My English speeking friends

The first time I traveled abroad was with my mother to Bulgaria. Bulgaria wasn’t even really considered "abroad." My parents felt that I needed a good rest before applying to university.
Two years later, I enrolled in a university called OLAGA(the order of Lenin Civil Aviation school), graduated, and was assigned to work in Arkhangelsk. In Arkhangelsk, I began to feel a profound longing for Leningrad, so I spent every one of my days off back in Leningrad.
In the mid-80s, while in St. Petersburg for a very short break, I decided to apply to the Faculty of Journalism and found myself right by the university. I needed to get to Mendeleevskaya Line and locate a specific "booth" or stall there. I found Mendeleevskaya Line easily enough, but the booth proved more elusive. As luck would have it, a man in white jeans with a backpack on his back was walking along the street.
When I asked him where the booth was, he didn’t know. He clearly didn’t even understand my question. It was only when I switched to English that I realized he wasn’t a Russian man at all, but a Dutchman.
This Dutch fellow always kept beer in his backpack. We became friends, and eight years later, he invited me to visit him in Amsterdam.
In early June, my Dutch friend Edwin arrived in Leningrad with his girlfriend, Elsa. Edwin is a historian; to this day, he continues to research and write books about Russian-Dutch relations during the era of Peter the Great. I invited him to visit Arkhangelsk, but just at that time, the dollar exchange rate began to climb, reaching 6 rubles to the dollar. At first time Edwin was delighted—a ticket to Arkhangelsk cost 20 rubles (about 3.30 dollars) But his spirits sank when he learned the actual price was 50 dollars, and he decided against the trip. Just then, I arrived at the Civil Aviation administration office.
I explained the situation to the director, emphasizing that it needed to be resolved within a day or two. He replied that there was no time to spare, then paused and added, "Don't you know how to handle this?" I understood perfectly and took care of everything as required.
We arrived in St. Petersburg 15–20 minutes earlier than the time I had told Edwin and Elsa to be there, yet they had already arrived. I simply informed them that they had exactly five minutes to make up their minds, while their belongings and documents would be brought over later that evening. I knew every loophole at Pulkovo Airport, so getting Edwin and Elsa through was no trouble at all. That evening, once Sasha Chernov landed in Leningrad, their belongings and documents were handed over to him.
I showed our guests all of Arkhangelsk all the museums and the very spot where Ivan Ryabov once ran a Swedish squadron aground. Meanwhile, a crate of vodka from Baku sat under the table in our kitchen.
Their return journey was just as smooth. Later, Edwin remarked that while he had hitchhiked across all of Europe, in Russia, he had managed to "hitchhike" by plane!
That same autumn, I reconnected with Edwin. with whom I hadn't been in touch, but who was still reeling from the hospitality he’d received and that flight to Arkhangelsk.
A mutual acquaintance passed the news along, and I called him in Amsterdam. Edwin invited me to come and visit. I had never been to the Dutch city of Amsterdam, so I agreed to the trip immediately—deciding that there was no better time to admire Amsterdam than during Christmas.
Catholic Christmas falls on December 25th. On the 24th, we were scheduled to fly to Mineralnye Vody. To this day, I can’t fathom why it was given that name; I would have called it "Mineral Mud"! Back when I was based in Arkhangelsk, we used to fly there, and if the weather was wet, it would take an entire week just to scrub off all the mud! It was an incredibly greasy, stubborn kind of grime. On the bright side, the best sunflower seeds in the entire Soviet Union were sold there! But those seeds are an addiction—as long as there’s a bag of them within reach, you just can’t stop, so eventually, I simply stopped buying them.
Once, in clear, sunny weather—while flying at an altitude of 10,100 meters over Elista, which is 255 kilometers north of Mineralnye Vody—I spotted a triangular, sugar-white cloud. To my great surprise, it turned out not to be a cloud at all, but Mount Elbrus, located another 100 kilometers or so beyond Mineralnye Vody!

