Or perhaps I should say, “Notes from a tiny aluminum craft hurtling through the sky, propelled by a song, a prayer and a law of physics that is only understood by a handful of geeks who attended a prestigious institute of higher education.” Note: Tyee High School is not now, nor has it ever been a prestigious institute of higher education.
We all know that nothing good starts with an alarm clock bleating out an obscene noise at 2:30AM. Throw in an entourage of snarky airport employees, a dearth of edible food and a man who’s love of the airlines is second only to root canals and hearing tales of pestilence and plague, and you have all the makings of a good time.
Our flight out of PDX left right on time. Richard and I know it left on time. We saw it leave. It was a very pretty plane. There were happy, smiling people waving out the windows to family and friends. They were successfully on their way to Toronto, Ontario, with connecting flights to all of eastern Canada. Richard and I were at the gate next door waiting for a flight to San Francisco.
Now, I know you are all thinking to yourself, “Why are Mac and Richard heading away from Montréal and Ville de Québec instead of toward Montréal and Ville de Québec?” I was asking myself that very same question. Well, there is a funny story behind the flight to SFO.
I’m lying. There is no funny story behind Richard and I flying to San Francisco.
We arrived at Portland International Airport at 5:32AM for a 7:05AM flight. But that was too late. It seems that our airlines-du-jour has a hard rule that you must have your boarding pass in your hand 1 hour (60 minutes) prior to the scheduled departure. At 6:05AM precisely, Richard, myself and approximately 10 other passengers who were planning to head to the great white north, were ordered out of the main line and herded to a separate queue by an agent with the basic disposition of a bitter, wounded hyena (not the laughing variety.) We all assumed we were in the express lane to Toronto. We were wrong, so wrong. We were in the “You ain’t going nowhere without our express permission line.”
There was one person who had total control of our destination. She sat at a behemoth computer behind the counter at the head of the column. She was as kind and as personable as a Brillo Pad. Although San Francisco seems a somewhat circuitous route to Montréal, considering the power wielded and the compassion shown by Attila the Ticketing Agent (this is a nickname, not her real name), Richard and I felt fortunate. The couple with two small children who stood behind us sassed Attila the Ticketing Agent. Last we heard they were boarding a Greyhound Bus. I overheard something about a layover in Houston.
We flew to San Francisco. After a brief (brief in geological terms, not the common vernacular) encounter with an agent and her supervisor at SFO, Richard and I had a boarding passes in hand for a flight to Montréal. It is amazing how fast two and a half hours pass when you're having fun.
We arrived at Pierre Trudeau Aéroport only three hours after our planned arrival. We were tired, but we were in the province of Québec. All was good.
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