Flyday the 13th Pt. II

N.B. For the start of this story see "Flyday the 13th Pt. 1"

Strangely, I didn’t buy a copy of "The Little Book of Calm". I didn’t think to ask whether Indigo had a gigantic ‘Encyclopedia Britannica’ of calm either, or maybe the DVD box set.

Outside at street level again with the last xmas pressies safely stashed, the subzero temperatures knee’d me in the groin as I struggled to drag the housebrick through the mall door. I elected not to wear gloves because gripping the suitcase handle would be an issue, so I weaved as swiftly as possible between the zombie-like shoppers to get to a bus stop I’d never been to before in order to catch a bus I’d never caught before. The three text messages from someone special beeped in my pocket once I’d made it back up the other eight circles of hell, but responding was tricky with frostbitten fingers, along with the fact that I’m a man.

Nope, I’m not too proud to admit that walking, dragging (the housebrick), navigating, and texting all at the same time would have been asking to get mown down by a courier bike or taxi. Either that or I’d have simply forgotten to breathe in and out.

Anyway, long story short I made it to my generous friend’s new loft via bus, gatecrashed her girls’ night in and made them ALL wait to exchange their xmas pressies, sank a glass of champagne, fixed her bedroom light, and took my ‘medicine’. I stumbled into a taxi at around eight-thirty with that familiar ‘soap dried on face’ feeling, a rumbling stomach despite the pizza I’d just eaten quicker than osmosis, and a wide smile. It didn’t even bother me when the taxi driver asked me which way I thought he should drive to the airport.

"Uh, North-West I guess," was all I said. It was slightly more constructive than, "forwards" or, "towards the airport, dumbass".

It is odd when taxi drivers ask that question though. It would be like me asking a PR client how they thought I ought to launch their company or write their press release, and smacks of the inherent frustration associated with non-directional therapy. I’ve often compared the latter to reading a ‘whodunnit’ novel, frantically turning to the last page expecting to find out who did murder Professor Plum in the library with the toothpick, only to find a last line that reads, "Well, who do YOU think killed him and how does that make you feel?"

Like punching the author in the face, frankly. Oh – and then stomping on his hands with crampons so he can’t write any more books with annoying endings.

It only cost me $60 for a lovely meandering tour of moonlit Northwest Toronto and some delightfully inane commentary on why it’s no fun to push a broken-down taxi in the snow. That said, I was still relieved to see the 427 – Toronto’s major North-to-South artery feeding the international airport amongst other things - once we’d finally found it. My cunning plan was finally coming together.

Y’know, getting mildly stoned for the red eye really is a lovely way to travel by air. Airlines could have a field day with the advertising straplines too. "Air Canada: flys you higher than any other." I long for the day when marijuana is legalised in Canada and the conception of Mary Jane’s Planes as the incumbent low-cost carrier. Finally one would be able to purchase pot by using a menu and discussing varieties with a sommellier, as one does in the open minded, adult (no pun intended) and mature city of Amsterdam. No more seedy (again, no pun intended) meetings and discreet ‘handshakes.’ No more tense deliberation about whether an offer of a post-dinner soiree toke would be the crowning glory of the hostess with the mostess, or a reason for the guests to never grace that home again. No more supply from a hairy-arsed farmer in Northern Ontario who might or might not be linked with either the Hell’s Angels, or activity that could be considered genuinely criminal rather than just doing what everyone wishes he could do legally.

I’d be more than happy to pay tax on my pot. I’d buy organic too, recycle the Ziploc bags, and even review different varieties here on my blog. Unfortunately we live in a world where the concept of personal choice is warped. It’s perfectly legal to drive a neon-yellow Hummer, one step down in the military food chain from an armoured personnel carrier, around downtown Toronto with one person in it. Crushing cyclists and pets alike, and causing more pollution and wear-and-tear to the roads than urban planners could ever have planned for. It’s perfectly legal to sell, buy, and smoke cigarettes when everyone knows they have the same chemicals in them that both sides used to kill each other in the muddy, horrific European trenches of the first World War. It’s perfectly legal for a publicly traded company to pay its CEO a whopping bonus akin to a Lotto win despite the fact that thousands of employees were laid off that quarter and are now homeless and starving.

Legality, it seems, depends on whether you can afford to pay for a better lawyer than the other guy. Once again, it’s not so much a question of ethics, as a question of cash flow.

None of this mattered as I grinned at the check-in assistants at area ‘L’ in Pearson International Airport. The queue was short, I had plenty of time, and the noise of the belligerent children escaped me as Ella Fitzgerald’s soothing voice crooned my ears under the muff-like, doughnut-sized headphones. Unfortunately, the geographically-challenged taxi driver and the horrors of xmas shopping in Indigo were only precursors to what was to come.

The Air Canada woman at the check in desk was amiable and lovely. Receiving the news that my housebrick was 28½ pounds and therefore a bit over the weight limit was like receiving a tender massage of the buttocks. I cheerfully skipped off to the right where the other passengers wouldn’t be able to see my neatly rolled underwear as I rifled through the open case to find something that weighed about three or four pounds, and would fit into the rucksack I had as hand luggage.