I was on standby and needed to fly to Mineralnye Vody, but we had a blizzard, and there was fog in Mineralnye Vody—on top of that, I had a flight to Amsterdam the very next day! What a situation! I called the squadron to report the conditions. The weather was so bad everywhere that many flights had been delayed since the day before, and there was a shortage of flight crews. I was given the option to fly to Murmansk or anywhere else—just as long as I flew somewhere. After weighing the situation, I decided to head to Mineralnye Vody with my crew.
We managed to get through, landed, and flew back. The weather in St. Petersburg had improved, and I even made it to Miss Young’s Christmas party that evening! The next morning, I flew to Amsterdam to visit Edwin and met his entire family over the Christmas holiday.
Now I know what Christmas in Europe is like! We visited all the major museums in Amsterdam, rode bicycles, saw Peter the Great’s house, and drank a bit of vodka and plenty of beer (incidentally, that was the first time in my life I’d ever had beer in Amsterdam!).
I also like to ask people: "Have you ever fed the crocodiles in the center of Amsterdam?" There’s a monument there featuring creatures that look a bit like crocodiles, and Edwin took a photo of me pretending to feed them. As for the inflatable rubber dolls that *Komsomolskaya Pravda* wrote about Red Light District. Edwin even pointed out that while I show him the very best of St. Petersburg, I dragged him off to that dreadful neighborhood! Edwin and Elsa were also quite surprised that I could quote passages from *Till Eulenspiegel*. Amsterdam is a fine city! If you ever get the chance, go visit!
Later, he would come to our dacha; we’d play badminton, ride bikes, and swim in the Gulf of Finland. In 2004, I was retired from service—at just 44 years old—and granted a full pension. Due to my failing health, they wouldn’t take me on in flight support, even though I’d scored the highest on the exams—which even led the management to ask me where I’d learned the language so well…
Edwin was worried about me, and I told him, "I should tell them what a wonderful person you are." By then, I had begun to grasp the full scale of the tragedy. I said to Edwin, "Why don’t I fly out to see you? We’ll share a bottle of vodka and put this whole nightmare behind us." But Edwin was being sent away on an assignment, so he couldn’t be with us…
During that truly terrible time in my life, I was forced to part ways with Edwin something I still regret to this day…
On April 8, 1989, Sobchak was waving his arms, calling for change.  Testing my English and hoping for friendship with the great American people I met Scott. He wanted the friendship with the great Soviet people. Before long, we were bound by a sincere and lasting friendship.
In mid-September 1990, on a day so rainy that no sensible owner would even let their dog out, I set off for a testing session. On my way, I checked my mailbox and finally found a letter from Scott. He wrote to me between September and April. I headed to the test without even opening it. The test itself proved incredibly easy, so I spent the time immersed in Scott’s letter. As it turned out, I was the only one there who actually knew English good.Me and my respected friend Alexander L.
Scott has a friend named Will, who visited us several times alongside Scott. Naturally, I became friends with Will, too. In my mind, the two are inseparable: when I think of Scott, I think of Will, and when I think of Will, I think of Scott.
For a long time, my friend Scott had been inviting me to visit him. He had been to our home several times, and his mother had visited us as well; consequently, I held this wonderful family in the highest regard. Furthermore, my friend Scott lives in North Carolina the very place where that historic flight took place.
I wrote to Scott, telling him that I wanted to be at Kitty Hawk on December 17th at 10:15 a.m.
Scott was delighted, though he suggested that he could also show me Washington, D.C., and New York City.
I replied that while seeing Washington and New York would be great, I absolutely had to be at Kitty Hawk on December 17th at 10:15 a.m  So. hanks to  Scott and his entire family, I was able to attend the centennial of the First Flight.
I decided that having Lyuda with me would make it less daunting—after all, it meant traveling to the other side of the globe. Incidentally, the only Russians present were myself and the director of the Volga-Dnepr airline. The whole story is documented in the book, or in the account titled "Kitty Hawk.".
Like me, he adored Leningrad. A few years later, that American man named his son Harrison in honor of Harrison Salisbury, who wrote *The 900 Days*. According to my American friend, it is the best work ever written about the Siege of Leningrad. I could hardly believe it…
Years later, Lyuda managed to get a copy of *The 900 Days*, as well as Daniil Granin’s *Unpublished Notes*. It was only in *The 900 Days* that I read the things my grandmother used to tell me. It turns out that not everything could be written about back then—which is likely why *The 900 Days* is the best book on the Siege.
