By Lucy

Home time. Or something like it.

I woke before 6, went downstairs in the darkness. I had enough change for the vending machine, and bought a canned coffee and an “Instant Brekkie” that had more sugar than anything else and was basically a chocolate milkshake. Most of the rest of my change was 20 and 50 cent coins, which didn’t seem worth it to bring with me, so I left them on the front desk with a sticky note that said “free change”.

Richard offered to drive me to the airport around 7:30, but showed up before 7. Good thing I was just sitting on the couch fully dressed with my bags packed! He mentioned he’s been keeping an eye out for people like me selling their cars before they head back, hoping to grab something being sold desperately cheap, and then he can sell it to an arrival in the spring and make a tidy profit. So if/when I come back, I might hit him up to see if he’s got anything for me.

Christchurch airport is small and pleasant. I ended up putting my boots and my toque in one bin by themselves, but when they got to the scanner the scanner shut down. After several long minutes, the security staff pulled every bin out of the scanner except mine and put them thru another scanner, while I stood there sock-footed, red in the face. Eventually I was cleared to continue. Of course I would be the one to shut down the scanner!

I found a coffee shop and got my last flat white and a scone.

When we boarded the plane, those of us in the budget back of the aircraft seats had to exit the terminal and walk around outside to the back of the plane, which I’ve never done before. The person seated next to me ended up being the last person on the plane and they had to summon her over the intercom.

I realized my mistake as we took off. I have some odd habit of automatically sitting on the right-hand side of every vehicle. But it was a beautiful sunny, clear day in Aotearoa and if I had sat on the west-ward side of the plane, I would have had an unobstructed view of the southern Alps, possibly all the way to Aoraki, and could probably pick out the estate as well. Oops.

The coastline and mountains were still pretty.

After an hour, we were in Auckland. Even shorter than the flight from Toronto to Thunder Bay.

It was a 500 meter walk from the domestic terminal to the international terminal in Auckland, outside in the blazing sun, carrying my heavy bag (12.6 kilos) and leather jacket. And then thru security again. Fortunately I did not break the scanner this time.

I only had a 2 hour layover here, which is the shortest I’ve had and made me panic. I went to a store to grab some gum to pop my ears and move my guts, but no gum was to be had! Maybe it’s banned in Auckland like it is in Singapore. I grabbed something chewy to bridge the gap, then went to my gate, which naturally was the furthest one away. After I dropped my bags off in a chair, I changed my mind and ran back for some sushi. I was feeling hot and nauseous from the short flight, but this was the warmest terminal I’d ever been in.

It’s just as well it happened this fast. On the plane before breakfast. Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about leaving.

It’s fine.

Just keep moving.

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The woman I ended up sat next to for the 12 hour international flight reminded me strongly of my mother’s friend Elizabeth, which scared me, especially since we were onwards to Ottawa at some point. She was a Karen-type I expected to argue with the stewards or deny me bathroom rights at some point, but fortunately she did neither.

They served dinner immediately after takeoff, which was just as well because we soon encountered severe turbulence. I will say, despite my fear of planes, turbulence never bothers me. I have such a sensitive inner ear that I can usually feel it before it hits, and it feels natural. Soothing, almost like the rocking of a boat. Nonetheless, we were trapped in our seats for a long time.

Land quickly slipped out of sight and then there was nothing to see but sea and sky for a long time, until sunset stole even that away. This plane didn’t have shades; instead, the windows dimmed.

This was one of the longest flights I’d been on. Just like my first flight to England, I couldn’t manage to fall asleep, even though I had prepared. I probably should have asked for a glass of wine with dinner, because by the time it occurred to me the hostesses said they weren’t allowed to serve it anymore.

The plane landed and let us out at 6AM. It was still dark and rainy, so I had no idea how I had come in to the airport.

Margaret was waiting in the arrivals lounge.

