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And this brings us to another interesting break I caught flying the 707: Madrid, Spain. During my last year in high school, for some unfathomable reason, I developed this crazy fascination with Spain. I couldn’t get enough music, reading material, photos or movies on España.
Flag of Spain.
The Iberian Peninsula containing España.
I vowed, dear reader, by hook or crook, someday I’d visit my obsession. Well, fuck me blind, if hook or crook didn’t catch up with me.
SAUDIA inaugurated a new route to Spain, and decided to fly there twice a week, using the 707 until they could build up the loads and frequency. After which, the route would be passed on to either the Airbus or TriStar.
Once more I was in the right place at the right time, dear reader. During the next year, between my days off and regular trips, I’d be spending, on average, 14 days per month in Spain! All on SAUDIA’s nickel! Here comes “Brer Rabbit’s” briar patch again!
On 11th December, 1981, I launched in my B-707 from Jeddah, initiating my first journey to Spain. Mike Albin was the skipper and Gordy Poole the flight engineer – two ex-RAF Brits that I thoroughly enjoyed flying with. It took us five hours flat to reach Tunis, on the North African Coast, and, after an hour on the ground, we took off for Madrid. Two hours and twenty-four minutes later we touched down on Runway One Four Right (140°/320° magnetic, SE/NW), at Barajas Airport, north east of the city in the early afternoon.
Madrid spread out below my descending 707.
The four runways at Barajas International Airport.
On Final Approach for Runway One Four Right.
Barajas Terminal.
Look out friends and neighbors; the California Boy is finally loose in Spain!
My good pal Gordy, whom I had first met last year on a Casablanca layover, took me by the hand and acted as guide. He was a character out of a Dickens’ novel: mid-forties, bald pate, long, bushy-grey sideburns, wire-rimmed glasses, proper British accent coupled with a wicked sense of humor. During his stint with the RAF, Gordy had been based at Gibraltar for a while, giving him easy access to Madrid.
Jeddah, 1983, Me (left) and Gordy.
When Gordy donned his airline uniform, dear reader, it was always immaculate and, instead of walking, he swaggered. No two ways about it...the RAF cranked this boy out right.
SAUDIA had set us up at the Eurobuilding Hotel, on Padre Damian, giving all three of us our individual apartment-suites. They included a spacious living room, balcony, bar-kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and, something I had never experienced before, a full-length, mirrored “dressing room” with closets and two marble sinks. I was really looking forward to a three-day layover with this type of luxury.
So why did the airline splurge on us, dear reader? Frankly, they didn’t. This was before Spain made the terrible error of joining the European Union – their currency was the peseta and everything was dirt cheap, particularly hotels. Excellent Spanish wines, beers and Cognacs went for the price of a soda pop. Tourism was thriving, everyone had jobs – there were no demonstrations in the streets. This all came crashing down at the beginning of the next century, when they joined the EU, converted to the euro, and all items, price-wise, shot sky high. It was literally the kiss of death for the Spanish.
Our female flight attendants were Tunisian, and didn’t layover with us, rather they operated right back to Tunis.
Among the pilots, dear reader, we had a saying: “What’s the difference between a Tunisian Air Stewardess and a bowling ball? If I had to...I could always eat the bowling ball.” As you can appreciate, we never missed them.
That first evening, Gordy escorted me to the Plaza Mayor, which was constructed in 1577. Rectangular in shape, it measured a massive 423 feet by 308 feet, and was encompassed by three-story, classical residential apartments with 237 balconies facing the Plaza. It also possessed nine arched entranceways to the plaza, along with a majestic bronze statue of King Phillip III on horseback at its center.
Ignoring all this grandeur, it was the little gems, hidden behind the columns that framed this magnificent plaza, which Gordy sought to explore with me: dozens of “holes in the wall” tascas (bars). These served tapas - a wide variety of appetizers, or snacks, which can be served cold, such as mixed stuffed olives and cheese – loaded with garlic – or hot, like chopitos; battered, fried baby squid. In select bars tapas have evolved into an entire, and sometimes sophisticated, cuisine – the serving of which is designed to encourage conversation. Therefore it’s customary for diners to stand, or wander, while drinking and snacking on tapas.
Since Spanish custom dictates that dinner should be served between nine and eleven P.M. (perhaps as late as midnight), Gordy and I were in no rush to execute Ir de tapas - Spanish for “bar hopping.”
Around 10:30 P.M., Gordy and I were barely vertical when he led me off the Plaza Mayor to an antique restaurant, on calle de los Cuchilleros, labeled Restaurante Sobrino de Botín. Established in 1725, it’s purported to be the oldest restaurant still operating in Spain. In fact the famed artist, Francisco de Goya, worked as a waiter here, while waiting to get accepted at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts.
Originally it was founded by Frenchman Jean Botin and his spouse – calling it “Antigua Casa Sobrino de Botín.” Consequently, author Ernest Hemingway and his cronies discovered the restaurant, making it one of their favorite haunts, and it came to be simply known as “Botín’s.”