I was on my way to catch a flight to Kherson. While transferring on Nevsky Prospect, a woman suddenly touched my sleeve and asked, "Do you speak English?"
"Yes, I do," I replied.
Her name was Miss Anne Karen Young, an American. Finding herself unfulfilled and unable to secure a well-paying job in the United States, she had moved to Finland to work at a school for young children.
She held a master’s degree in child education based on the Montessori method. The philosophy developed by the Italian educator Maria Montessori is rooted in the idea that a child’s brain is most receptive between the ages of two and six. During this period, a wealth of useful information can be introduced in a completely unobtrusive way. For instance, a child might be asked what they would like to  read or to draw—and if they choose to draw, they begin drawing. Later, when it’s time for reading, the child is simply reminded of that.
Having made the choice themselves, the children engage in reading—never once suspecting that they are actually following the lead of their educators! This sense of freedom is intoxicating, and the results are truly remarkable. I once witnessed a five-year-old boy. Belgian by birth. He spoke only Russian with me, French with his parents, and English with my wife (whom he knew as "Miss Luda").
In short, that was how we met in the metro, while I was rushing to catch my flight. Upon learning that both my wife and my mother were English teachers, she suggested we meet the following day. The meting ting didn't happen, as we had guests over—my friend Misha and his wife, Larisa. My friend Misha was an officer in the Soviet Navy; we attended the same school and even joined the Pioneer organization together.
I met Karen just a day later.
After that, she would come to St. Petersburg almost every weekend, and Lyuda and I would show her around the city. In the evenings, we’d just chat, and I taught her how to drink vodka. This went on for two years.
At one point, she asked me how I’d feel about opening a school in St. Petersburg. I found the idea interesting and agreed to help. Things really got moving. I needed to find a space for the school and a lawyer to handle the legal side of things. I found a location quickly and easily. "Pioneer House" on Shevchenko Street, right across from my parents' home. The director of the facility liked the idea; I made a very good impression on her, and once she learned about my mother, she agreed.
We found a lawyer quickly through some acquaintances. He explained that a joint venture could only be registered between two parties, but Karen insisted that it be in her name alone. Not wanting to seem pushy or distrustful, I personally urged the lawyer to register everything under Karen’s name.
Around this time, Lyuda left the school, as the energy she was pouring into it wasn't paying off, and the pay was nowhere near commensurate with the effort required.
I had asked Karen if my wife to work there. Her response was: "Fine, I’ll give your wife a chance to try it out!" I was quite taken aback by that.
She was right. You shouldn't do business with friends. Although, if friends truly value the friendship—meaning they don't keep score of who did more, but instead work conscientiously, as if under communism—then perhaps it is possible. Though, I suppose, that’s a utopia.
We celebrated my birthday together. Igor came from Arkhangelsk, as did the other Igor—the one I used to fly with at Pavlov’s place. My parents were there, too, of course. We barely made it in time. Karen’s suit was over at my parents’ apartment.
The next day, Karen was happy. There was a school, an accountant, and even a security guard. We didn’t do much flying, so I asked her: "Maybe I should take over the bookkeeping? There are only three children, after all!"
Karen would tell me: "An accountant acts as a wall between me and the state—everything must be absolutely legal!"

The school got up and running. After finishing her workday at the school, Lyuda would come home, only for the phone to start ringing incessantly. People were eager to learn more about this unique "American Montessori International School."

For several years, I helped her exchange currency at a very favorable rate. a skill I had managed to master quite well. Sometimes, Karen would ask me to drive her to an orphanage. She was a truly kind person—a real Mary Poppins!

Could you bring yourself to charge her for such things? I certainly couldn't. Nor could I accept her offer of $50 just for "doing nothing." In reality, I often ended up assembling furniture or taking part in negotiations. At least while I was doing that, Lyuda could focus on things at home. I kept telling everyone, "Our American friend hasn't struck it rich yet, so don't be greedy for her money—she’s bringing us something good!"

