a unique perspective on this crazy world

soaring like an eagle :)

January 15, 2013

The flight to Chicago had a lot of turbulence so when we landed safely on the ground it felt like more of an accomplishment.  It got me thinking about other flights.

I’ve been to over 50 countries so I have no idea how many flights I’ve taken.  I’ve definitely been in some interesting airports – from rustic and remote to high tech and glamorous.

I am definitely at the point where getting on a plane is no big deal but I always try not to take it for granted.  When I was in London in September I went to the Science Museum for possibly the first time.  It was a rushed visit and I will definitely be back.  But one of the fascinating exhibits was a history of air travel, complete with some actual aircraft parts.

It helped me to remember what an extraordinary feat, showcasing the ingenuity of mankind, every single flight really is.  I don’t remember all the history but, not only was the science of air travel impressive, so were the crazy guys who made it all possible, the intercontinental rivalry and the role of the military to do good (they invented the internet too!  Without them, google would not have become a verb).

My grandfather was one of the early crazy guys.  We know so little about him but some things seem clear – he was handsome, charismatic and prone to thrive on risk.  Supposedly, one of his “careers” was to have people pay him to ride in an air balloon while they watched.  I smiled in London when I saw the photos of the crazy dudes willing to go up into the sky in a potentially combustible air balloon to prove men could fly like birds.

This airbus 320 is a long way from an air balloon and feels a bit like sitting in a cramped living room in the sky.  Not too thrilling.  The bumpy flight reminded me of how much I enjoy actually feeling the flight.

That is best done via helicopter.  I’ve only been in one – and it was now over 30 years ago – but I can still remember almost every detail.

It was my first job, waitressing the summer before university in the only nice hotel in town in a remote community on the Canadian prairie.

That summer there were lots of forest fires so there was a steady stream of strangers in town staying at the hotel as part of the forest fighting team.

Two members of the various crews were young helicopter pilots.  Needless to say, they were very popular among the young servers.  I heard they were sometimes taking girls on a short trip to refuel the helicopter if the timing coincided with them coming off shift.  So I made sure they knew I was interested 🙂

I had developed a good rapport with – and a bit of a crush on – one of the pilots.  He would come down for coffee when the dinner shift was over and it was quiet so we would chat.  I can’t remember his real first name.  His given name didn’t matter as he was by then firmly established to the world as Bud Cave.  A very cinematic name for a pilot 😉

One day when I had just left the restaurant I got a call from Bud.  If I could get back there in 20 minutes he would take me up in the helicopter.  I didn’t have a car so pedalled furiously on my bike, arriving a little breathless.  But it was totally worth the effort!

All the other girls had gotten maybe a fifteen minute round trip.  Today Bud was going to pick up some guys in the bush – an hour each direction!

And, because I was the only girl in the helicopter, I got to sit in the front in the co-pilot seat and wear the headphones so I could communicate with the pilot.  So I had the bird’s eye view of the prairie and the forest as we flew over…. And got to experience the rush of landing a helicopter in the middle of the bush.

I had not appreciated the air velocity of a helicopter descending straight into the middle of the forest.  Things fly everywhere.  There is no landing strip and graduated descent to the ground.  It’s pure drama.  And, because I was a young girl, supposedly fearless, the pilot did some tricks for me as well.  It seemed like we were flipping upside down but I am not sure it’s even scientifically possible – but when there is an open door beside you and a glass bubble surrounding you, it’s pretty easy to feel like you are already on a roller coaster without the pilot doing tricks 🙂the view from the plane :)

A couple of years on, I became friends with a guy named Paul who was getting his pilot’s license.  We were both poor students so I had to pitch in for our time in the air but he took me up a couple of times in a small plane.  Some of the best money I ever spent in my early twenties 🙂

landing in the serengetiI’ve been in a few small planes since.  And have never lost the joy of seeing the world from only a few thousand feet.  Landing in the middle of the migration and trying not to descend directly onto a wildebeest lurking on the runway in the Serengeti has to be the most spectacular but a trip in a small plane trumps an Airbus any day.

