March 14, 2013
The last minute scramble to
the airport by a good-looking, taciturn dark-skinned cabbie who dropped me in a
hurry at the inconsistent airport commercial bus stop was a feat in and of
itself. Upon arrival none of the numerous attendants were certain of Air Canada’s
check-in desk locale so I raced around from one end of the terminal to the
other with a heavily loaded cart to land at the destination in time for my
flight. Guzzle water from my smart green reusable container as I wait my turn
at the security checkpoint, taking in the various passengers kissing their
hosts, family members, and lovers goodbye. I politely nod in agreement, it is
difficult to grasp the multitude of sensations passing through my heart and
soul as I quiver with sweat from the OJ Simpson journey and anticipation of the
loss of my adopted country. I had to be content with a silent farewell to those
whom touched me in my just shy of six weeks mission.
The flight to Toronto
Pearson was a sordid affair with wailing children, a vomiting woman, men
bantering in enthusiastic voices as though no one was sitting within earshot. The
annoying announcements in three languages interrupted my three full-length
films throughout the night. Who can sleep in such commotion and non-conforming
seats? My aching stomach battled with the once fresh vegetarian meal so I
staggered up and down the football field aisle to the restroom far too many
times to keep track. At least I paid attention to the suggestion I wouldn’t
like the coffee by the charming male flight attendant and drank cup after cup
of sweet juice, hot bitter tea, and water from the petroleum based single use
plastic water bottle. The ten hour plus flight passed like a child awaiting
Christmas in July and I was dog-tired upon our pre-sunrise arrival.
A week dried cranberry scone
and diluted cup of Seattle’s
Best coffee woke me up long enough to walk the long distance to the newly
revised Customs System. Step One scans the boarding pass and then a long wait with
a disgruntled group while unbeknownst to me, Customs employees scrounge through
my bags looking for illegal paraphernalia. Step Two allows the agent to scan my
Passport and I enter into the slot to speak with the chatty Step Three Customs
gent. Off I go along the corridors to Security where I pass the water guzzling,
shoe shunning, metal stripping, ziplock bag stuffing, computer juggling passengers
through X-ray to my gate.
I have to leave the warm
building to climb the metal stairs to my seat on the small plane parked at the
last possible gate on the planet. It is too cold for my light summer jacket,
yoga pants and snazzy painted tennis shoes. I long for the fuzzy boots,
scarves, wool coats and gloves glued to the rest of the brilliant passengers. No
one is up for sharing.
My head bobbles as I manage
to stay awake long enough to read bits of my hardback book I can’t recall the
subject of, from one paragraph to another. An hour and 53 minutes and we are in
Minneapolis. My
bags pop off the conveyor belt and I stupidly ask the woman next to me where I
need to take my luggage for a Customs search. Apparently as I waited in Pearson Airport, they were passing inspection!
Snow, freezing temps and
long hugs from Taelor and my friends brings me back to the reality of my life
before fields on the farm, fractured bones, lengthy conversations over platters
of sustenance and relationships that will last my lifetime.
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