I arrived in Edmonton at approximately 9:25pm and had only a short wait in the terminal. I took this time to take advantage of the free WIFI to send a quick email home as well as to enjoy a mocha coconut frappacino from the Starbucks. At this point I was exhausted and couldn’t wait to board my plane and pass out.
I boarded the plane with optimism; I was seated in 13A, and was beside the window. I had no doubt I would be only a few rows behind the first class area. But the first feeling that came to me was that of loathing. A loathing for the first class passengers tucked up in their very spacious cocoons, no worries, no claustrophobia. These feelings were quickly washed away by the sound of screaming children. As I entered the first compartment after the first class I hoped to God I would not be seated in this area. I felt as though I had just entered a kindergarten classroom. I remember looking around hoping that my seat number would not be among these screaming infants. No such luck. I took my seat, second row from the front, beside an older gentleman. He only spoke to me once the entire flight, and that was to state “Holy sh*t... we are surrounded by children”.
I hunkered down in my seat; I even had the misfortune of being in the awkward window seat that, of course, didn’t actually have a window. There were six children in total, and they had me surrounded. Not one of them was over the age of four; the youngest of all (and the quietest) was a bundled baby probably no more than six months old. Her sister on the other hand, absolutely adorable with her brown curly hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes, spent most of her waking moments screaming in an incomprehensible language. In front of me sat a little girl, although I only saw her arm and sweater from time to time, who wailed in French to her mother during take-off, turbulence, random moments, and landing. Behind me were three more children, but they were drowned out by the other two so I paid them no attention. I have heard that most new mothers are given the advice to sleep when their children do... it all makes perfect sense now. There is absolutely no way possible they would sleep a blink if their babies were awake! So I too took this advice and when the babies slept I put my book away and slept as well.
To make matters even worse I soon became aware that the person seated behind me was “that type”. The type that sticks his or her feet through the tiny space between the side of the plane and the seat in front of them, the type that puts his or her knees up on the back of the seat and is constantly fidgeting, the type that almost rivals rowdy children. Due to the environmental conditions I had assumed it was a child of some sort, but to my surprise, seated behind me was a man well into his forties, with a receding hairline and a distasteful smile. The babies, this man, and the terrible airplane food made for an eventful flight, and when I couldn’t sleep I sat in my seat and roasted in my hostility towards these strangers. When I did manage to sleep it was fitful, but I knew that I too was once a screaming child and hopefully my parents had the common sense never to take me on a plane. So I kept my discontent to myself and managed to hammer out 329 pages of my book.
When I disembark the aircraft I head straight for the bathroom. I know this is a futile effort, the first bathroom in any large facility is always packed, but I ignore this logic. I had just sat eight hours straight on a plane, not once getting up from my seat to use the restroom. This, I have decided, was quite do-able for one reason and one reason only. During the past eight months of school I would be lying if I said that I didn’t spend a great deal of time educating myself through the incredible movie collection I share with my roommates. Natalie, Kaitlyn, Lisa, and I spent ridiculous amounts of time sitting on our oh-so-wonderful couch having movie marathons. Yes, I have once again found a way to condone my (our) laziness. It is fantastic. And as I expected the washroom, or “toilets” as they call them here, were packed and I slink my way back into the long terminal hallway and haul ass to the next toilet... which actually happens to be in the next terminal, through the next set of security, and down two flights of stairs.
Now that I have had time to assess my surrounding I am somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of people they have managed to cram into “Terminal 1”, the transfer from Terminal 3 was the worst. I have also come to the conclusion that the time change, although completely necessary, is actually quite cruel. Technically my body still thinks it is 8:00am, while the travellers here are perky, cheerful, and quickly manoeuvring their way through the airport, enjoying their afternoon. Aside from freshening up slightly in the washroom, I on the other hand look haggard. I was also keen enough to wear my amazingly bright coloured Vancouver Canucks shirt... I couldn’t possibly attract more attention in this crowd of tan-wearing Brits. Speaking of the Canucks, unfortunately they were did not succeed in taking the cup in three games for me, so now I will be forced to monitor their progress online. I may or may not be slightly bitter that the one year they finally don’t choke and make it the last round I just happen to be halfway across the world. But it could be worse; they could be losing games by 7 goals on a regular basis.
And so my long-distance relationship with Canada begins, I haven’t had a drink in 4 days, and I have two more hours to go before I board my plane to South Africa... the flight is 11 hours (or so I have been led to believe).
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