“Papa” Hemingway and his drunken cronies at “Botin’s.”
Upon entering this establishment full of old world decor and dark, sagging, heavy beams - Gordy led me to the “caves” – descending down a steep corkscrew stairway to the first basement. Selecting a table towards the rear of this vault, we could then spy down the entrance to a second basement, and watch a waiter pull out our wine selection from the rack, and dust off the bottle.
The corkscrew stairway to the “Caves.”
Arriving at the “Caves.”
Occasionally the “Tuna” would come down and serenade us.
May I make an observation concerning Spanish waiters, dear reader? Mostly they wore smart, long-sleeved white shirts, black bowties and vests, and instead of being pimply-faced kids working their way through school, or would be actors, all wanting to be someplace else – Spanish waiters chose this occupation as a career. Hence the service they provided was, in a word, “immaculate” - tinged with pride. I hope to hell Spain joining the EU hasn’t changed this.
Gordy ordered for us. We started with sopa de ajo: an egg, poached in chicken broth, laced with sherry and garlic - followed by a green salad.
Afterward the main course arrived: cochinillo asado, a slow-roasted suckling pig.
During my visits to Spain, dear reader, I came to a startling conclusion regarding the Spanish ability to properly roast meat. Whether it be poultry, fish, pork, lamb or beef, it was always delicately flavored with herbs and spices, and cooked to perfection. Perhaps their culinary insight originated from all those centuries of the Spanish Inquisition roasting people alive at the stake.
Oh yes...I am one sick puppy.
After dinner Gordy took me to a flamenco club - where the colorful dancers, accompanied by guitars and singers, stirringly displayed the very soul of Andalusian Gypsies. It went quite well with desert: Spanish coffee and Cognac.
The next morning I woke up late, and popped down to our hotel’s coffee shop with a slightly throbbing head. No doubt from last night’s beer, wine and Cognac.
I found Mike Albin, our Skipper, at the coffee bar and sat on the barstool next to him – taking two aspirin and a coffee for my head – a typical aviator’s breakfast.
The Eurobuilding’s coffee shop in the basement.
Noting the aspirin, Mike politely asked about my previous night’s adventures with Gordy, and I began to give him the rundown. Mike was a lanky chap, with a pleasant personality – all the same, I detected something was bothering him.
While I rattled on, I spotted a most striking brunet ease onto a barstool on the other side of Mike. She had arresting brown eyes; glossy dark hair cut in a shoulder-length pageboy, was smartly dressed in black leather jacket and slacks, with matching high heels, and possessed a beautiful tan. The tan threw me though; it was the dead of winter and all the Spanish women, I had so far observed, had porcelain-white skin.
She ordered a coffee, lit up a cigarette, and because of her classy dress and mannerisms, I was convinced she must be Spanish.
Now I had a problem, dear reader; how to approach her. My Southern California Mexican Spanish was inadequate; I hadn’t learned enough of it. In addition, centuries ago apparently a Spanish king had developed a lisp – which he passed on to his subjects. Therefore to speak proper Castilian Spanish, when one came to a C, or Z, one had to pronounce it as a lisping “TH.” Whenever I did this, I felt I was imitating a Hollywood hairdresser!
When I finished my ramblings, Mike unloaded as to what was bothering him. He had brought his wife and two daughters on this trip, and had to get then back to England for school. The weather, however, worried Mike and he wondered if I’d received any weather reports for either Heathrow or Gatwick. I shrugged and told him I hadn’t a clue.
At which point my “Spanish beauty,” seated on the other side of Mike, piped up that she had just gotten off the phone with a pilot in London. Then proceeded to give Mike the current weather at both airports, plus the forecast! Doing so in perfect English, with merely the hint of an Afrikaans’ accent.
This got me to thinking, dear reader. I had heard they were staying here, and coupled with the tan, plus her knowledge of aviation weather from hanging out with pilots, it all made perfect sense. I had to re-classify my “Spanish Beauty” - betting my left testicle she was an air stewardess with SAA (Suid-Afrikaanse Lugdiens – South African Airways).
Mike thanked her for the weather report, and hustled off to make travel arrangements for his family.
Similar to an oily lounge-lizard, I slid over to the barstool next to this sultry beauty, and introduced myself – telling her we were a SAUDIA crew. She told me her name was Sharon, and confirmed my suspicions that she was with SAA. Currently her airline operated a flight from “Jo-Berg” once every ten days to Madrid. So Sharon had a five-day layover in Madrid - then on the sixth day she operated a round trip to Zurich – returning for another four-day layover again in Madrid.
Sharon in her airline uniform.
We compared notes on present situations in South Africa and Saudi Arabia. Before I knew it – in the words of Forest Gump – we seemed to be, “...getting along like peas and carrots.”
That night, thanks to Gordy’s former tour, I took Sharon to the tascas at Plaza Mayor, checked her out on the tapas, then dinner at Botin’s, topping off the evening at the flamenco club.
