Clearing Out

That morning I woke up at two in the afternoon.  

It was morning for me anyway. Shift patterns and a new life in the middle east had removed all normal parameters of days, weeks and seasons, so I slipped into my own version of these cycles. Or at least tried to. There had to be something in this chaotic lifestyle to ground me as I flew around the world. While nothing about tomorrow was predictable and no-one could be trusted, I wanted to know that summer still followed spring. And a few months after that I could place an autumnal wreath on my door. Then start my Christmas shopping in the blistering heat. So I ate strawberries in July and wore pastels according to the calendar, while living a life that was perennially chaotic.

There were four more hours of sunlight, so I settled into what was left of the day with a cup of coffee and a home-style magazine, casually checking out the seasonal trends.

It had been a couple of days since I'd last slept, which was pretty standard. After landing from a long turnaround to Beirut and back, I'd gone straight out on a date. Sure, the guy was nice. Tall, yes. Pretty charming, I'll give him that. But suspiciously keen. How could he really be so interested in someone he'd never met before? Unlikely. I wasn’t buying it.

It reminded me of a well-known cabin crew saying, often tossed around galley conversations:  'My habibi’s different'. Sometimes said in the first person, with sincerity, and other times regurgitated with disdain, as one crew member disparagingly described the naivety of another. I really pitied those who believed it.  I may have fallen for those snakes and ladders at home when I didn’t know any better, but the harsh edges of experience had since taught me to be savvier. And  I had to stay sharp - I was travelling the world alone, with only my own wit for protection. 

In this new and unfamiliar place, dating was even more cut-throat. People passed through your life as though moving from one terminal to the next, ready to catch a flight somewhere... better. The next destination was always better. People stopped for a fun summer holiday. A bit of escapism. But nobody chose to stay. Here, self-interest was always in season. And only those who spotted that pretty quickly would survive another painfully cold winter in this brutally hot desert.

Of course the guy wasn’t different and as long as I remembered that, there was no harm in seeing him again. Window shopping from a safe distance, with minimal investment. Being careful what I picked up, as all damages must be paid for.

He said he’d message today and I congratulated myself for not caring as I checked my phone one more time, before turning the glossy pages of my magazine to a special feature on Easter displays for the kitchen.

My flatmate, Emeline, padded into the kitchen looking bleary-eyed as I made a second cup of coffee. Who knew what time of day it was for her, but delayed reactions and a faint air of trauma gave the distinct impression she'd just survived a week-long multi-sector trip. My guess was China. Then she produced a shopping bag and began to load her cupboards with sesame oil and soy sauce. 

Knew it. 

Someone on the fifth floor called Emma was moving out and selling the contents of her flat. Emeline had seen the announcement on Facebook, which invariably sparked moderate hysteria amongst crew. We'd all arrived with nothing but high hopes, so were eager to gather home comforts as quickly as possible. 

It wasn’t like normal home-making. We purchased everything in the knowledge that one day it would be left behind. None of us could maintain this lifestyle indefinitely and when we left we would not be going to the bother or expense of shipping home a casserole dish, rug or plant pot. They may be adored for a short while in situ, but they weren’t a long term commitment and would probably look out of place in our real homes. Everything we chose must be easy to abandon and investing too much in anything, was a fatal mistake.

Emma welcomed us into her apartment twenty minutes later and apologised for the chaotic state. Her flatmate was just back from the supermarket. She was just back from Australia. A couple of other crew members were already there in the background, perusing her kitchenware.

Her apartment was very different to mine. Most of her belongings were laid out to view, but a handful of personal mementos not intended for sale and of no significance to anyone else, still lingered here and there. A vase of daffodils sat (dying) next to a single, tattered Christmas card. A fine wool scarf in burnt orange hung on a nearby door handle above a pair of well loved summer sandals. This made no sense to me, coming from a flat where it was very definitely ‘Springtime'.

And I loved springtime. There was so much potential. But I couldn’t find much of that here.

I paused in the doorframe, instinctively reluctant to move forward. Emeline charged in, as I cast my eyes around the scene, unable to spot a pattern. My chest tightened. If I stepped over the threshold, would I free-fall into this disorientating anomaly?! It was too late to leave, so I tentatively tip-toed in and started to move around the edges of this disaster zone.

Emma lingered as we browsed her possessions, which were showcased in no recognisable order, though I racked my brain trying to make sense of it.

Though we were invited guests and everything about this scenario was totally normal to crew, it still felt like I was peering into her underwear drawer (and I worried that Emeline might be, since I hadn't seen her in the last few minutes).

My buttocks started to clench.

The contents of Emma’s life were laid bare in a painfully honest display of vulnerability. Six years of globe-trotting adventures, boiled down to a pile of extra plates, a free-standing mixer, some exercise equipment and a magnifying mirror. The items of her most personal space, laid out and labelled - in case we didn’t know what they were worth.

