Chapter 4.3 – Welcome on Board

The first rotation. Three flights. Three worlds.

At Condor, it used to be like this: your first six months belonged to short- and medium-haul routes.

No long-haul glamour, no exotic jetlag bonus – just routine, muscle memory, and speed.

Short-haul meant: Germany, Hamburg, Stuttgart, maybe Palma.

Medium-haul: the Canary Islands, Sharm El-Sheikh, Marsa Alam.

Flights where you learned what efficiency really meant – and that coffee and charm can sometimes be more important than sleep, especially when briefing started at 1 a.m.

Domestic flights were our sprint training: boarding, doors, beverage trolley, smiles, landing.

Medium-haul felt almost like a festival by comparison. There was hot food service, and – the highlight back then – the legendary Duty-Free sale.

That was before the Amazon era, when perfume, cigarettes, and Toblerone were true trophies.

We became fast, precise, synchronized.

And yes – there were still smoking sections.

As a newbie, that meant you worked extra hard, because the senior crew – and seniority was sacred in aviation – wanted to light their well-earned cigarette as soon as possible.

So for us, it was: move fast before the fog rises.

But before you were even allowed on those “real” flights, there was the baptism by fire.

The initiation into the cabin world.

Every profession has its little rituals to welcome newcomers – but in aviation, they take that very seriously. Or rather: very humorously.

You might be sent to the fuel truck with a money case to “pay the bill.”

Or after a hard landing, asked to “cool the right landing gear” – with a fan, of course.

And if you were unlucky, you’d be out on the tarmac, fanning away while the whole crew cried with laughter.

My personal favorite was the instruction to “check under the nose if the wheel’s still turning.”

That would be the RAT – the Ram Air Turbine, a little emergency wonder that unfolds from the aircraft in case of power loss to generate hydraulic or electric power.

For those who didn’t know: no worries, I like to explain things before I start speaking full “airline.”

Then came my moment.

My own baptism by fire.

The crew already knew me – they knew I was ambitious. I’d originally wanted to sit in the cockpit; that was my dream. But that door never opened – not during psychological screening, nor later through private attempts.

So I stayed in the cabin – with heart, pride, and humor.

And my colleagues knew exactly how to use that against me.

We were flying from Frankfurt to Tenerife.

Captain Kostic – a charming man with a taste for dry humor (and the same one who’d later invite me for “coffee without cookies,” but that’s another story) – came up with an idea that would go down in crew history.

Mid-flight, I received an ACARS message (a short text system between cockpit and ground

):

A colleague on a neighboring Finnair aircraft had fallen ill.

I – a fresh, unaccompanied flight attendant with a shiny new 757 license – was to take over his flight.

Everyone knew. Except me.

The crew lovingly packed my trolley, handed me sweaters (Finland: cold – Tenerife: warm), and gave me honest advice on how to communicate with Finns if you don’t speak the language.

I was sweating. The landing gear came down, passengers disembarked, and while my pulse ran like an APU, the captain’s announcement came:

“Mr. Dahmen, please come to the front.”

The crew lined up, smiling, patting me on the shoulder.

“Good luck, Dominik. See you in Finland.”

I believed every word.

And honestly: I panicked.

I was sure this was my first real solo flight.

So I stepped out – Tenerife sun, wind, tarmac.

Then came the Follow-Me car. The driver pointed to a Finnair plane two stands away.

“You go there, please.”

So I walked across the ramp, dragging my trolley through the heat, under hundreds of eyes.

Everyone at the terminal windows watched me.

I swear, even the baggage handlers took a break to enjoy the show.

At the foot of the Finnair stairs stood three crew members – flawlessly Finnish, charming, and very amused.

“Welcome! We are so happy you could come!”

I didn’t understand a word, nodded politely, and stepped inside.

The plane was full.

Every passenger looked at me.

The door closed behind me.

I walked down the aisle, tripping slightly over my pride, until I reached the rear galley – our onboard kitchen, the heart of every flight, where coffee, stories, and worldviews brew together.

There stood the entire crew, who hung a heart made of safety seals around my neck and shouted:

        “Welcome to aviation!”

And the whole plane applauded.

The applause echoed like an engine start.

I stood there, torn between embarrassment, relief, and – yes – happiness.

Then, of course, I had to walk all the way back.

Past 200 laughing faces, waving passengers, and a whole airport outside cheering me on.

And when I finally returned to my own crew, they stood on the stairs, clapping, grinning, and shouting:

        “Welcome to aviation, Dominik!”

That was my first day. My first story. My red carpet across the tarmac.

And when I think back now, I realize:

Every journey starts the same way – with a small prank, a big heartbeat, and the feeling of finally belonging.

Thank you for reading.

That was my first flight – but definitely not my last.

Hundreds more followed, full of stories, faces, and moments I’ll never forget.

If you’d like to keep flying along, stay tuned –

next week brings the next chapter and another slice of Crewlife.

And if you stumble over a word while reading – just ask.

I’m always happy to explain what a galley, a RAT, or a deadhead means.

I’ve lived, breathed, and loved flying – and I’ll always be ready to talk about it.

        Welcome on board.