My relationship with Margaret baffles even me. She’s almost a parody of a stereotype of Canadians and women in the trades; she wears nothing but jeans and plaid shirts. I know almost nothing about her; she grew up in small-town southern Ontario, she’s a journeyman, and she is older than 35 because she’s too old for the working holiday visa. That’s it. We met because both of us volunteered to represent the union at a green building conference, because we both believe strongly in climate change, then she moved to Vancouver around the time I moved to Thunder Bay. She has a blunt but muted affect and tolerates my hyperactive rambling with a old sister vibe.

I had almost no idea what awaited me in Vancouver. The plan, formulated over the weekend cuz she kept changing her mind, was to get the ferry to Vancouver Island and stay there for the night. She had a car in Toronto, but it turns out, not in Vancouver, so we hopped on the Skytrain (after stopping at Tim Horton’s, naturally). We went to the end of the line and got off at Canada Place. We had 2 or 3 hours to kill until the ferry, so we wandered around for a bit and then I found a nice coffee shop on the ground floor of a condo building for us to hang out in. Iced coffee was the only thing she ordered for 3 days!

“This looks so much like Canada.” I commented, looking up at the stone facades of the condo buildings.

“How can you tell? All cities look different.”

“They do, but you could still blindfold me and spin me around and I would know this was Canada.” The temperature was hovering around 14, which was colder than New Zealand but felt warmer.

As the rain let up and the sun rose, a pea-soup fog descended. I still couldn’t see anything but the vaguest city skyline. Aren’t there mountains in BC?

The ferry took about an hour and I passed out on it. Not that there was much to see but fog and steel-grey seawater.

The ferry dropped us off in Nanaimo and we were picked up by Margaret’s friend Glenna, a older woman who is journeyman in the Vancouver Island union. She is polite but slightly scattered-brained, although that might just be the fact she was recently savaged by a large dog. The healing scars were mostly hidden by her hairline but you could see where the skin pinched in a crescent moon shape.

At this point I was basically falling asleep on my feet, so Glenna took us back to her place and they set me up in my room. Every door in her house is a pocket door and the kitchen looked to be in a permanent state of renovation. Can you tell a carpenter lives here yet? I napped for a couple of hours while her and Margaret went out for lunch and to catch up.

Now what?

I don’t know why everyone seemed to think I had some list of sightseeing I wanted to do. I was sightseeing but also about half just easing myself back into being in Canada. I was surprised by how sharp the shock was. You’d think I was born and raised in New Zealand by how lost I felt.

Margaret and Glenna came back about half an hour later. We put together a plan; we’d go for a walk to a nearby waterfall, then maybe get on one of those little ferries and have dinner at a pub on a different island.

The walk to the waterfall was very nice. Compared to my usual hikes, it was short and sweet, and I couldn’t resist a self-satisfied grin when I turned around and noticed both Margaret and Glenna out of breath from an incline. Margaret was fascinated by the lichens choking the trees. I taught Glenna how to use her iPhone to image search for plants to find out what they are. I surprised myself by how many plants I could now identify!

Back in the car, down to a small town called Saltair. The clerk informed us the ferry had been late all day, so she wasn’t sure when it would be here. We bought tickets anyway, wandered around town for half an hour, then came back and waited for the ferry.

It was a nice little ferry ride. The ferry went first to Phenelakut and then to Thetis, our destination. Glenna wanted to stand on the deck and watch the scenery go by. I stood out there for a bit, but it was bitterly cold and I lacked a proper jacket.

“Is that a paper mill?” I asked, pointing to the south to where I spied a boiler belting out steam.

“Ah, good eye! Yes, Crofton’s. There’s 4 on the island.”

4 on the island and its own union? I should contact them and get put on their call-out list.

I was too cold and there is a window in the passenger lounge.

It was about a ten minute walk to the pub, but when we got there we discovered they were closed Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday due to the down season. Darn. And, of course, the ferry won’t be back for the better part of an hour.