Emma nervously justified the already low cost she had assigned to her baking equipment and my heart sank as I glanced at the tags on other chronically underpriced items, knowing they’d be sold even cheaper still to the first person who showed a modicum of interest.

Why didn't she see their value anymore?

Each artefact had served a purpose, but it was time to let go of everything that once brought her a little comfort in this lonely desert where nothing was forever. I knew that everyone would do this eventually.

Emeline shuffled around the dining room table, lifting items, like a busy little road sweeper sucking up autumnal leaves. She seemed perfectly at ease with browsing in silence whereas I felt overwhelmingly compelled to make small talk. To make things more comfortable for Emma? Or me?  I’m wasn't sure. But polite conversation was definitely required while we raked through her personal possessions.

She had been flying for six years. A supervisor for two and planned to stay longer, to progress and make purser, but thanks to a recent break-up things were different. She was moving back to England.

As she spoke, I glanced around the room, trying to figure out what stability she could possibly have clung to in this space, amidst our chaotic schedules, insomnia and unpredictable shifts…

She'd clung to him. A purser. Investing four years in the man, which was almost unheard of out here.  She expected they’d marry soon before starting a family, just like he’d said he wanted. Time and again. But on a recent flight she’d been in the midnight galley, gossiping with the younger crew who showed her their matches on Tinder and yes, on screen after screen was her habbibi grinning back, posing beside a fast car that was wasn't his. 

Her habbibi was not different.

As she sat on her jumpseat during descent, her life was simultaneously plummeting into very unfamiliar territory. It was time to go home.

Emma was starting again, now in her autumnal years and probably too old to have the children she wanted. Apparently he was very fond of her, sure, and yes, they’d had a good time, even some great summer holidays, but he was never there for the long-haul.  He didn’t know why she had thought any differently.

Now surplus to requirement, Emma hovered beside her used winter sports gear and fiddled with the labels.  Cracked but still useable. Discontinued. Damaged by the harsh environment. Free to a good home.

Standing in the living room holding her Juice Bullet, I felt like a terrible, terrible person and had to remind myself that I was actually helping her to move on.  Definitely. Yup, this was definitely helping, I repeated internally, while starting to sweat…

Emeline on the other hand, was engrossed in Emma’s vinyl collection, with armfuls of video games and casually asked how much she wanted for her TV. Deeply hoping I might escape this excruciating moment with my first out of body experience, I focused my eyes on a nearby table where I spotted a game of snakes and ladders. It was unopened. 

Emma stepped aside to exchange notes with one of the other disaster profiteers and her gaze dropped further with each item that left her 'safe space', to be replaced by the cold, empty reality of her life as she saw it.

So much nervous sweat was now running down my back that I wondered how long it would take to medically dehydrate. 

When Emma returned, my wide, horrified eyes were unable to meet hers and I found myself enthusing more than is normal about the blender I held, promising to love and appreciate it the way it deserved to be loved and appreciated. My butt was clenched so tightly that I started to feel pins and needles travel down my legs.

And when Emeline could carry no more, we handed over the required amounts. Somehow it felt wrong to turn my back on Emma as we left, so I awkwardly reversed to the front door, bumping into her randomly placed furniture as I went, and scraping the barrel of emergency compliments by congratulating her on a fabulous pedicure.

Emeline just walked out like a normal person.

As I retreated, I noticed that the apartment was almost cleared out now that yesterday’s shiny items had disappeared. All that was left?  The nonsensical mismatch of personal mementos that meant something only to her - daffodils, Christmas card, scarf, sandals - and the goods that nobody wanted.

When we reached the exit, I paused, forcing myself to meet her eye and with a crack in my voice whispered: 

"Good luck."

Then a cold shiver ran through me as I realised that was all there was left to say.

Emeline and I carried our purchases towards the stairs as my phone vibrated from within a pocket, but a brief flutter of excitement was quickly replaced by a more familiar feeling of disappointment. Just a notification from the network. No messages from him.

So much for all his enthusiasm. My suspicions were as usual, completely on point. Thank goodness I hadn’t bought into him or four years from now I would be standing beside the used winter sports gear too.

“How was your date last night?” asked Emeline. I kept my response nonchalant, but she persisted.

“Is he crew?”

“Yeah he’s a purser,” I replied, as a dirty feeling erupted in the pit of my stomach.

A purser...

Recently single...

No hard feelings for his ex who was moving home to England... 

...Surely not.

But I didn’t want to find out. What good would that do now, I wondered, as I clung to my new Juice Bullet. All I could be certain of was that I had definitely dodged a dangerous bullet and bought a useful one instead. With this I could make smoothies in preparation for summer, which I knew was going to follow spring. And for that reason, I loved my new blender.

Mine for now at least. But I wasn’t attached.