Air traffic control

As I write this I am sitting in the Upper Crust lounge at Pearson Terminal One, eating a wedge of dubiously damp white bread (advertising as “Ciabatta” to the consternation of bakers everywhere).  There’s some pressed turkey, a slice of romaine and something engineered to look like a tomato.  There a lot of beige happening on my plate right now.  I am waiting for my flight to LA.  I checked to make sure the flight was on time this morning and I checked in on line yesterday.  My tickets, passport and money are all in order.  I made swimmingly good time getting here having called for the taxi to arrive an hour in advance as I was concerned the Indy race taking place south of my apartment may snarl traffic.  It did not.  I made it from the front door on my condo to the departure area in 30 minutes.  All very efficient. If only Air Canada could get their planes to arrive with the same accuracy everything would be fine.

The flight is delayed by an hour (so far).  It wasn’t delayed when I checked this morning, and it wasn’t delayed on the departure board until about 5 minutes ago.  I was supposed to board at noon and it is now 11:45.  The first hint that something was amiss was I discovered the corridor to my gate was locked.  It was explained to me that all the people I could see swimming around behind the glass were domestic departures.  Then I heard an announcement that a flight to Edmonton was leaving from my gate 5 minutes prior to my own. That would be a nifty trick.  So now I wait for them to switch my gate several times and to announce what I can only anticipate my increasingly tardy take off.  Hence the consumption of my unappealing lunch.  At least here I have WiFi and a place to sit.

I am weary of travel.  Do not interpret this as the idea that I am tired of seeing new places and things because I cannot imagine that ever happening.  I am just tired of getting there.  The cross country drive was different – it was an adventure in its own right.  This molded plastic chair purgatory is another matter altogether.  I tire of dough sandwiches and incomprehensible PA announcements.  Of strapping myself to a chair to watch an endless parade of Sandra Bullock Rom-Coms with a stranger’s head in my lap and a flight long battle against overweight seat mate armrest ooze. Sticky floored bathrooms and usurious fees for nuts and bad pizza have lost their lustre.   I just want to be there.  I would happily volunteer to test a teleporter.  I know there can be some pretty unpleasant results if the Jeff Goldblum experience in the 1986 version of “The Fly” can be trusted, but I can only assume that scientists (the real ones) have made some progress since then. Frankly the fact that the piped in music is currently playing “Help Me Rhonda” which I know will burrow its way into the deepest recesses of my psyche and will commence an endless loop in my brain for the next week or so makes a few persistent body hairs, compound eye lenses and a rather unpleasant digestive process worth weighing as possible negative effects of teleportation over common air travel.

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