After sitting doing nothing in Halifax for five hours, I’m now faced with the prospect of having to run across the airport in Montreal to catch my flight to London. There’s an infant in the row behind me on this airplane and it likes to howl — exactly the sort of soul-slicing sound that would get me arrested for air rage.
But I’m sitting in Executive Class, being given all the nibblies and beer I want. Normally I wouldn’t be fussed about Heineken, but right now it’s doing a lot to alleviate my anxiety about getting to Montreal in time for my next flight. And you know what? If I don’t it’s Air Canada’s problem, because they’re labouring under the impression that I’m an executive, and will make arrangements for me. I see why people pay for this.
I’m also watching a program about some British guy who’s had himself dropped into the Everglades to demonstrate survival techniques. Instead of admiring him, I can’t help thinking, “Asshat!”
We’re descending now. Let’s see how this goes.
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Yes! I’m walking from one flight right onto another.
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Aww, darn. No cryo-pod, just a great big seat. still, it’s better than a kick in the head.
I had a nice conversation with a big, burly, yet shy gentleman who sat next to me on the last flight and was making the connection with me to this one. He’s lived all around the world, and now lives in Saudi Arabia. Given that he also once lived in Aberdeen, I’m thinking “oil”. People’s stories are interesting. And this whole listening business feels like a good habit.
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Machines don’t work well in the cold. We’re still on the tarmac in Montreal, suffering from some sort of electrical issue, after waiting 15 minutes for a plane that was blocking our route to the de-icing station.
Waiting is boring and a waste of time, but I don’t mind this so much because this is where I’m supposed to be; there’s nothing this is making me late for — especially since I have a five-hour wait to go from London to Edinburgh.
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I’m reading Whitman while eating strawberries, bread, and cheese, suspended impossibly, impossibly high in the air.
Here’s a passage: “Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travellers, Canada, the snows”. Canada, the snows. There’s much more to it than that; even I feel compelled to assert this, despite my gladness at having just escaped the snows.
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The moon sits in an azure sky with her distant cousin Venus just above a quilt of clouds stretched over the curve of the earth. The horizon is yellow into fiery orange-red.
The stewardesses are collecting the breakfast trays. I didn’t eat because my guts hurt. Every time I get on one of these high-altitude flights I feel myself inflate like some kind of antique pressure-measuring device made of pig bladder covered with badly-sealed balloon mouths.
I did sleep in my big reclining chair. And I was served on dishes, not in little puzzle-boxes. Everything in Executive class is a little better, and none of the improvements goes without being pointed out, which takes the gift out of it. And it’s only a bit better: yes, there’s a free wash-kit, but the toothbrush handle is like a plastic tongue-depressor, and feels like it might snap. When the head stewardess introduces herself at the beginning of the flight and offers her services, it’s from a list and she’s making the rounds. The checkbox duty of it kills any goodwill.
So this was a nice change, but not thousands and thousands of dollars nice. It’s too hot in here (as most Canadian buildings were for me).
I want to not be travelling. A few hours, a few hours.
Meanwhile, let’s enjoy the beautiful view up here of insubstantial, empty cloud continents between this airplane and the earth — endless unpopulated dunes of white sugar.