Fortunately there was an attached grocery store that sold liquor, so I grabbed a bag of chips before my guts rebelled and then we each grabbed a can of something alcoholic. The pub had all the outdoor seating removed, so we leaned against the railing over the marina while we drank.

“This is such a…. 3 female carpenters’ day drinking in the Marina.” I giggled.

“Cheers! I’ll drink to that.” Glenna said.

I grabbed a Mike’s “Harder” Lemonade, which was 7% and even with the chips, hit me fast. A chonky black and white cat, clearly used to being around humans and getting bar snacks, started winding around our legs.

After enough time had passed, we wandered back to the dock.

A random cross breeze brought the smell to me; overboiled cabbage, slightly fishy. “I can smell the mill.” I said, freezing in place as memories washed over me, more vivid than the ground beneath my feet.

Glenna and Margaret looked at each other. After a moment, Glenna said, “Oh yeah, I smell it now!”

It’s funny how smell and memory works. The smell of a mill is objectively unpleasant, but working at the mill has been some of the safest times in my life; times when I didn’t have to worry about money, or where I was living.

When we got there, we discovered there wasn’t a garbage can in sight. We stashed our cans nearby, because logically the sailors wouldn’t let us bring open containers of alcohol on-board, or embark in an inebriated state.

The boat ride back felt a lot shorter, probably cuz me and Margaret were nodding off in our seats as the alcohol took hold. It does make me wonder what’s going on with her. She’s running from something, she just doesn’t want to talk about it.

Ah, but we still had to have dinner!

Glenna asked me where I wanted to go and I confessed what I really wanted was a nice bowl of chowder. She said she knew just the place, so we let her drive us around. I was too tired to keep track of the streets, but we ended up at a bar called Timberlands. The waitress was having a hell of a day and immediately vomited her life story at us, which we were too tired to really respond to. She brought our drinks quickly, which were fine, although Glenna was unhappy with how her beer was poured.

The chowder was truly amazing. I’d go back there for more! Margaret ordered the chowder as well, tired past the point of wanting to make decisions.

We were zombies when we arrived at Glenna’s place. She made an effort to introduce us to her beau, but Margaret had met him before and I was too tired to register his name or face. Margaret was asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. I took a bit longer, my jetlag fighting my exhaustion. I also encountered a funny situation; I hadn’t bothered packing a North American plug for my phone. It made no sense at the time, I’d be spending most of my time in NZ, but now I was having a hard time finding places to charge my phone! Some days I’m not as clever as I think I am.

I woke in the middle of the night with a raging fever and joint aches. All day I had been blowing my nose constantly, but that could have been attributed to multiple things. Now there was no denying it; I’d picked up a cold at the conference. Fantastic; I’m jetlagged, sleep deprived, and now ill. I stumbled into the bathroom and found a bottle of cold medicine I’m sure Glenna wouldn’t begrudge me a dose from, but it was still another couple hours of tossing and turning before I fell asleep again.

Glenna woke us up at 8. She forgot that she had made plans and she had to drop us off at in Nanaimo ASAP. I packed as quickly as I could and we shuffled out to the car, half asleep. She dropped us off in downtown Nanaimo, next to a homeless encampment.

We wandered into the first cafe we found and ordered some breakfast. This cafe was very French and I wanted everything on the menu; I’ve yet to see another restaurant offer a croque madame. I ordered the french toast sticks; Margaret ordered an omelet and a cold brew coffee (the waitress apologized that it was Arabica).

I’ve had better French toast.

We wandered around downtown a bit, but nothing was open and we didn’t really have time to see anything. The ferry leaves at 11 and we had a couple of hours to kill, but that also included the walk to the ferry.

The fog finally lifted and I could see the mountains! It’s funny that I had spent 24 hours in BC but all I could see was the city skyline. Suddenly, the horizon was painted in mountains. Taller than New Zealand’s mountains, actually, but theirs still looked grander in some way.