A year passed. The school now had 10 children. Over that year, Karen managed to pay off her rent arrears and even started giving Lyuda money for taxis It was cold for Lyuda to have to trek around to government offices (like the KUGI property committee), handle visa extensions, and visit the fire department or other official agencies.

So, after a full year of working for Miss Young, Lyuda’s salary increased by $50, reaching $170. While that was a decent wage at the time, it hardly reflected the workload my wife was carrying—sometimes up to 18 hours a day. Miss Young’s promises of a raise remained just that—mere words. As summer approached, at Lyuda’s request, I stepped in to push for a better wage: $4 an hour.
When she ran the numbers, the expression on Karen’s face changed. “I can’t pay a salary like that! I’ll have to let Lyuda go.”
They swallowed that. Summer passed, and upon returning from the States, Karen accepted all of Lyuda’s terms. She hired another assistantat and pay her of $90.
The school needed advertising, but advertising was expensive. At first, Karen jumped at my suggestion—placing an ad in our *Flight Revue* and organizing excursions to Pulkovo Airport1 but later, her interest cooled.
A few years later, the pool of children of diplomats in St. Petersburg ran dry, and more Russian children began to enroll. There were about 20 students by then.
Tuition cost around $7,000 a year; new teachers would join, gain the necessary professional experience, and earn a salary of about 200 “greenbacks.”
Lyuda became the deputy director; while she was no longer tasked with visa renewals, all negotiations with the Committee for the Management of City Property (KUGI), the fire department, the district education authority, the sanitary-epidemiological service, and the like still fell on her shoulders.
This made sense: being able to present the institution specifically as a school rather than as a front for a business. Helped lower the tax burden.
So, the relationship was very friendly.
By the mid-90s, thanks to "democratic reforms," Russia had devolved into a pathetic, rusted-out caricature of itself—a place of decaying missiles, presidents who would topple off bridges at the slightest gust of wind, and a Duma filled with morons and criminals. Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe—having realized that there was no point in even talking to such fools—the U.S. decided to act.
Between playing the saxophone, enjoying romantic trysts with Monica (if only she’d bitten down a little harder during those encounters!), and keeping a sharp, owl-like eye on the rest of the world, Madeleine Albright oversaw the launch of what were, in effect, "peaceful" bombings of Yugoslavia.
Russia did send one freshly painted little ship, more as a joke than anything else, but it was not help to our Serbian brothers.
It was during this shameful period that Karen came over to our place. We sat together, drinking vodka—just a little bit, of course.
Feeling deeply frustrated, I asked her, "What on earth are you people doing in Yugoslavia? Who are you 'protecting'? I honestly don't get it—our own utter helplessness makes me feel physically sick."
Karen replied claiming, among other things, that Americans in Belgrade were being "drowned in the sea" and that America had simply come to defense their (we had consumed less than half a bottle at this point)—and added that our president had a bottle where his head should be. And as for that foul-smelling liquid—well, I’m the one who keeps it supplied. And your president, I tell her, has a "DIG" where his head ought to be!
"DIG"—as in to dig, but in the vernacular—well, it’s also a certain word often scrawled on fences back home, a term that traces its roots to the Golden Horde and actually means "nightingale."
Of course, she knew exactly what "DIG" meant—she was the one who’d told me—but she was absolutely incensed. She even stood up, ready to leave. I followed her, partly because it was late, and partly because, aside from "right," "left," and "stop," she didn’t know a word of Russian. Besides, I’m a gentleman. We made up. I told her that if any anti-American unrest broke out, she could count on me—I don’t abandon my friends.
We parted ways—as friends. In 2002, we discovered how her money was being "legally" earned. As I mentioned earlier, tuition at this elite school cost $6,800 a year. On top of that, grateful parents would arrange free theater outings for "her children"—sometimes even securing seats in the "Tsar’s Box." Naturally, the other parents felt—quite rightly—that the tuition they’d already paid should have been more than enough to cover theater trips and other children’s activities. But that was just the tip of the iceberg.
