Oktoberfest in Munich

“Look at this room,” I said to Rike. “I love the white linens and lace curtains.”

“It looks so clean and bright,” Rike responded. “They even gave us fresh daisies.”

We embraced the quaint room of the local German inn. Although the walls were dark wood, the twin beds sported puffy white goose-down pillows, mattresses, and coverlets. The large window looked into a village square surrounded by three-story buildings, with a spouting fountain in the center.

Exhausted from working a long flight across the Atlantic, we showered and folded into our beds like clams in soft white shells. A slight breeze blew through the curtains. The room was chilly but we were pleasantly warm, nestled beneath our down-filled comforters. While lying in our beds, I rolled to face Rike.

“My parents love to hear my airline stories,” I said. “I can’t wait to tell them about Oktoberfest.”

“I don’t have much of a family,” Rike answered. “My parents and I escaped East Germany by going through the iron curtain. My father didn’t make it.”

Her comment saddened me. Rike added more details of her journey from East Berlin, and despite her dramatic teenage years she had a smile that radiated whenever she spoke.

In the hotel lobby the next morning, we met Greta, the other German in our crew, and Kathy, a Canadian from Halifax. We all had breakfast and waited for Heidi. She was a cute Austrian with iridescent red hair.

She told us, “I’ll join you as soon as I finish ironing.”

The five of us bonded during our many European flights. I was the only American in our crew. Greta, the senior flight attendant, had a thick, blond braid that hung from the left side of her head down to her waist. Her parents lived in Stuttgart. She had traveled to South America the previous year. It was from listening to her stories that I decided to venture around the world, and did so after I stopped flying a few years later.

Kathy, tall with black hair and blue eyes, was once an advertising model. Heidi was short in stature and the most organized of the bunch. Each one of us brought something different to our friendship.

With our European friends, Kathy and I explored Germany with ease. We shopped for Rosenthal crystal, rode horses in nearby forests, and ate at little-known Bavarian restaurants. One time we dressed up and rented a private box at the famous opera house in Stuttgart. Rike, Greta, and Heidi revealed a country we never could have discovered if we had been by ourselves as typical tourists.

During one of our Atlantic crossings, Heidi introduced Kathy and me to Stern, a German magazine similar in size to our Look and Life Magazines. Taking a break from passing and cleaning food trays, Kathy and I glanced at the magazine as we sat on a rear jump seat. We stared at photographs of nude people and depictions of intercourse, masturbation, and prostitution. While growing up, both Kathy and I had been sheltered sexually. Stern was a revelation for us, the naïve North Americans.

While critiquing European magazines and morals, Rike told us about a dinner date her Italian roommate, Lena, had at a small restaurant in Berkeley. Lena (also a flight attendant) met her lover Seth at the café, and sat at a table for two near the back of the room. As it had been drizzling, they both wore raincoats. Drinking wine and enjoying their loving relationship, they held hands across the table and waited for dinner to arrive.

Lena reached under the table and brought Seth’s foot up to her lap. She removed his sandal and massaged his toes. While they were both immersed in their conversation and wine, she slipped his bare foot under her coat and into her crotch. She had nothing on.

Seth practically jumped from the table. Then he settled back down, placing his foot again between her legs.

The European flight attendants definitely had a different perspective on love and relationships. Surprisingly, I never knew of any sexual activities developing between the European cabin crew and our passengers or cockpit men.

At the end of September, the five of us worked a special flight to Munich. Our airline transported a group of insurance employees to Oktoberfest, a sixteen-day holiday in Germany. Its main purpose is to promote and celebrate beer.

After resting overnight, we ventured outside to a nearby tent-covered field. We sat on benches at long tables, surrounded by young men and women who were drinking and singing.

The blond, buxom waitresses wore the national costume of Germany, the dirndl—a tight, low-cut bodice over a white, short-sleeved blouse, with a full skirt and apron. They carried three or four heavy mugs in each hand, filled with beer. The dimpled glass mugs held thirty-four ounces of beer apiece, and their arm muscles bulged from the weight.

The waiters wore grey lederhosen, or leather shorts, with high socks, suspenders, and fitted jackets. They passed huge pretzels, as well as sausage and sauerkraut dishes, to those at the tables. The smell of the food only enhanced our desire for more beer.

Oktoberfest beer contains more alcohol than regular German beer. And after a mug each, we added our voices to the crowd.

For hours we sang rousing songs, ate pretzels, and drank with the locals. Under the gigantic canvas tent, the five of us became silly and sentimental. We held tightly to each other and continued to sing.

“Ein mass, bitte,” I shouted. One more, please, as I ordered second mugs of beer for all five of us.

The smells of German food wafted through the air and whetted our appetite. Enthusiastically, we tried to order more beer.

“Time to go home,” Heidi announced. She had cut us off.

We wrapped our arms around each other’s waists and swayed from one side of the path to the other as we sauntered back to our hotel.

As international flight attendants, most of our activities involved cheerful times, where we enhanced our friendships and explored different countries. On one flight, however, our fun-loving attitudes changed to strict professionalism.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27