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Friday, May 6, 2011


And so it begins.

Day 1 of travelling is always an ordeal. First there's the sliding scale of what to do the night before vs. what to do the morning of, all of which is presided over by "How much sleep do I want?" (Answer: as much as possible.) Obviously, apart from those die hard vacationers, the case is packed, the passport is already in the pocket of the jeans you have laid out to wear. Then your alarm goes off and you turn it off immediately because you've been awake for an hour and a half ahead of it, on the misguided instinct that you a)forgot to set it and remembered mid-awesome dream, b) you set it but slept through it, or c) the most terrifying of all, you set it, turned it off at the appointed time, and fell back asleep, thus ruining the hopes and dreams you and anyone you are travelling with or to. Of course, you're already awake now.

An uncomfortable commute to the airport in a seat with legroom just too small to fall asleep in, but just that little bit too big to wedge your knees onto the seat in front, and then you're there. Already feeling like you should have showered (back to that "more sleep'" thing above) you then see something you haven't seen in a very long time - a lineup of people, waiting to check in. Wasn't the internet supposed to get rid of lines, or did they scrap that in favour of more pornography? It wouldn't surprise me, to be honest. You hear the woman next to you checking in her luggage complain - "My bag is 5 kilos by itself!" means you only pack 15kg of stuff, you dumb old bat. Don't take it out on the check in lady, she's probably just as pissed as you because you can't follow simple directions.

Then - joy of joys! Like a beacon of light in a tunnel, a port in a storm, an oasis in a parched desert you see it. That wondrous spot that can be found easily by two signature characteristics: the long line of people waiting for their drug of choice, and the bright red letters that read like the Gospel: Tim. Hortons.

Oh sweet Timothy, it's been too long, I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me and hook me up with a double double and 40 Timbits please? (I am aware that the previous sentence may confuse some readers. I don't give a shit. You aren't in the know.)

Caffeine imbibed, you bask in the warm glow emanating from your gut. You're home.

Wait, that's not right at all. You're at the airport. Why are you at the airport? Focus: you must be going somewhere… what did you pack?

Then it hits me: I'm going to England to see my family.

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