Profession : pilot's wife - Living in the shadow of a demigod

Ed : Dear pilot friends, please don’t take my sarcasms seriously, it’s cool to fly aircrafts. I know. We know.

Profession : Pilot's wife

I am married to a pilot / Greek god / superheros. I spend my life between luxurious spas and travels. Because, obviously, I travel for free. And, by definition, I am a stewardess. I mean, I was, until we got married. Since then, I don’t work anymore. Except if decorating the house and spending his salary do count as working? I keeps me busy, after all. Anyway, we never see each other. He travels around the world three times a week. Being a pilot’s wife, it’s a dream (and it stinks with clichés). Let’s get back on these last (crazy) years.


Profession : Pilot’s wife
- Living in the shadow of a demigod

Despite seven years writing about our travels, I usually don’t talk much about our personal life -except when it’s about flying with a baby. Don’t get me wrong, I am proud of my husband, and still cannot believe he flies such big toys when I struggle parking my mom’s Fiat 500. I am extremely grateful in all the adventures his job took us -well, at least, most of them. But believe me, being married to a pilot sometimes requires a big sense of humour. Best of the worst !

#The Invisibility Cloak

In 2013, on a beach in Indonesia, I discovered I was gifted with a superpower. G had just got his first pilot contract. We’re talking with a Canadian guy we just met, the conversation flows. Until he asks the unavoidable question : what do you do for a living ? G pronounces the word pilot, and I instantly disappear. The guy’s jaw drops open as if he just saw a caribou on a surfboard. The scenario repeats every time we meet someone. Along the experiences, we elaborate a strategy : first, we talk about my job -not pilot’s wife, the other one-, then his. Big fail. Change of plan. From now on, G isn’t a pilot. He works at the airport. People picture him behind a desk or carrying luggage, we can keep talking travels, coconuts, surf or maple syrup.

#The real estate agent

Hong Kong, apartment hunting. We’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes next to our real estate agent whom, after a rude hello, hasn’t said a word to us. Arrives the moment he asks what G does for a living -we don’t speak to expat wifes, expat wifes, it’s also a job. We’ll talk about it another time. The agent’s face shines upon us, he stops instantly and shakes G’s hand, smiling “Very nice to meet you, Sir.” Are. You. Kidding. Me?

#The stewardess cliché

Back to the roots with a trip in the countryside where G grew up. We enter in a café where he hasn’t stepped foot in years. All excited, the owner hugs him “Wow, you’re a pilot now!”. She stares at me for a minute, then adds “And you brought back a little stewardess with that!”. Hello. She is here. Right here. Hi. Fucking cliché. No. Can we eat somewhere else?

#Horny girlfriends

Seriously girls, I am right here. Put your panties back on. Behave! Yes, he is handsome in his uniform. No, I do not have any photos on my phone (WTF). Yes, he has single friends. No, not all the pilots look like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

#Big brains

- G, show us the way, you’re a pilot, you know better than us. – G said it was here, he’s a pilot, we can trust him ! – You can see in the dark, right? You have the eyes of a pilot. Yes. He can even see through walls. He is never wrong and knows EVERYTHING. His brains are super powerful. Next to him, Spiderman is a small man. Actually, now that we talk about it, all this perfection is exhausting. No easy to live with. And he can never find a helmet his size, so annoying -when will they think about a special size for pilots’ big brains?

#When the family meddles

I went from “the copywriter whose ad is on TV!” to the freelance who squiggles to earn a little money to pay her weekly spa. My turnover doubled since I work for myself, I juggle between 1.000 projects, I became an illustrator, I wrote a travel book, I… Shhhh. You pilot’s wife. But… Shhhh.

#Rich people’s problems

We have twelve helpers at home -sorry, in our castle!-, a driver and an helipad on the roof. We eat caviar for breakfast and fill the pool with champagne on Saturdays -only on Saturdays, because we’re reasonable. We have a perfect life which just magically came to us with no efforts -no long studies, no years of unemployment, no sacrifices. None. Only caviar and bubbles! And we travel for free. So I better not have the nerve to share my moods about the expat life, the distance or anything, for that matter. Ha ! That would be the last straw. Shhhh.



I’ve got to go now, I have an appointment at the massage salon
then I need to plan our next weekend in the Bahamas.
On our private island. What? We hate the crowd.