When parents would come to the school and find out the price, they’d start haggling—after all, it was a steep sum, even for prosperous businesspeople. In those cases, a different price would be offered—say, $5,000. But this money would bypass the official paperwork and go straight into Miss Young’s own pocket. The child would effectively become a "dead soul"—a ghost in the system—making it impossible to track their presence at the school on any given day. It was working out quite well: all tax returns were filed correctly, and taxes were even being paid—yet the "off-the-books" cash kept growing in an American pocket, swelling like yeast in a glass. "Everything must be absolutely legal!" she’d insist—all while the "Russian labor force" was being compensated on a level akin to that of enslaved people. The country wasn’t getting any richer, and neither was I. And all I really wanted was to be able to fly safely at a decent flying club!
Olya was finishing the 10th (or 11th) grade, and Miss Young came by to congratulate her. That was when my wife approached her.
As for a raise—my wife was only willing to keep working there for a very good wage: $5 an hour.
Miss Young agreed, but with a catch: my wife would only be allowed to work two hours a day. That was a pay cut, not a raise! Miss Young took off for the States, and I headed to my dacha.
I decided to go see her. I even prepared a little speech. It was the end of July; the "Miss" had returned from the States and was keeping a low profile. A friend of mine in the U.S. had tipped me off about her arrival. I called her, saying we needed to talk. Miss Young got nervous, asking what the conversation would be about, but I reassured her—"Why worry? We’re friends, aren't we?"and showed up at the appointed time.
We had some tea, which put her more at ease, and she began asking why I disliked businesspeople so much. I explained that I actually respect businesspeople quite a bit—but the fact is, most of them are thieves, and as everyone knows, a thief belongs in prison.
Then, I got to the point. I had to remind her of everything that had been done for her—refreshing her memory by quoting things she herself had said. I also brought up my wife, who had done even more for her. I proposed the following to her: she could pay my wife whatever amount she liked—$100, $50, it didn’t matter—but she would have to pay me the equivalent of the annual tuition for one child. The lady flew into a rage. She began to tremble all over and, apparently, called her Italian neighbor for backup. As it happens, the Italian woman had learned Russian and spoke it with almost no accent.
At that point, the lady shouted, "This is the mafia! This is corruption!"—and promptly opened the door for me to leave.
I remarked that the mafia is only found in the southern part of Italy, as well as in certain parts of the United States.
In short, she left me quite upset; I thanked her for the tea and took my leave.
I decided to remind her that it was, in fact, I who had founded the school, and to that end, I called the school’s principal.
The principal listened to what I had to say and replied that if such a document...
But I couldn’t just sit around doing nothing, so I decided to try my luck with the Air Navigation Support Group. A place I had hoped to join eventually, once I retired. Granted, most pilots usually leave the profession feet-first, but I had mentally prepared myself to fly for just a little longer—five, maybe seven years—and then leave on my own terms.
My friend Zhenya knew everyone in that group. A lot of people I knew were there, and I reasonably assumed that I was well-informed and that my friend would help me out. Even so, I was still required to take some examsø.  did that very same week, right after returning from Moscow. I had to demonstrate proficiency with computers, international flight regulations, and English (including various types of translation and conversational skills). About five other people were taking the exams alongside me. The testing lasted six hours. I performed the best.
“Where did you learn English so well?”
“Study, study, and study some more…”
“We’ll hire you, but you need to bring a medical certificate.”
Things seemed to be looking up, so I went to see the doctor.
“No running around, no heat, no heavy lifting—you’re fit to work.”
“Right, I’m off then.”
“Wait—you need a sign-off from the head physician.”
So, the two of us went to see the head physician—or rather, the acting head physician. She was a woman of about sixty, with five or six chins—enough, by my estimate, to account for at least three extra kilograms of weight. She looked utterly exhausted, gazing languidly out the window.
“Hmm,” she said. “But what about flight safety? You’re an idiot, after all…” (Well, that was the gist of it, anyway.)
I tried to explain that flight safety is ensured by the people up there in the sky, whereas my role would simply be to prepare the documentation that supports that process.
But she remained as unyielding as hardened cement—or perhaps like those passengers on the subway who stubbornly refuse to move into the empty space in the middle of the carriage.
I finally lost my patience.
“Should I get you a shovel?”
