My Favorite Thing About Corporate Aviation Summed up in One Pic

The story behind this picture started with a layover…

“Hmm… I probably should have booked our rooms for a day earlier. I didn't think about how early we’d be getting to Barcelona,” Craig, my lead pilot, mused aloud.

I was sitting to the left of Craig on a commercial flight. Two contract pilots, Andrew and Frank, rounded out our augmented crew. The four of us were making our way from Athens, Greece to Barcelona, Spain to get into position. We were taking over the jet from another crew coming in from the Middle East. This was my first time flying with Frank and Andrew. I had taken an instant liking to Andrew. He was total golden retriever energy, plus he was Jamaican. The guy was such a vibe. 

I looked over at Craig.

“Yeah, Craigie.” I nodded. “That would’ve been a good idea." I hoped the use of his nickname would soften the acknowledgment of his mistake. "But maybe we can check in early? It’s a Wednesday morning in the middle of October. What could be going on?”

"You're right, kid." He smiled. “Kid” was his nickname for me. "We'll be fine."

Craigie and Kid were both wrong.

Turns out a lot was going on. It was not any old Wednesday, October morning. It was Wednesday, October 12th which just so happens to be the National Day of Spain. We had arrived on Spain’s Fourth of July. Our hotel, located mere steps off La Rambla, was fully booked so no early check-in was happening. They promised to let us know as soon as our rooms were available. 

We’d been in Greece for a mere 16 hours before leaving for Barcelona. As soon as we had checked into our Athens hotel, we’d thrown our bags in our rooms and headed out to sightsee. Now all our “YAY WE’RE IN EUROPE” enthusiasm was exhausted — we only wanted to sleep. To kill some time, the four of us meandered down La Rambla and found a spot for lunch. Afterward, we returned to the hotel, fingers crossed. No luck. With all the festivities, an early check wasn’t gonna happen. 

Craig let out a deep sigh of exhaustion and rolled his eyes to the farthest depths of his brain. Frank’s shoulders slumped with defeat. Andrew studied them for a moment, then looked at me. I gave him a little shoulder shimmy and a crooked smile, my awkward non-verbal way of saying “I don’t know.” We waited for someone to come up with a brilliant idea for something to do. 

Andrew had one: “Should we go grab a drank?”

“I guess. Why not?” Craig shrugged his shoulders. He looked at me.

I sighed. I had planned on working out, eating healthy, and going to bed early. “Sure. Let’s go.” Frank, half asleep standing up, grunted his approval. 

We spent the next few hours downing beer and wine at an outdoor cafe. As the pilots talked their pilot-y talk, I sat back enjoying the warmth of sunshine on my face. A few glasses of rosé turned the tired brain fuzz into a happy wine buzz. Around five p.m., our rooms were finally ready. 

“Anyone down for some dinner?” Andrew asked right before the four of us scattered to our respective rooms.

Craig and Frank both responsibly declined. I, however, was at the sweet spot of drunkenness where I knew what the better choice was but didn’t care. “I’ll go!” I said with a big smile. I was more than happy to not let a good buzz go to waste alone in my hotel room. 

Andrew and I set out twenty minutes later with no destination in mind. We weaved our way through the squares and plazas. Down a humble alley, I noticed a warm glow on the cobblestone street.

“What’s that?” I abruptly turned. I found myself standing in front of a nook of a restaurant that looked like it was a secret cupboard under a staircase. Lush red curtains framed the windows and door. The inside was dark with only the dim glow of candles lighting the bar and the small number of high-top tables. “We’re going here!”

Over glasses of deep burgundy wine and paper-thin manchego, Andrew and I turned our conversation from aviation to life.

“He’s my favorite but he really made me mad.” Andrew was telling me about his eldest son.

“When’s the last time you two spoke?”

“It’s been months.” Andrew gave a dismissive flip of one hand. The other held the stem of the wine glass.

“You should reach out to him,” I encouraged.

“Me?” Andrew scoffed. “He’s the one who messed up. He’s a grown man! He should own it.”

I placed my wine glass on the table and leaned toward Andrew. My eyes narrowed as pierced my gaze into his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. YOU are the parent, he is the child.” I pointed at him to emphasize my words. 

Andrew sat up straighter. He looked at me like I told him to go running naked through the streets of Barcelona. “No, no. I don’t think so, mon.” Andrew shook his head and waved his hands to dismiss me. “He was wrong. He needs to reach out to me.”

“No, You are wrong.” Andrew eyed me warily. Confusion added to the alarm on his face. How did the bubbly smiling girl transform into an intense, pushy woman right before his eyes?

“I have a story for you.” I paused to take a deep breath. “My dad and I didn’t speak for two years. I was so mad at him but at some point, I couldn’t even remember why. I was too stubborn and proud to reach out. Then one day he texted me. It was the stupidest text. All he said was ‘do you still hate me?’” I laughed. 

Andrew gave me a crooked smile. 

“My dad didn’t apologize and we didn’t have some big back-and-forth about who was right or wrong. We moved forward. I was so relieved he reached out and to have my dad back. I realized the whole two years we didn’t speak, I was waiting for him to be the parent. Once he did that, none of the bullshit mattered.” 

The disbelief on Andrew’s softened. “I don’t think he would take my call.” The sadness was heavy in his voice. He took a sip of his Malbec to wash it away. 

“He will. I don’t know your son but I know he wants his dad back.” 

 “Yeah, mon,” Andrew spoke slowly. It felt like he was musing aloud to himself, lost in thought at everything I had told him. 

“Your son is the child so he gets to be petty and stubborn. You have to be the dad. It’s on you to make the first move.” 

“Yeah, mon.” He repeated. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Okay, good.” I flashed a brilliant smile, signaling the return of the bubbly girl. “How about we get out of here and see what other mischief we can find?”

“Let’s go.” Andrew let out a big sigh of relief like his annual prostate exam had just ended.

Shortly after leaving the restaurant, we came upon a carousel. The shiny lacquer and dazzling lights were alluring to the silly, eight-year-old girl I become when wine drunk. “Let’s go for a ride!” I shouted. We paid our five euros and chose our respective steeds. The carousel music was hard to hear over our giggles. 

“Gimme your phone, mon!” Andrew held out his hand. “Let's get a picture of you.” 

The photo shoot ended as the carousel slowed to a stop. Andrew and I stumbled back down La Rambla to our hotel. We giggled most of the way back. 

“This was so much fun! Thank you!” I said.

“Of course, mon! This was great.” 

Well into the late morning, I woke up with a fuzzy head from all the wine. I picked up my phone to look at the pictures from the night before. I burst out laughing. Andrew’s thumb was in every.single.picture. Don’t think that’s making it on my IG story. I nursed my hangover the rest of the day so I’d be ready for the red-eye flight back to the States. 

A few days after the trip, I got a message from Andrew: 

“I spoke to my son yesterday. Thanks for the advice. Have a good flight!! Peace and love.”

My mouth curved into a huge smile. And my smile is just as big every time I look at the carousel thumb photos. Corporate aviation isn’t as glamorous as it seems on Instagram. In the everyday minutiae of prepping for trips and almost constant travel, I can forget why I got into this business. 

This picture reminds me of the best aviation — traveling the world and meeting new people. Aviation is more than the experiences you have. It's also about creating an experience for the people and places that you come across. Hopefully, you leave them better than you found them. It’s a good rule of thumb for aviation… and life.