask, lowering my voice and glancing around me as if I’m worried the airline police are going to jump out and “gotcha” me. 

Lauren laughed. “Honey, this is your time to live!” 

“Let’s go! Vamanos!” Tiffany stabs her right fist in the air enthusiastically. I guess we’re doing this. I think I’m excited.

We walked to the train station, bought tickets from a machine, and boarded. And…immediately went in the wrong direction. Mountains are suddenly looming in the distance, not a beach.

“Oh shit. My bad,” Tiffany said, checking the map. “Next stop we get out and head the other direction.” We all get off at the next station, find our bearings, and are giggling madly when we board the train going in the right direction. 

It's not panicked laughing. Nobody is stressed. Just…laughing. Like this is part of the adventure. At that moment, I felt something loosen in my chest. And then I deliberately unclenched my butt cheeks.

“Now that we’re on the right track,” Kimberly makes a goofy face, “pardon the pun.” She pulls a giant plastic water bottle out of her bag. I recognized it immediately as one of the 1.5 liter water bottles from the plane. No label. Filled with something orange-ish.

Lauren hands each of us a plastic cup, Kimberly pours. “What is this?” I smell the liquid.

Kimberly grins. “This is just the flight attendant special.” 

I take a sip. “Mimosa?”

“Leftover champagne and orange juice from first class.” Tiffany shrugs. “Otherwise we pour it down the drain before landing, and wasting champagne makes me sad.”

It’s delicious. I feel a blush creeping up my chest, my neck, my cheeks. We are on a train to the coast, it’s not even noon, and I’m drinking contraband mimosas. This feels scandalous. And delicious.

Sitges feels like stepping onto a different planet. 

We walked from the train station through narrow, irregular streets that didn’t follow any grid I recognized. White-washed walls, red roofs, uneven cobblestones that threatened to sweep my slightly tipsy feet out from under me. Every hundred steps I caught a glimpse of the ocean flashing between buildings like a tropical strip tease.

And then suddenly, the world opened up. A wide, sandy-colored promenade unfolds before me. Fan palms are swaying in the breeze. A swath of vivid green grass color-blocking the space between the sand and sea. Sun hitting the water and sparkling like millions of spilled diamonds. I can smell the salty air and hear the sharp calls of seagulls above the low rumble of distant waves. It feels so alive.

I feel like Alice falling into Wonderland. I actually stop walking, which makes Tiffany bump into my back, forcing me to move again. 

The beach is full of families, couples, groups of friends; picnics laid out like it’s a normal Tuesday activity to just exist in this glorious diorama. 

Lauren negotiates with a vendor for four lounge chairs together. Tiffany and Kimberly flag down another beach vendor and secure ice-cold cans of a Spanish beer. 

I drop my bag on a lounger, step out of my sandals and just stand there, digging my toes into the sand, staring at the horizon. I’m trying to process the fact that this is, apparently, my real life. After a few deep inhales and intentional exhales, I turn around with a question on my lips.

A question I immediately forget, because all three of my coworkers have taken their tops off. Their shirts and their bikini tops. I freeze, because twelve hours ago I did not know these women. But then I look around and realize it’s not just them. It’s almost everyone. Moms. Older women. Younger women. Just topless, like it’s nothing to be half naked in public. The men, for their part, are mostly in very small, very confident swimwear that left very little to the imagination. 

I must have been making a shocked face, because Lauren is laughing, though not unkindly. “I love seeing people come to a European beach for the first time and realize not everyone is as uptight about nudity as Americans.”

“It feels so delicious.” purrs Kimberly. “Besides, I’m trying to find my next husband and dazzle him with my…wits.” She shimmies her shoulders like Blanche Devereaux with the last word and I can’t help but laugh. 

Tiffany snorted. “You’re a man-hunter.”

Kimberly mimed drawing an arrow back and shooting it like Cupid. I follow her line of sight, but then I pause. I see a lot of handsome men with tanned skin, fit bodies, white smiles, and dark hair. Pairs of them. Close to each other. Comfortable. 

“...Is this where you plan to find him?” I asked carefully.

Lauren blinked, looked at the men, and then burst out laughing. “Oh honey, I’m sorry to spoil the hunt. Sitges is the gay Saint Tropez! I thought you knew.”

Kimberly sat up, dramatically clutching pearls she wasn’t wearing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

At that exact moment, the man she had been making eyes at turned toward us and smiled. Our eyes followed his gaze…to the man directly behind her. 

Her hunting was not going well. 

We stayed for hours. In the water. On the loungers. Turning over like rotisserie chickens to get evenly tanned. Eventually, we relinquished the loungers to the vendor who pretended to be heartbroken to see us leave. 

Wandering a few yards down the coast, we found a beachside cafe and ordered food: calamari, paella, patatas bravas, cocktails. Somewhere between the second round of cocktails and the sun starting to dip, the conversation shifted. 

“What are you actually looking for?” I ask Kimberly.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m looking for someone to come home to. Someone who’s excited to see me when I walk in the door.”

Tiffany stirred her drink. “I thought changing my life would help me figure out what I’m looking for,” she said. “I quit my job as a lawyer for this. Turns out, you still have to figure yourself out no matter what your job is, or where you are.”

Lauren cocked her head thoughtfully. “I just want good people in my life. Real friends. I don’t know how to start over after my divorce.”

They looked at me. 

“What about you, Margaret?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I don’t have an answer to what I’m hunting for.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “I think I’ve been trying to find something that feels steady. Safe. Something that feels good and makes sense.” I look out over the water, at the sun melting into the horizon. We didn’t say much after that. We didn’t really need to.

By the time we got back to Barcelona, the air was still warm and alive, buzzing with big city evening energy. We walked into the hotel lobby at the same time the rest of our crew was gathering to go to a close-by cava bar, so we joined them. Someone asked me if I wanted pink or white. I said pink. That was apparently enough information to get a coupe of sparkling pink Spanish wine pressed into my hand. Small plates of manchego and jamon were shared. The captain paid for my share of the tapas and pink cava because it was my first trip to Barcelona. It was delicious.

Back in my hotel room, slightly tipsy, I stand at the window again, looking out over the city as it fell asleep. 

It’s the same room, in the same city as before. But a different person stands here now. It occurred to me that somewhere between the train ride and the last sip of cava, I lost track of time. I hadn’t looked at my watch once. 

For the first time since training, I wasn’t trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. I was just…doing it. Somehow, without trying so hard to find it, I had landed exactly where I was meant to be.