Chapter 4.1 – The Letter: My Start at Condor (Training Class 144)

 The Letter

It lay there all of a sudden, as if someone had placed it gently into my present without asking whether I was ready. An envelope that made the air smell different. Place, date, time. And a ticket. No promise, no “maybe someday” — a real ticket that led me out of the shards of what I had called “my life” up to then.

I was never interested in applications — not out of arrogance, but because my path always worked differently. On paper I was rarely convincing: no folders full of certificates, no neatly stacked proofs. I built most things myself, took responsibility, led teams, solved problems — just not inside form fields. Whenever people gave me the chance to introduce myself in person, it almost always made the difference. A room, a conversation, a handshake: that’s where I could show who I am, what I stand for, and that I can carry things reliably and successfully across the finish line.

All the more surprising that I actually applied to Condor — and even more surprising that shortly afterwards this exact letter arrived, with a ticket inside. I hadn’t expected it. It felt like a light switching on when you’ve already convinced yourself you’ve lost the switch. A hand reaching for mine, yes — but also permission to be myself again. Two strong currents mixed within me: the quiet fear of the unknown and an overwhelming, bright joy. Both were allowed to be there. And exactly in that double beat — pounding heart and deep breath — my new path began.

Frankfurt in the Morning

I was early at the gate. No stress, just that alert feeling when a day wants something from you. For most people flying is a rare event — a vacation, maybe once a year. Not everyday life. That’s exactly how it felt: a planet of its own, with rules you don’t know by heart.

The halls wide, the light clear. Announcements rolled through the air, names, gate numbers, final calls. Roll-aboards clicked in rhythm, somewhere a tour group laughed and smelled faintly of sunscreen. My appointment in Kelsterbach was set for 08:00; the real test therefore started before the interview: arrive on time, find my way, settle my mind.

I followed arrows, not thoughts. Inhale, exhale, step by step. No grand sentences — just direction. Somewhere between the display board and the exit I understood: today isn’t about what was. Today is about arriving.

Assessment — A Marathon

English test, self-introduction, another test, wait again. A room that heard every breath. It felt like a marathon not run on asphalt, but in the head and body at once. Before: entrepreneur, major clients, responsibility. Now: applicant under neon lights. And yet there was something non-negotiable: I wanted to be here.

The stations slid past like mile markers. Written checks where every minute counted. Then group tasks: decisions under time pressure, scenarios where you had to sort priorities while ten pairs of eyes expected leadership at the same time. We built forms, arranged information, set strategies — not because it looked neat, but because they wanted to see: Who holds course when the stretch gets tough? Who stays clear when the voices grow louder?

There were those psychological games that start friendly and suddenly turn serious: Who steps up without dominating? Who truly listens before speaking? Who can give direction when no one has one? I felt my shoulders, my neck, my heart ticking to the seconds. Drink breaks were too short, the air too awake. The body wanted to sit; the head had to keep going.

Then quiet again on the chairs, pens clicking at the same time, a smile that was more courage than feeling. I noticed how each task took something from me and revealed something at the same time: composure under pressure, respect in discussion, clarity in the next small step. That’s what a long run feels like — not heroic, but steady.

When I got home that evening, I was empty and wide at once. Wiped out, yes — but not burned out. More like “run through”: tired legs, a sharper gaze. The day was exhausting, demanding, fair. And it was a door.
At the edge of all that something happened I couldn’t yet place. I met a person very special to me who — without me knowing — would change my life to this day: Melanie.

The Start

Back to the glass buildings. Back to that room where hope takes a seat. On the first morning the chairs were set in a half circle, name tags on the table, water bottles, a stack of manuals. Strangers with no shared story yet, but the same direction. A colorful mix: career changers, frequent travelers, the curious, some with a longing to fly and some with a fresh start in their luggage. Our course was given a number — Training Class 144 — and suddenly “I” became “we.”

The trainer team introduced themselves: calm, clear, with that tone that says “We’ve got this together.” Then it began — without much warm-up talk. An overview: What will we learn? Why are we doing it? What does a normal day on board look like? And what if it isn’t normal?

We pushed the chairs aside and built our first “little sky” in the room. Service is more than trays and smiles, they said, and yet it starts right there. We practiced moves that later should look effortless: stocking the carts, setting the brakes, pulling trolleys from the galley, checking inventory. Where is what? What is sealed? Which products are duty free, what’s included? How do you speak to people who are tired, anxious, hungry, annoyed — or simply there?