Thus our torrid six-month affair was launched – hooking up with her at Madrid, London and Paris. There were candle-lit dinners at the Black Swan Inn, on the River Thames, and Mesón de Cándido, an ancient inn at Segovia, plus dinner cruises on the River Seine. It was right out of a pulp romance novel, with loads of exciting sex.
And it was while I was engaged on a delightful Madrid layover, the 13th of January 1982 to be exact, that my old alma mater, Air Florida, flew a B-737 out of Washington National during a snowstorm, stalled and hit the 14th Street bridge; two miles from the White House. They killed 74 inside the aircraft, and another four in vehicles on the bridge, as the aircraft plunged into the frozen Potomac River. The accident was caused by the crew not using engine or wing anti-ice.
By this time Air Florida had changed over to B-737s and their New paint scheme.
Air Florida Flt. #90, at Washington National, being iced up by the snowstorm.
Air Florida’s flight path after takeoff; stalling out and crashing into the Potomac River.
The few survivors in the frozen Potomac.
Upon learning of this accident, dear reader, I got the strongest feeling in the bottom of my left testicle that this was the death knell for Air Florida. I immediately thanked the Goddess of Aviation that they had thrown me away; especially as I was being allowed to “play” in Madrid on SAUDIA’s nickel. Two and a half years later, Air Florida closed their doors and kicked everybody to the curb after screwing them out of back pay. Once again my left testicle’s “prophecy” proved to be correct.
One of my favorite memories with Sharon was when we rented a car in Madrid, and drove to Segovia – on the way there it snowed. I pulled over and we had a snowball fight – filling her with fits of laughter - comparable to a kid let out of school. I showed her how to make a snow angel, and we made love right then and there in the snow – the Spanish honking encouragement as they whizzed past.
Evidently they don’t get a lot of snow in South Africa, dear reader. Because Sharon said it was a rare, exotic treat for her.
Madrid to Segovia: 1:13 Hrs. by car, 59.95 SM (96.7 KM).
Back on the road; as we cleared a rise and commenced our descent into Segovia, I was blown out of my socks!
During my last year in high school, dear reader, I had stumbled across an amazing photo in a National Geographic. But had forgotten where it was taken – only that it was in Spain - igniting more passion to visit España.
Caught totally off-guard, here at last was that photo: the Aqueduct of Segovia! It was built in the late 1st, or early 2nd, century A.D. by the Romans - consisting of roughly 25,000 granite blocks held together without any mortar, and spans over 2,683 feet with more than 170 arches - the highest being over 95 feet. It still delivers water to the old city, which sits atop a mesa. One end of which possesses a wide crack and, across this crevice, sits the Alcazar Castle on the rock outcrop. Dating back to 1122 AD - having sheer cliffs on all sides with a single drawbridge - it became the favorite residence of the kings of Castile for its impregnability, and views of the valley below.
At the base of one of the aqueduct’s columns sits the Plaza del Azoguejo and an incredible antiquated inn, dating from 1822, called Mesón de Cándido – its specialty being cordero asado (roasted baby lamb).
Its old world charm completely seduced us, and we got a room in another old inn close by. To maintain Segovia’s magical charm, we elected to make love that night by candlelight. I sensed the prior tenants - ancient Spanish ghosts – applauding our efforts as I explored Sharon’s fit, 30-year-old, exquisitely-tanned body, which didn’t bear the slightest tan line. Obviously she was sunbathing in the nude at South Africa. The candles’ flames produced golden highlights on her tight thighs, hips, flat abdomen and perfectly rounded breasts, with full, erect nipples – Sharon’s sultry beauty inebriating me with lust.
There was a minor discordant feature in the sex though, dear reader. Sharon’s love-making would evolve to an almost frantic desperation - as she rode atop of me - later collapsing in exhaustion after she came. Making me wonder where this desperation was coming from.
Sharon at Segovia. Where was that desperation coming from?
From one of the South African pilots flying with SAUDIA, I learned that Sharon was married to an SAA Captain – a big game hunter and a crack shot. Sharon confirmed this and, when I asked her with regards to leaving her husband and country, she recoiled at the idea. Although the collapse of apartheid was on the immediate horizon - which cast serious doubt on the white future in South Africa - come what may, Sharon made it clear she was determined to stick with her country.
I also learned from the “airline grapevine” that her husband had a possible predilection towards little boys. I could never confirm this – even so, it made me wonder if this might be the reason behind Sharon’s fling with me, and her “frantic desperation” during sex.
Regrettably, airline gossip works both ways, as I discovered when a “Dear John” letter from Sharon, popped up in my crew mailbox at Jeddah Flight Operations. In her letter she informed me that her husband had learned of our affair, and forbade her to ever see me again – threatening violence. Sharon had greatly enjoyed my company, except she had too much to lose. Therefore, at this juncture, it must be farewell.
As I read the letter, dear reader, my left testicle trembled. “Violence,” and “crack shot,” kept reverberating in my subconscious. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to gracefully withdraw – removing the target from off my back. As Humphrey Bogart said in the film Casablanca: “We’ll always have Paris.”
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