Borderline penniless by Easter Saturday, I walk over twenty two kilometers between the depths of Irish working-class suburbia and the coast at Clontarf, where the light breeze blows offshore creating orderly ripples of shallow waves in the sand banks of Bull Island.
At night, with the house empty of flatmates that have traveled home for the long weekend, the online forums talk about waiting times, recruitment drives and wannabe cabin crew all over the world. I curl on my mattress laid on the bare wooden floor by the warm heater and fall asleep hoping and praying for that final call. My day-dreaming turning into night-dreaming and recurrent images of futuristic living in the Middle East interrupted by the solitude of the night in Cabra and helpless gasps of breath at ‘I wish it hadn’t been a dream’ sulks.

By Easter Sunday and shortly after my laundry was done, my phone rings sending shock waves across the messy room and my spine. The number on the screen starts with +974 and my hands can barely stop shaking.
Answering with difficulty, a conversation that would change my whole life follows:

– ‘Good Morning. We are calling from Qatar Airways here in Doha to tell you that your medicals have been cleared , we are formally offering you the position for Cabin Crew and you’re booked to fly to Doha in May!’

Inside of me, my bank account balance resonates in mind and spark an instant, desperate response:

       – ‘That far? Could it be sooner? I have no money left to remain in Ireland for another month!’

A defying reply is then shot:

      – ‘Sorry , you can’t , there is only one male crew training batch per month , and this month’s batch is gonna start tomorrow.’

Desperation now invades in full force and the following interaction escalates:

     – ‘I could fly out tonight if you want, via London.’

     – ‘Don’t joke with me like that! I could fly you out tonight!’

     – ‘I am not joking , got everything ready and packed here, I can just go to the airport and that’s it.’

     – ‘Hm , let me check here and will call you back.’

God loves a trier. As I await for a call back, I start shoving my wet belongings into plastic bags and miserably attempt to neatly shave. The phone rings again:

     -‘Hello, I have got your e-ticket here. Your AerLingus flight leaves at 18:00pm from Dublin to Heathrow and then you will connect on Qatar Airways from Heathrow to Doha at 21:30pm, you’ll be arriving at 5:45am here in Doha and transportation and pick-up have already been arranged. See you tomorrow. Enjoy your flight.’

The rest of the afternoon is a rushed blur. A run to the Polish internet cafe to print off my e-ticket and visa, quick messages over social media to let people know I am leaving Dublin for good and a swift good bye to one of my former flatmates. The taxi cruises through the flats of Ballymun and I barely manage to wave good-bye to the city that had me for three weeks, where big dreams started.
I am placed on an early flight out of Dublin and, once the plane clears the runway at Collinstown, the short hop across the Irish Sea is performed in clear sunshine, arriving into the decayed Heathrow Terminal 1 when the fog hugs London in grey afternoon mist.

Heathrow Airport is intimidatingly large. A combination of senseless terminals built at their very own Frankenstein-style. Tunnels and escalators guarantee a messy transfer, the Qatar Airways check in counter in sight three terminals down the road and manned by a friendly half-Filipino agent. ‘When you are crew, remember to bring me nice things’ she smiles, whilst issuing the boarding pass into my future.
I manage to access the internet through a public computer and send my mother a small message that reads: ‘I got the call today, I’m in London Heathrow right now and on my way to Doha. I’ll text you tomorrow from the Middle East. Love you’. She will read the message at some stage later today, when her holiday cruise docks in the Falklands.

QR002, operated by an Airbus 330, looks shy next to the massive Singapore Airlines’ double-decker Airbus 380 parked next to it. The flight is half full and, despite the relatively good entertainment system and the long day had, I am not able to sit still and instead, spend a good amount of the flight talking to the crew in the back galley, my new soon-to-be colleagues impressed by this very own story, perhaps the fastest joining in Qatar Airways’ history.

Dawn unveils a dry landscape below us, the map overview showing the aircraft performing U-turns over the warm waters of the Arabian Gulf and finally lining up with the runway at Doha International Airport, the longest runway in the world.
Sand, sand, sand, sand, highway, houses and buildings forefronts written in Arabic. The aircraft smoothly touches down the tarmac and a muffled announcement is made: ‘Welcome to Doha International, where the temperature is thirty-three degrees, and the local time is five-fifty in the morning’. My new life in the Middle East has officially started.