9:30 am: My mother comes into her guest room to wake me up. I beg for five more minutes and she leaves. Then I sit bolt upright in bed-I move to Moscow today! It’s like the first day of school! But with a really long bus ride. On a flying bus.
11:00 am: Call Jon--he’s driving me to the airport. No answer.
11:30 am: “It’s FIVE DEGREES in Moscow today” my friend calls to tell me. Sigh. I know. You are the third person to tell me so today.
11:40 am: Call Jon. No answer. Jeez.
11:50 am: Call Jon. No answer. Are you kidding me?
12:05 pm: Call Jon. No answer. Bastard! Ohmigod--did I pack socks? Must go check! I leave a “call me or else” message.
12:15 pm: A nazdarovya shot of vodka with my sister. Conscious of vodka breath, I eat half of one of the Rice Krispie Squares my mum bought for me for my trip through the airports. Eating one doesn’t make a dent in the rations, of course. It’s a gigantic box, man.
12:30 pm: I call Jon and leave a “you suck, I’m calling a cab” message. My sister assures me that he is not cruel, but likely asleep. I inform her that I am too stressed to differentiate at this point. This is resolved with half a nazdrov’ya shot and another half Rice Krispie square.
12:45 pm: A very sleepy Jon calls. A very panicked Larissa yells. A very calm Jon assures me that I do NOT need to take a cab, and that he’ll be picking me up as soon as possible. I feel a mixture of relief and rage. After all, I TOLD him to stay up all night, drinking coffee and taking ice baths until I called for my ride. Some people just can’t take directions
2:00 pm:
“You’re over. Eight pounds.” The woman at the airport accuses me in a tone that suggests that she believes the overage is due to eight pounds of dead kittens folded between my sweaters. I tell her that I am moving, and will happily pay overage fees. “No--you have to take it out!” she says with a grimace--she hates me because now she will have to wipe kitten blood from the airport floor. “We don’t even let you take suitcases THAT heavy.
“And there IS still and overage fee because it’s more than fifty pounds anyway.”
Son of a %!6@#.
2:15pm
“Would you be crying right now if you had to do this alone?” Jon asks me, as he sits cross-legged on top of my checkered Liz Claiborne suitcase patiently wrenching a gold sequined stiletto heel within the confines of the zipper.
“No way,” I say, “You should see what I had to leave behind in Vegas. There, I was eleven pounds over.” And that was one suitcase I was NOT wanting to open in the middle of an airport.
Jon finds a rogue Rice Krispies Square and now it’s his… The man earned it.
2:30 pm
We triumphantly arrive, nine pound lighter and ten feet farther, at the entrance to customs. Despite his valiant effort hauling my massive suitcases into the airport and now hauling a bag of shampoos and lotion back to my mother’s house, he is not permitted to come any further. He gives me a quick look, clearly wondering if this overpacking, now shampooless woman who has been crying with her sister half the morning can make it any further alone without killing a border guard.
“Are you moving away?!” Boarding Pass Checker Lady asks me with keen interest
“Yes”
“But… just you?” she says with big eyes, looking between me and Jon.
“Yeah.” I manage in my very best please-fuck-off-this-is-none-of-your-business-and-don’t-you-see-this-everyday-anyway-you-nosy-twit- tone.
“Ooohhh…”
This had better be her first day here.
So we move the four steps to the left that we are permitted for goodbye as Boarding Pass Lady sits at her desk fifteen feet away, still looking at us. But whatever--you don’t get to do these things twice. I’m caring more about the fact that there is no such thing as a long enough goodbye. As I come out of a hug, I see Boarding Pass Lady no more than two feet behind me, leaning on a door frame with her very best I-am-not-listening-I’m-watching-the-airport-behind-you-hmm-hmm-hmm-Idon’t-notice-a-thing- look on her face. She leaves when we notice her, only to be replaced moments later by a border security guard with his best I-am-protecting-this-doorway-and-must-stand- near-you-and-am-not-some-emotional-voyeur look on his face.
Sigh.
I ignore them for as long as I can, before entering customs sans shampoo and sans my boy. As I drag my worldly possessions up to the customs desk, I note behind me the security guard and Boarding Pass Lady whispering and looking at me.
Someone at Northwest airlines please bring them newspapers for their next shift.
2:36 pm:
“So what’s this pretty Canadian lady doing moving away?” asks Do-You-Have-Anything-To-Declare-Guy.
Seriously, don’t need to get hit on right now, Declare Guy. Save it for a girl who hasn’t been crying all morning and didn‘t just have to give up her toiletries.
3:30 PM:
The Winnipeg Airport international terminal is very…. 80’s. And woodsy. And small. It looks like the community centre at your local lake. I keep looking for the guy selling 50/50 tickets. Eating a Rice Krispies Square, but I hope they have crackers or something one the plane…I’m getting hungry
5:45 pm:
I wake up to discover that the plane should be landing…it’s not…there’s a storm… MAN this guy sitting beside me is HUGE…his thumb is the size of a Snickers bar…I can’t believe I fell asleep on such a short flight…I bet they’d be mad if I asked for my coffee and crackers now, eh? So hungry…. I’m eating a Rice Krispies square. I’d offer one to the giant because he‘s kinda looking at mine, but I won’t, because he’s trying to use his cell phone so he’s a douche. Besides, Gigantor probably doesn’t eat Rice Krispies squares…He probably eats, like, babies, or something…
7:49 pm: Sandwich and a beer in a Wolfgang Puck Express…found the note my little sister hid in my luggage. Yeah, I cried again.
8:01 pm:
The total of Rice Krispie Squares eaten stands at four, plus one given away.
8:36 pm:
I am sitting on the floor in Minneapolis terminal G, because on the floor under the phone banks is where there is a plug for me to charge my computer. And I am not at all easily embarrassed.
This is me, sitting on the floor. (This is the best shot I got--one solid minus to travelling alone)
They are BLASTING CNN in this waiting room--the interview of the president of Iran. They are yelling about religion and the murder of women and children. I wondder if anyone else6: thinks this is unusual airport viewing?
I want to sleep on the plane--I’m taking a sleeping pill.
11:54 pm:
I am sitting on the floor in Minneapolis terminal G, because on the floor, under the phone banks is where there is a plug for me to charge my computer. And this is not an accidental re-type. We all boarded the plane, we were sitting there for awhile. I started to get that yucky taste in my mouth from the sleeping pill, so I ate something (we’re at 5, now, plus a giveaway) I’m thinking I might offer one to my seatmate this time because he is very friendly and not scary looking. Then more waiting. Then the news that we have to deplane, there is something wrong with the breaks, and we’re getting a new one.
I have to catch a plane in London tomorrow, but had nearly a twelve hour stopover (thankfully) so all this will do is cut down my loitering time in Heathrow.
No, my only problem is that I HAVE TAKEN THE FREAKING SLEEPING PILL. I want to curl up on this floor and nap, now…
Oh wait--I do have another problem--I’m drinking a Diet Mountain Dew. It’s all that was left. It is beyond revolting. I’d rather they had taken off in the bad-brakes plane than make me drink this. Sadists at Northwest Airlines…
TO BE CONTINUED...
No comments:
Post a Comment