Once back on dry land, we walked down to the Seabus. I had arranged to meet another Soroptimist in North Van, because Margaret had told me that was where we would be so that’s where I made my plans. The Seabus is nice; its basically just a ferry that acts like a subway train, but it’s necessary. Since Vancouver is wrapped around a bay, the points for crossing the bay become choke-points. We had that problem a lot in Barrie; the easiest spots to go from north to south was where the traffic congested, because there was no going around it. I applaud the city for developing such an effective pedestrian thoroughfare!

“Where do you want to go for lunch?” Margaret asked.

I pointed to a sign in the terminal. “Cream Pony!”

She chuckled at that, but Margaret is quickly learning that I have a keen sense of good food. One of my inexplicable skills is my ability to glance at a menu and discern the best thing on it.

Cream Pony is one of those places with eclectic but specific offerings. They don’t do everything; they do one thing really, really well. In this case, they make iced tea, fried chicken and donuts, and they are really, really good, and a nice price as well. I got a chicken sandwich and a Cream Pony donut (which was really just a Boston cream) and Margaret got her standard iced coffee and a Cajun chicken sandwich.

As we walked back to MONOVA, where we were meeting Yolanda, Margaret pointed out various points of interest. “That’s my favourite art gallery.”

“Your… favourite? There’s more than one you frequent?”

“Yeah, I do art stuff in my spare time.”

Still waters run deep. I was struck again by how little I know about her. “What are you working on right now?”

“Mostly writing, actually.”

“You write?” I exclaimed.

“Yup.” We stopped in front of a pair of sliding glass doors. “This is MONOVA. I’ll come pick you up later when I know where we are staying.”

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To check on my cat.” And then she was gone.

I went inside and found a spot to stash my luggage, which was really starting to wear on my shoulders. They had a small table set up near the front for Haft Sin, a Zoroastrianism ceremony. Persian new year. I was surprised, not a lot of Westerners know about Zoroaster, a monotheistic religion that predates Judaism. I got into a debate with the clerk at the front desk about sky burials and the Towers of Silence.

Then I waited for Yolanda, and after she showed up, her friend Sharon. I think Yolanda has a special affection for me because I am her daughter’s age and she hopes we will bond, but her daughter has not replied to any of my emails and I’m not holding my breath. I enjoy Yolanda’s company; she’s a strong, independent Filipina who left the Philippines because she didn’t want to live under the rampant misogyny there. Unlike some Soroptimists, she has first-hand experience in what we are fighting against, and a real fire in her belly not to let other girls live through what she experienced.

MONOVA was fine. Ostensibly a museum, there could have been more history in it. The first exhibit was a local Indigenous woman’s project to document her mother’s dementia, but it was light on dementia and heavy on crow-based symbolism, placing it more under the banner of art project.

There were some other exhibits in the back about the local indigenous peoples and how Vancouver developed. Like New Zealand, this area also used to be an Eden, the streams so thick with salmon you only had to reach down to grab one, the winters mild and forgiving.

And then white people came.

See, we have these comforting myths, even though even those are starting to be torn down. We were always told in school about the treaties, even if there’s now recognition of how lopsided and unfair they were, there was still the ostensible truth that the indigenous people had agreed to sell their land. In BC, there were no treaties. When Canada was newly formed, the government just decided the land that is now BC was ours, with no token effort to bargain with the indigenous peoples. There was a slight excuse – the Americans were starting to push north and we needed to unify to keep them out – but the truth still stands, 150 years later, that we just stole their land and never compensated them for it. That’s why they are entirely justified in protesting pipelines, mines and dams. It is their land, unceded. We’re just building on conquered peoples land and telling them it isn’t theirs anymore, like Russia in Ukraine.

There’s another side of racism in BC. When they were building the railroad to connect Canada coast to coast, we had a lot of Asians, mostly but not exclusively Chinese, working on it. The railroad finished in Vancouver and left a lot of Chinese people with money to spend, who didn’t want to or couldn’t go back to China… which started a yellow panic. “Thanks for building our railroad, now go away”, basically.