Announcements. We practiced the words you usually only hear: welcome, safety demonstration, information in case of delay. Don’t rattle them off — carry them. So that even the sentence you’ve spoken a hundred times stays alive. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board…” The room became a cabin, the cabin a stage, and we realized: this isn’t about show. It’s about clarity.

Procedures. We walked through a flight like a river: boarding, doors closed, pushback, service window, special meals, special requests, waste logic, restocking. Who does what when? Who asks, who decides? Small scenes, always new: a child with ear pain, a passenger who insists on sitting when everyone else stands, the question about tomato juice and the answer to why it tastes different up here.

In between we laughed. Learning laughter the kind that shows up when you step into the unknown and feel that it holds. Strangers fitting into one another like puzzle pieces that didn’t match at first and then suddenly lock. We learned to throw each other looks that say more than words, to use hands that speak softly: “I’ve got this — you keep going there.”

By the end of the day not only material sat on paper  a stance sat in the room. Training Class 144 felt like a promise we signed together. And yes  in 144 there was Melanie, too.

Melanie

I dedicate this section to you, Mel. For over 25 years you haven’t just been part of this story, you’ve been part of my family — and I of yours. What began back then in Class 144 was far more than a course. It was the start of something that holds when things go quiet — and laughs when they get too serious.

I still see us every morning: your “top-notch” BMW humming at the curb as if to say, “Come on, we’ve got this.” I open the door  and that first biting cloud of smoke hits me. I fan the air half-dramatically, half laughing, you toss out the friendliest “Dahmen’l” in the world, and that’s when our day begins. Our ritual: a little grumbling, a lot of laughter, drive off.

And then: getting lost. Again and again. Twenty-seven times in ninety days on exactly the same route. It felt as if Kelsterbach moved itself every morning  here one day, somewhere else the next, never where we expected it. Mel pulled out, we discussed “turn just up ahead,” and suddenly “up ahead” had shifted. The signs said something else, and we said, “Okay, let’s try.” Then we laughed. Not at Mel, I laughed with her. Because those drives to Condor training became our little adventure: wrong turn, new loop, next try. And always that liberating laughter in the car saying: We’ll find the way. We’ll find it together.

I remember evenings that turned into nights. We sat in some small place with a glass of wine and a Diet Coke. We talked, studied, sorted, thought out loud until the Coke disappeared in slow motion and ended up more like syrup than a drink. That became our yardstick: “How thick is the Coke tonight?” The thicker it got, the clearer we became. And when we stepped out into the cool air, the world felt lighter even the exam plans.

We often stood on the terminal’s viewing platform, quietly side by side. Aircraft rolled, lifted off, arrived. We watched them as if they were pointing towards a direction we didn’t quite know yet, but could feel. In those moments I understood what we are to each other: someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t let go of your hand when the wind shifts.

The fact that we spent what felt like day and night together  of course it was noticed. Questions floated in the room, quiet doubts from the outside. And then came the day I was introduced to your family. No exam, no test. Just doors opening. I was received warmly, naturally, without conditions as if I had always been there. Since then I’ve known: home isn’t just a place. Home is people who say “come in” when you’re standing on the threshold.

Today we live much too far apart. That sometimes makes me sad a soft, quiet kind of sadness. But it has no power over what we are. We rarely see each other, and yet you are here, and I am with you  in calls, in memories, in sentences we can finish before they’re spoken. We are family no footnotes.

You put up with my edges, got me moving when I was stuck, and slowed me when I was sprinting. Without many words you taught me that closeness doesn’t have to be loud to be strong. And when I write today that a letter was the beginning, that includes this truth: you are the reason I could truly take this path.

Thank you, Mel. For cigarette smoke in the morning light, for wrong turns that became right arrivals, for Coke that turned into syrup while we got better, for laughter that knows tears, and for a home that’s called “us.”

   Thank you, from the heart.

Flight Safety — Frank

Frank had a voice that never needed to be loud to be serious. He drilled us until the body reacted faster than fear: fire in the simulator, smoke, dangerous goods, de-escalation, restraints, clear words, precise moves. No spectacle — realism. And still: in the middle of all that rigor he could make us laugh without weakening the meaning. 

