CHAPTER 7
Andy
The time had come. I had to get out of my fortress—this cozy home that had become both my sanctuary and my cage. The thought of this very first solo trip terrified me. I loved playing the hermit, but this retirement was throwing everything into a tailspin. I had to prove to myself that I could still pull it off—that I could still function, travel, and actually live.
I, the former flight attendant, the one who spent her life gliding down airplane aisles, sexy and sharp as a tack, now saw myself as a "washed-up old bag" (une vieille sacoche). I didn’t have the job anymore, no uniform to keep me standing tall, no role to play. I’d been clinging to that identity for over 30 years. My biggest fear? Bumping into old colleagues. I was scared to death of seeing my own reflection in their eyes: a woman who’d lost her spark, a ghost of the person I used to be.
But then, reality hit me: after all those years of hard work and polite smiles, didn't I deserve a break? Wasn't I due to finally enjoy myself, without having to pour a coffee or double-check a seatbelt? I had to find my guts again. Not the "flight attendant courage" facing turbulence, but the courage of a 66-year-old woman deciding that life doesn't end just because the career path hit a dead end. I had to get out of the house—not just to run away from the fake Bon Jovis, but to go meet the only person who actually mattered: Myself.
This trip wasn't just a spot on a map; it was about taking back my dignity. I was trading the uniform for freedom, even if my legs were shaking like leaves while I buckled my suitcase. The glorious image of the past clashing with the fear of the present was making me gasp for air.
IT WAS SUFFOCATING ME! IT WAS NOW OR NEVER!
I didn't think I was going to get so deeply involved with these romantic scammers. But it was a transition I had to make from my past life. At what price? Only God knew the answer. It was a huge identity jump. I needed to learn to exist by myself, not through the eyes of people looking at an airline crew uniform. That was over. Now, a constant question spun in my head like a hamster in a cage: Would I have enough money to survive for the rest of my life?
Even after calculating a hundred times, I was unsure. I had to rush to fill out retirement forms—provincial, federal, and employer—and survive for three months with very little money. It felt like climbing Mount Everest without enough oxygen, never really wanting to reach the top.
I spent March, April, May, and June chatting with the "fake" Bon Jovi. He was my Muse. After each conversation, I would throw myself into writing mode. Inspiration came full speed. It was passionate, wild, and crazy. I forgot I was 66; I felt like a 16-year-old with a crush. I was the star of my life!
We had seen each other briefly on a WhatsApp video. He was in his kitchen and said: "Hi Louise, it's me, Bon Jovi." It looked so real. I was shy, and since I’m a better writer than a talker, I didn't push him. He told me about his "secret divorce," claiming his wife wanted to take everything he had built. He said he was happy to find someone like me, away from the paparazzi, to help him through this tragedy.
He listened to my "nonsense" stories morning, noon, and night. We made travel plans for after his recording sessions. But then, he started dragging me into buying a "VIP Membership Card" for his shows. I told him I couldn't afford it. Then he tried to lure me with the idea of buying a house in Quebec, letting me pick it out. One day, I had enough of his bullshit.
Still, he agreed to visit me in Mont-Tremblant for a weekend since it was only 2.5 hours from New York. I went all out: fancy groceries, lingerie, champagne... everything for a king. But the rendezvous never happened. Twice I did the crazy grocery shopping, and twice he stood me up. Even my sister witnessed the second time he called to cancel. It was all bullshit!
I wanted to believe that a legendary singer could be interested in me, like in the movies. I wanted to feel special. But the "Yahoo Boys" scenario was a team effort, supervised by "fortune tellers" on TikTok. They work in cells to empty your bank account. I decided I was going to write about it—how easily one can get ripped off by love.
I also studied the "clones," like the Keanu Reeves impersonators on TikTok. Some women were ready to pay over $5,000 for a membership card! I even chatted with a fake Sting. One night, during a heatwave, my body temperature dropped (my thyroid acting up), and I had "Sting" and "Keanu" both giving me advice while I was huddled under blankets. I had two "princes" taking care of me!
Finally, the fake Bon Jovi admitted the truth: he wasn't a star. He was a 27-year-old man living in London. Wake-up call!
That summer was extremely hot in Quebec. I would garden early, then hide in the shade under the balcony, writing songs. I was happy. My new diet of cucumbers and yogurt was working; I felt sexy and great. I was on the verge of recovery.
Then, a new message appeared on my TikTok. Not a fake singer this time. He looked legit. He wore a gentleman farmer’s hat, the kind they wear on safari. He liked my videos, my songs. I thought: There must be someone real on TikTok, just like me, right?
I accepted the invitation from this guy who had waited patiently for six days for a reply. He loved that I was a writer. He claimed to be a doctor and a poet—an American Marine doctor in Somalia. And me, so stupid, I believed him because he said: "I write poems."
I told him I couldn't chat with an American—I was writing patriotic Canadian songs at the time and didn't want to hear about Trump. But the "cute doctor" said America would never fight Canada. He charmed me with sweet words. One day, while I was looking at my roses, he asked my age. I realized I was 66, not 16. I told him it was impossible to continue, that I was three times his age. He insisted he liked mature women, claiming his ex-wife (who died in a car accident) was 20 years older than him.
Stupid me, I finally believed him. He called me every day—morning, lunch, and night—calling me his "Lady." He said he had a 15-year-old son, Harrison, and was ready to move to Canada. He told me he was an undercover doctor in a small Somalian village. He described his daily life: going to his clinic, guarding the base at night, the danger of Mogadishu. He said he couldn't use the video camera because it was a "secure American base." His voice sounded African, but he claimed he had picked up the accent to blend in. It was hard to believe... but then he would sing to me a cappella at 5:00 AM.
Then, the inevitable happened. Andy started asking for money. For his "son" in a private college in Lesotho. Harrison was "sick" and needed an asthma pump and extra money for school. What the fuck. He was one of them.
He claimed his money was frozen and he couldn't get to an ATM without being noticed by the Somali army. "Apple Card," he said. Here we go again. I was vulnerable, and I had a history of bad luck with men—liars and "Christians" being kidnapped. The game was over. My heart had had its share of "fun." It was time to lock it back up for good.
It was now the beginning of September. I had had enough. I told him I would be glad to do humanitarian work and would bring his son the money for his bursary myself, in LESOTHO, right after my safari in South Africa.
This was it. I had to get out of my house. I had to prove I was still capable of traveling on my own. Take it or leave it, I was leaving. I was suffocating. I needed a vacation. Whether he liked it or not, I was going to bring that money.
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