Isn’t history fun?

There was an exhibit about one of the large iron bridges over the bay, which collapsed during construction in 1958, killing 18 workers.

After we were done at MONOVA, we were too early for dinner, so we wandered down to Lonsdale Quay. The sun was making a rare appearance. There were still kids skating in the manmade skating rink set up in the middle of the shopping centre! We walked out onto the quay to take some snaps, then wandered through the shops. I found some things I really wanted to buy – like a candle scented “whiskey and tobacco” – but I was too broke. Yolanda bought me a plate I was admiring, which was very kind of her. We also wandered into a honey store, where I chatted the ear off of the owner about Black Beech honey, before buying some Manuka lozenges and some local honey. They had fireweed and star thistle honey, which seemed interesting! We don’t have those out east.

We went to dinner early, some surfin’ shack. It was brightly painted and offering a “happy hour” with slim pickings. I ordered a burger and a couple of Daiquiris. Sharon ordered a glass of wine and Yolanda ordered a beer before admitting she usually doesn’t drink. They got tipsy and giggly very quickly after that!

The dinner discussion was a little bleak. Mark Carney had dismissed the Minister for Women and Children. There’s an argument that he’s just running a slim caucus before the federal election, but it still sets a bad precedent. During the UN Conference of the Commission of the Status of Women in New York, no less!

After dinner, Sharon took off, and me and Yoland took the Seabus back across the bay. Margaret had gotten an hotel room near Stanley Park for us. She said it was just because it’s walking distance to downtown, but she also didn’t ask me to help her cover it, so I suspect she also just didn’t want to go back to her apartment.

The room is nice, more of a bachelor apartment than a hotel. There’s 2 beds, a TV, a bathroom and a proper kitchen, with a stove and full-sized fridge.

Margaret has gone shopping, for ingredients to a sandwich, 2 Powerades, a bottle of cold brew, and a bottle of wine that’s half empty.

I pick it up. “Did you bring this with you?”

“There’s a liquor store down the road.”

“What I meant was, did you drink half of it already?”

She shrugs. “I’m a carpenter.”

What is it about this job? Does it make us alcoholics, or does it only attract people with a problem already? And why?

I was also thirsty. I walked down the road to Nofrills and grabbed some orange juice and some yogurt for breakfast. I couldn’t resist going into the liquor store and grabbed a small bottle of vodka.

When I got back to the hotel, I hopped in the shower quickly before running myself a bath. When was the last time I saw a bath tub? I was so sore and running on fumes. The rest of the evening was spent tapping away on my laptop while thinning out a glass of orange juice with vodka. Margaret passed out early from the wine.

We slept in and had a slow morning. Our room was in the corner of the building and my bed was shared a wall with the elevator, which kept waking me up. I was really feeling how ragged I was running myself, but this was my last day in Vancouver. Gotta make the best of it.

We went for a long, leisurely walk around Stanley Park. Well, first we started off at these statues, which Margaret says are her favourite. And she tried very hard to convince me to rent a bike, but I was starting to eye my dwindling bank account. I hadn’t heard back from work yet, and food isn’t cheap. It took a few hours; the full loop is 10 kms and that’s not including getting side tracked, stopping for a break, or being severely ill. Margaret kept threatening to drag me back to the hotel if it started raining, but it was only partially cloudy.

Around 1, we wandered back in the direction of the hotel. There was a place across the road that offered moussaka, and cognizant that the next time I had moussaka would be when I made it myself, I wanted to have some (that being said, moussaka is great for keto!). Margaret was jonesing for some spaghetti, but she decided she wanted to try the moussaka as well.

It was good, although with the Greek salad and the bed of rice, it was too much for me! Margaret cleaned her plate.

She went back to the hotel room for a Zoom call and I decided to walk down to the Stanley Park aquarium to kill some time before meeting up with Jake.