“What for?”
“So you can dig a little hole for me and then a little mound on top.” “What on earth—!” she exclaimed, her voice full of exasperation.
“Nothing but a disability.”
The details of the discussions were reported to the head of the Aeronautical Support Group.
“Don’t you worry—just rest and try not to think about anything. I’ll find a position for you. Give me a call in a week or so.”
Feeling somewhat reassured, I headed off to my dacha to swim in the lakes. But my serenity didn’t last long. My thoughts remained in the sky, which was more than just painful; as the end of that week approached, I grew increasingly restless. My call to the head of the Aeronautical Support Group yielded no results. A week later, it still hadn’t yielded anything.
If matters aren’t resolved on time, they never will be. It’s an ironclad rule—one I’d figured out long ago.
My leave was coming to an end, and I had only three days left to secure a new job.
My “funeral” was a surprisingly cheerful affair. Finally, the Chief Navigator—a man even honored with the title of “Distinguished Navigator of Russia”—and the head of the Aeronautical Support Group met to discuss my fate. Fateful decisions were made, and I even felt a sense of pride at the high regard in which I was held. There was still one final hurdle: that formidable woman whose unyielding, “cement-like” resolve could easily undo all my efforts. The Chief Navigator took it upon himself to settle everything, asking only that I keep my mouth shut—lest I say something that might ruin it all. But I knew better: if things are going poorly, they’re bound to get even worse; and if they seem to be going well, it just means you’ve failed to notice something. Still, I clung to hope—much like a drowning man clutching at a straw. The next day, just as the entire management team was sitting down to eat, my cell phone rang. The boss, his voice cracking, informed me—with an expression of regret—that a high-ranking official was arranging for me to be classified as disabled…
And what am I now? No longer a pilot, yet not quite a retired flight-crew member.
Just a pensioner at the age of 44.
To buy some time and remain on the airline’s payroll, I agreed to undergo a medical evaluation for disability status. On the third and final day, I made my way to our clinic—though not exactly with a spring in my step.
The clinic was divided into two sections: one for flight crews and one for everyone else.
As luck would have it, the medical examiners were returning from vacation that very day. Upon spotting me, the doctor who had first diagnosed my condition approached me. O.S.—both in his professional capacity and out of genuine personal concern—asked for a detailed account of all my recent tribulations. Realizing that being officially labeled "disabled" would be a crushing blow to my morale, he decided to conduct some additional tests to verify my "sanity." The thing is, the Central Flight Medical Certification Commission,) already performs such tests—and my results had been good—but the local Flight Medical Certification Commission  doesn't trust the central body, and that sentiment is entirely mutual.
So, I had to go through the testing process all over again. While in Moscow, the assessments required for flight clearance take about an hour to an hour and a half, here in St. Petersburg, proving that I wasn't an "idiot" took two and a half hours.
About two hours into the testing, I realized I had completely forgotten my multiplication tables—a fact I honestly confessed to the psychologist. Recognizing that my health was fragile, the psychologist ended the testing half an hour later and asked me to draw him a map of "my" lakes—ostensibly for his own vacation planning, though perhaps he was being sincere.
Half an hour after that, I learned that I was, in fact, not an "idiot"—and that my test results were even better than they had been back when I was still an active pilot.
I ended up working in the Aeronautical Information Bureau (AIB)—a decent job for a pensioner, with decent pay—but it just wasn't the right fit for me. Manuals containing approach (or movement) charts for various airports, as well as information on communications, radio navigation aids, and other data, were subject to change—and these changes had to be tracked. Furthermore, "warning sheets" (supplementary information/alert bulletins) had to be printed.
In an effort to reduce the volume of information and make it easier for flight crews to digest, some data deemed unnecessary—had to be removed. While some might have considered certain pieces of information important, others chose to delete them. Eventually, a standardized program for printing these warning sheets was introduced; however, I would still find sections that were completely irrelevant to the flight crews and would ruthlessly remove them.
After working for a year in the Aeronautical Information Bureau (AIB), I was finally accepted into the Briefing Office—having achieved the top score on the entrance exams.
Lucy from London.