Once Mel put on the smoke hood — allowed duration: ten minutes. Frank let it run thirty-five. We watched her face go from rosy to a shade of green under the hood, and while we were already crying with laughter, his look stayed calm: “Remember the pressure. Remember the time. And remember that you can do it.” That was Frank: he led us from one extreme to the other always safe, always clear and in the end there wasn’t panic, but resilience.

Sometimes I forget how early all that was. But today a strange smell in the aisle, a tone in the cabin is enough and my mind reaches into the shelf of actions on its own: What is it? What’s my first step? That calm in loud seconds is Frank’s gift. It sits deep, like a muscle that never fully relaxes again.
There were days when the simulator became a small world where everything happens. During one exercise we were to issue the evacuation command loudly and clearly:

“Seatbelts off, shoes off, leave everything — out!”

One participant took it so seriously that her voice shot through the simulator like a starting pistol. For a moment the room seemed to vibrate; the shoes might as well have flown off by themselves. We were out faster than the script had planned — shocked at first, then roaring with laughter. Humor that releases tension without losing the seriousness.
We laughed a lot, yes, but seriousness remained the baseline. Frank left room for humor so the learning could anchor inside us — not to downplay danger, but to help us face it upright.

Hangar Air and the Slide

We got to go to the maintenance hangar for the 767 — the workhorse of that time. Metal that tells stories. Rows of rivets like lines about holding fast. We stood at the overwing exit, saw mechanics that sound reliable when everything else is loud. 

Then the drill: arm the slide, collect your focus for a second, go. Not a fun event — understanding with your body: when it’s serious, routine is gold.

Between the smell of hydraulics and cold hangar light we understood why these shoulders can carry what the uniform stands for. Not because of the announcements. Because of the stance. 

And somewhere in that mix of concentration and laughter, of “again from the top” and “now it clicks,” we realized: we weren’t just learning something. We were becoming different.

Ditching / Water Survival

At the pool we laughed, swallowed water, counted, directed. Water has its own logic and so does rescue. At Condor, a holiday carrier to sun destinations, “water emergency” sounds far away at first. And yet it’s part of our reality: as soon as a flight goes more than about 90 nautical miles over water, we show the life vests in the safety demo. Not to scare anyone, but because the law requires it and because ditching exists: an emergency landing on water. There are handling procedures for that — sequences, checklists, routines. Things you rehearse so often they come from your hands when your head is too loud.

Training day at the Lufthansa training center smelled of chlorine and cold metal. Frank was there, of course. Next to him a trainer whose smile only left when she said, “Once more.” We pushed theory to the pool’s edge and jumped into the cold water not figuratively, literally. Frank didn’t turn the scenario into an exercise, he built a little world: ditching as written by reality.

First the jump. The first sting on the skin. Then the call — order in the disorder: “Form a line! Count! Quiet!” We deployed the slide, separated it from the “aircraft” as trained, turned it into what it is in an emergency: a life raft. We climbed in, pulled others aboard, created seating order, issued clear instructions: check vests, secure lines, have signaling gear ready. The air tasted like adrenaline and pool tiles.

Frank allowed no shortcuts. “The weather doesn’t always come in postcard colors,” he said  and grabbed the fire hose. A jet of icy groundwater whipped across the raft. We held tarps, gave commands, pulled on lines, held on. For seconds the pool wasn’t a pool anymore, but a gray, choppy day at sea. We froze, we cursed, we functioned and in between we laughed, because humor warms the muscles you can’t see.

Amid the noise the real thing happened: leadership. Not shouting. Leading. Voice low, sentences short, eyes sharp. “You here. You there. I’ll count. We stay together.” It wasn’t heroic. It was clear. And that clarity takes the first step away from fear.
Later, sitting at the pool’s edge  wet, heavy, exhausted  the things that matter in the end lay beside us: routine that holds. A team that sorts itself wordlessly. And a quiet knowledge: if it ever came to it, we wouldn’t be perfect, but we would be ready. Frank nodded. No big applause. Just that one feeling.

In Closing

This was only a piece of the story one breath of basic training, not a full stop. I’ll keep taking you along: to where routines turn into stance, where laughter and gravity sit side by side, where a new part of me is born above the clouds. If this moved you, stay tuned the next chapter is coming: first flights, the rhythm above the clouds, and even more of the “why” behind every move. You can keep reading or listen to the story on the podcast  the same heart, just another voice.
I’m glad you’re here again.

        Welcome on board.