I was feeling it now. The half-hour walk took forever, and the aquarium was hopping with tourists. Not even ten minutes after I paid the 60$ fee for the aquarium and walked around, the heat of so many bodies, the smells, the kids screaming and running around, my head started spinning and I had to sit down. I debated trying for a refund, but decided they wouldn’t give me one. I made myself walk around a bit, but I spent more time sitting than walking and eventually gave up and limped back to the hotel, feeling woozy and regretting going out. I texted Jake that I wasn’t feeling up to another trip out, but he found a bar nearby he liked so we agreed to meet there.

The evening was pleasant. I offered Margaret to join us, but she opted to go back to her apartment to check on her cat. Jake brought his girlfriend and she was also a lot of fun to talk to. I ordered a single drink and we split a plate of nachos, but they went thru two beers and also ordered a beer sampler try, a “flight” of beers. Jake has a keen eye when he wants to; he observed all the changes in me in the last year, and that Jeremy has been talking to him about shows less.

We stayed up having a rapid-fire conversation for a couple of hours, but eventually the exhaustion hit me again and I had to go back to the hotel.

I woke up at 5 for my flight, pushing it kind of close. I didn’t even bother trying to make myself eat some yogurt, just changed and packed. I shoved a lot of things into a shopping bag instead of repacking properly. I wouldn’t have to do this again for several months… home tonight! Margaret barely rolled over when my alarm went off and I turned the light on. We’d said goodbye the night before.

I got an Uber to her recommended Skytrain station and stumbled onto the Skytrain until the end of the line, YVR. Checked in – the problem was no longer my hat and shoes, but my small containers of honey, which looked odd on the scanner. I got a double double and a croissant at Timmies and stumbled to the correct gate. YVR is not as big as Pearson, thank goodness. I arrived ten minutes before boarding. I had a few texts from people teasing me about the amount of snow to expect in Thunder Bay.

I had been looking forward to seeing my country from the air, but it was not to be. As we flew over the first wave of mountains, clouds rose up to meet us. The clouds didn’t abate the whole time, until we touched down in Ottawa, fluffy cotton candy clouds.

Now I had a couple of hours to kill until my final flight. I found a spot with a comfy couch and a plug and settled in with my laptop. Then I turned my phone off airplane mode.

The first text I got; your flight has been cancelled.

The savvy traveler disappeared in an avalanche of anxiety. Nononono! I don’t have any money, I can’t rebook, I can’t get a hotel! When I calmed myself enough to check my email, I had been rebooked. A flight to Toronto tonight, a flight to Thunder Bay in the morning.

What? In tears, I called Andrej, the only person I could think of to help. He calmed me down and helped walk me thru what to do (Paul was also providing support thru texts).

I went to the Porter desk to talk to them, but the only thing they told me was that it was cancelled due to the storm and they didn’t owe me a hotel room. All those lovely fluffy clouds I had flown over and the teasing texts about snow had conspired to keep me from home.

The clerk came over a few minutes later and informed me about a hotel that offers a discount if you got rebooked by Porter, but I was too distraught to remember it.

Air Canada was still flying to Thunder Bay that evening, but I was wary of them changing their mind and cancelling as well. I could sleep overnight at the airport. I had done it before, but that was easy to comprehend when I was fresh and had spent 2 months planning the trip. Less so when I was a snotty, jetlagged, exhausted mess. Andrej agreed to help me with the cost of a hotel, so I went to the desk and asked for their soonest flight to Toronto. The sooner I could settle in, the sooner I could relax.

After they printed the boarding pass, I realized my mistake. They had booked me to “Toronto-City”… Billy Bishop Airport, downtown Toronto, not Pearson, which is outside Toronto proper.

Crap! Porter was abandoning me on a Friday night in downtown Toronto!

I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to try and change my plan. I found a hostel within walking distance of the airport that didn’t seem too sketchy and booked it. Then I went and bought some lunch.