In November 2007, a new subject was introduced, and Lucy arrived to teach it to us.
A Flight Dispatch course was organized in St. Petersburg, and we the briefing dispatchers. were required to attend, even if it meant using our time off. We were often sleep-deprived, yet we attended, because the material was both important and engaging. The journey continued!
It was during these classes that I met Lucy, who served as our instructor. At the time, I had no idea that she was so passionate about aviation—or that she had logged over 1,000 flight hours!
I was chatting with Lucy, and during our conversation, I remarked that the highest concentration of good people is to be found in aviation. Lucy was quite surprised. She had begun learning Russian, so I gave her a copy of my book, which supports my conclusion. Lucy is still studying Russian, and reading my book has become a significant part of her learning process!
Naturally, the best way to learn a language is to be where it is spoken. She visited us a couple of times during her most recent stay, and in that time, I got to know her a bit. I find her story interesting, so, with her permission, I’ll share it with you.
As Lucy herself recounted, she was born in what was essentially a bus—her father had converted a double-decker bus into a home.
Lucy grew up, went to school, and after graduating, worked for the BBC in London (though she didn’t know Seva Novgorodtsev).
Ten years passed. Lucy continued working for the BBC until 1976, living not far from Heathrow.
By then, Lucy was 25. She had married and given birth to two daughters, yet the dream of the skies never left her. There was a BBC office at the airport, right next to a British Airways office; one day, Lucy decided to pop in.
The dream of flying persisted, and eventually, she came across an advertisement in a women’s magazine. She called the flying club mentioned in the ad, which offered a free introductory flight. That’s how it all began—she started flying in 1974.
In our country, most of the essential knowledge for the field was provided by the Civil Aviation Academy—knowledge that could be put to practical use. Then again, one could also pursue a career without ever attending the Academy.
For instance, I’ve met people who, despite graduating from the Academy, were never actually able to work in the field. I’ve even encountered women working as aviation meteorologists—specifically in air traffic flow management! I was constantly amazed by their determination to master the profession, despite having absolutely no prior knowledge of aviation when they started. Some would even break down in tears, yet they never quit! Their drive was there, and, as a result, they succeeded.
Lucy didn’t complete any formal training courses; she began her career at the age of 39, joining the navigation department at British Airways. In 1989, she was sent to the airline’s training program, where she learned to develop flight plans—mapping out routes, communication frequencies, diversion airports, and much more.
She spent 12 years in air traffic flow management, mastering the planning of both short- and long-haul flights. Later, she went on to teach these skills in Seattle, New York, Latin America, and various locations across Europe.
After seven years of working on long- and short-haul routes, Lucy took on the challenge of navigating the Concorde. For the next three and a half years, she was responsible for planning its flights—teaching herself everything she needed to know! This included scheduled services, charters, and even round-the-world tours.
During this period, the use of twin-engine aircraft for transoceanic flights was becoming increasingly common.
In fact, Lucy was the first female flight dispatcher—not just at British Airways, but in the entire world.
On one occasion, Lucy was tasked with calculating the takeoff of two supersonic Concordes so that a solar eclipse would be visible in the background as the aircraft flew wingtip-to-wingtip. She had to account for departure procedures and all necessary separation intervals. It was a complex problem, but Lucy solved it! One aircraft flew 4,000 feet (1,200 meters) above the other. This took place over the Atlantic! A very narrow window—especially for aircraft like these! (Solar eclipse in Europe; see the center and right-hand images.)
The eclipse occurred at 11:11 GMT on August 11, 1999. In the United Kingdom, it was best viewed from Cornwall.
Two British Airways Concordes were chartered to fly out over the middle of the Atlantic and back at an altitude of 55,000 feet (over 18,000 meters). Each plane carried 100 passengers, with tickets priced at ;1,550 per seat. The tickets sold out six months in advance… more details can be found in the story "Lucy and the Solar Eclipse."
We parted ways after the start of the "special operation." She was deeply shaken by the events in Bucha—she had taught there.
I couldn't fathom how, using basic logic, she failed to grasp something so elementary. In the end, I sent her the song "Don't Be Afraid of Me, I Won't Harm You," and we went our separate ways.