Clothes? Nope, too light and bulky. Portfolio? Nope, not heavy enough and wouldn’t quite fit in my rucksack. Calendar? Nope, I’d have to fold it in half to get it into my rucksack, thereby instantly transforming a stocking filler into paper mache. Aha – the ‘picnic’ wine holder with cleverly secreted corkscrew and penknife, complete with a bottle of Cave Springs something-or-other that I’d kept in a wine cellar for two years for a special occasion. Relatively small, surely up to or over the requisite three pounds in weight, and would just about fit in my rucksack. Perfect.

Thankfully the suitcase was easier to get shut the second time around. I hadn’t brought the springboard to the airport with me anyway, and wasn’t keen on the idea of doing WWE-style body slams in front of a line of cheering yet bemused fellow passengers. Although, just for shits ‘n’ giggles it would have been pretty funny to do the whole Hulk Hogan rip-the-shirt-off thing. However, I didn’t think the camp boot camp instructor posing as an Air Canada customer service attendant would be amused. He was already eyeing me suspiciously, so – as is my way – I tackled the problem head-on.

"What’s the weight limit on suitcases again? I’m sorry but I can’t remember."

"Ten kilograms sir," came the curt, crisp reply. Not quite service with a smile but I was nonplussed. "There’s some scales over there you can use."

I followed his gaze behind me to find two industrial-sized scales, and wheeled my case back over to them. It was slightly less painful now to lift the case (I know, what a weakling, barely thirty pounds and I’m worried about hernias). This was going to be easy. I got the case on and read the display: "20.8".

"Twenty? Twenty kilograms! That can’t be right?"

And now the down side of being mildly sedated at the airport was starting to tell.

"What’s the conversion rate between pounds and kilograms?" I ask the camp boot camp instructor. But, he’s distracted by another passenger so I sneak back to the front of the queue while he’s looking elsewhere. Thankfully the case is underweight and I wave it goodbye into the magic maze of conveyor belts.

Being a naturally anxious chap I intended to go through security immediately. However, in the queue I realised that the one thing I’d brought with me to drop off at my friend’s, her diabetic glucometer, was still in my rucksack. I called her.

"So, thanks again for having me over again this evening, and for the – ahem – charity."

"Oh, no problem! Anytime! So where are you now, on the plane?"

"Er, no, actually I’m just about to go through security. And it’s just struck me that I still have your glucometer kit with me. D’you know whether it’s legal to take this on a plane, or will I get the rubber glove treatment from the customs people?"

Turns out that the glucometers that diabetics use, despite the inherent syringes, over-the-counter medicine, and other medical, pointy things, are perfectly legal to take on a plane. I guess Al-Qaeda never thought of trying to overcome the pilot with insulin. "Hah! Air Canada infidel, try eating this doughnut with sprinkles now and you will…process the sugar faster than my cousin’s camel through the desert. [Aside] Ah, Akbar, we may have a problem…" With glee I strip for the stoney-faced security people, who mercifully don’t make me take off my trainers in front of everyone and cause an international incident. Alas, the smile was soon wiped from my face when the computer says 'no' woman informs me, "You’re only allowed 100 millilitres of liquid on the plane."

Oh fuck. The wine. The travel bag. The fact that I’d been preserving it like a good little vintner for two years, perhaps the longest I’ve ever managed to hang on to a bottle of alcohol in my entire life without drinking it. The fact that I was going to label the bottle "to Mum" and the case "to Dad" thereby enabling the opportunity for me to crack a joke about marital cooperation, and them the opportunity for riposte given that I’m currently going through a divorce. Bugger.

"Eff..that’s what I took out of my case to make the weight limit," I gasped. "Can I put it into left luggage?"

"You can put it into storage if you like."

"Where is that exactly?" I implored.

"In area ‘A’, back through the check in area."

Great, I’d just checked in at area ‘L’. With about 200 metres between areas, that meant that even once I’d got back through to the check in area I had a (carry the four, take away the number I first thought of, divide by pi…) 68 kilometre walk ahead of me. I paused for a moment, wondering why the customs Nazi had taken such exception to white wine when there was also a penknife and a corkscrew in the travel case. Maybe nobody ever tried to take over a passenger jet with a corkscrew. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, or more specifically in the terrorist’s weapon-of-choice miscellany at least, a corkscrew was a pretty un-intimidating weapon. Professor Plum never had to fear the corkscrew. You don’t see BBC headlines saying how terrorists attacked a densely populated tourist area and unmercilessly caused all the wine to turn to vinegar by corking everything in sight.

"GOD IS GOOD!!! GOD IS GREAT!!!" Pop! Radical islam meets Keith Floyd.

It took about 15 minutes to get to area ‘A’. Time was ticking, although the possibility of actually missing my flight altogether hadn’t even occurred to me yet.

To be continued...