Ottawa. I hadn’t been here for a while. In Canada, or at least Ontario, every child makes a pilgrimage to Ottawa when they are 12 in an overnight class trip. Well, every child except me. My parents didn’t trust the teachers to keep me safe. I did end up going with the cadets, and we spent the night sleeping in an airplane museum under the planes, which was a unique experience and a lot of fun. Ottawa is also where Elizabeth lives now.

Elizabeth…

I have such conflicting feelings about Elizabeth. When I was 12 and my mother went back to school, Elizabeth would babysit us a lot, but at the time I didn’t mind. Unlike my mother, who would withhold food, call me fat, and question it when I wanted to buy clothes, Elizabeth would shower me with things. She had 2 boys and I think she enjoyed being able to spoil me like the daughter she didn’t have. She’d load up on snacks she knew I loved and buy me pretty clothes. She’d sit with me and talk about plans for post-secondary like I was an adult. She bought a house for her sons to go to university in Ottawa and exhorted my mother to do the same.

She wasn’t perfect. She complained about gay people a lot. She would accuse lesbians of being perverted sluts who tried to touch her without consent, unaware that I was bi. But I never internalized her slurs. They seemed almost comical, too unreal to take seriously.

I stopped talking to Elizabeth because of her kids, actually. The elder one, in particular, was going down a dark path that she didn’t want to see. When I was 16 or thereabouts, we were hanging out in the basement – me, Patrick, Patrick’s friend, and their respective girlfriends – watching a movie. Patrick started trying to make-out with his girlfriend and she said no, jokingly at first and then with a real note of fear in her voice as he disregarded her protests and pushed her down on the couch. I stood up and yelled at him to stop.

Without saying anything to me, he grabbed my shoes and went upstairs. He flung them outside (it must have been December or January, cuz it was cold and there was a few feet of snow on the ground) and when I went outside to get them, he closed and locked the door, leaving me outside in my shoes, with no jacket.

I beat on the glass door with my hands, bawling, for what felt like forever but was probably 10 minutes. Elizabeth came to the kitchen for a refill and heard me and let me in.

“Why were you outside with the door locked!”

Tears in my eyes, rubbing my arms to get the warmth back in to them. “Patrick locked me outside!”

“That doesn’t sound like him, why would he do that?”

After that, I started making excuses not to go over to Elizabeth’s.

---

Eventually my flight was boarding. It wasn’t long. I was seated next to a larger, handicapped woman from Newfoundland who was quite pleasant to talk to. She had been rebooked as well, but she was heading to Toronto for a Kylie Minogue concert (Wait, Kylie Minogue is still touring?).

It was bitterly cold and raining in Toronto.

The hostel was little more than a hole in the wall, a door shoved in between an A&W and a bike store. At least 2 years ago it was still an apartment, but the owners clearly had a change of plans. I dumped my bag on my bed and started regretting my choices. There was no lounge or kitchen; just dorm rooms. The bathroom were literally a bathroom stall with a toilet in it, glass wall attached to the dorm so you could wake everyone up when you went to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It felt a lot like prison.

I went downstairs and grabbed a burger, then sat at the desk and watched TV for a bit. There was no way to get into the bathroom without me moving my chair, so as everyone started to want to access the bathroom to get ready for bed, I conceded the chair and went to my bunk. The heights of the bunks were too short for me to sit up in bed. What a fun place.

I didn’t get much sleep. The girls went to bed at 10 and lights were off, everyone quiet (although most on their phones) but sleep eluded me. I got maybe 4 hours, but probably less. But my flight was early.

My luggage finally gave out. I woke before everyone else, but my zipper wouldn’t zip when I packed for the final time. Or, rather, it would zip, but the two sides didn’t stay closed. At least the internal zippers would keep my stuff in place!

Ubered to the airport. Back thru the tunnel, checked in – they didn’t like my honey pots again – and collapsed in the terminal. Found some breakfast.

Finally… almost home.