I was just reading about some entrepreneur in Ecuador trying to develop a bicycle that would allow one to pedal like ET and fly like a toucan to check out the rainforest.  Maybe even cooler than a helicopter or a small plane?  But a prototype at this stage…  so, for now, I suggest you try the helicopter or the small plane.  I haven’t been up in a hot air balloon yet.  But it must be done.  And I will drink a toast to my mysterious grandfather as part of the experience…

p.s.  I am typing this in the mighty land of the eagle… the New York stories to come…

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life philosophy, travel stories

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life is a banquet – and most poor suckers are starving to death…

December 31, 2012

Not my line.  You can thank Patrick Dennis.  According to Wikipedia, he had a life almost as interesting as Mame’s.  If you haven’t already discovered Mame, I highly recommend you do so.  Apparently she was the Fifty Shades of Grey of the 1950s.  Mame is way cooler from what I can gather, since I refuse to actually read Fifty Shades… but, like the Kardashians, you can’t escape it even when you’re trying to…

Anyway, let’s talk about Mame!  And the brilliant Patrick Dennis.  I first stumbled across Auntie Mame in my early teens.  Especially interesting because it was supposedly out of print then.  But I read it – and the sequel – with great delight.  My recollection is that it is well written.  And Mame is a character who should be as famous as Scarlet O’Hara.

When I read the original novel, I related to the nephew.  To have a worldly aunt who would show me the world and shake up my boring “Little House on the Prairie” everyday life seemed a dream too big to actually dream.

But that is the wonderful thing about reading.  You can transport yourself into all sorts of worlds for which you have in reality neither the means nor the social skills to actually enter.  You can pretend to be all sorts of different people and lead all kinds of interesting lives.

If you aren’t a reader, Mame also made it onto Broadway and apparently there are two different film versions.  But the one to see is the 1958 Warner Brothers version with Rosalind Russell.  I was looking for something to entertain me in the background on Christmas Eve and that is how I saw it for the second time.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0051383/

Not everything is better the second time.  But it is one of my favourite films.  It’s fantastic – and not terribly realistic.  But highly entertaining.  And with a social message that still resonates today – and would have been shocking in the 1950s of the buttoned-up USA.

As a child, Mame was inspiring.  But now I see that I have partly turned into Mame.  And it’s not a bad thing.  She is resilient, resourceful, independent, entertaining and unconventional.  As the quote suggests, Mame really knows how to live.

Apparently the book has been a spectacular hit as a reissue in the 21st century.

Check it out.  Or rent the film.  Mame was ahead of her time so her message fits perfectly into the new century.

Live your life to the fullest.  Take some risks.  Do some interesting things.  Make sure you have at least a couple of stories that will get you attention in the nursing home.

Enjoy the banquet!  Apparently the world did NOT end after all… so it’s time to embrace 2013!

Happy New Year!

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how to wake the dead ;)

December 25, 2012

343 marla parentsDon’t be scared 😉  No zombies.  Not even a Ouija board.  I do remember playing with something that was supposed to be a Ouija board in my youth.  But being one of those dull, uber-analytical sorts… well…  someone else will find ghosts for you…

I just like the concept of invoking the dead… not necessarily into my living room 😉 I just think it’s great to keep dead people alive by remembering them – and talking about them – in voice and in print…

And this is my dad’s season.  It’s not quite the same these days but I grew up with some insane concept of Christmas that was informed by silly family rituals and too many Christmas specials.  Some of the rituals were normal.  Some I invented because I was obsessed with the concept and wanted Christmas to last as long as possible…

The strangest, but most enduring one, was when I discovered that there was a sense of letdown when all the presents had been opened… so first I held back one gift for each person and gave it to them later in the day… of course, that then became an expectation… so it became more complicated… to a point of some absurdity… it probably means the Jews have it right with Hanukkah 🙂

But the spirit of Christmas for me is less about presents than it is about carols.  When my dad died choosing the music for his funeral was very complicated – because the only music he really seemed to connect with was Christmas carols.

I still have a great love of ritual, especially around December.  And I think I owe a lot of it to him.  It was always a month unlike any other.  All the rules loosened.  Time seemed to stretch.  There was festivity in everyday activities.

These days in the developed world there is so much emphasis on goods and dollar signs.  But none of my great childhood memories involved much of a cash outlay.

Today I was listening to Bing Crosby sing Christmas songs, including obscure hits like Silver Bells and Christmas in Killarney.  This was the one Christmas album my family owned when I was a child and it was played so often that I know the words to every song and can identify any of them in the first couple of bars.  Because my dad decreed that we start playing Christmas carols every December over and over again.  He felt they should play Christmas carols all year round, not just at Christmas.

He also thought we should eat candy.  Sadly I shared his weakness so we had to fight over the toffee!  But we got to eat as much candy as we wanted for the entire month.  There was something wonderful and dramatic about having an entire month to indulge.  It made every year of my childhood feel special and exciting.  A month of unlimited candy is all it takes for a child to feel s/he has won the lottery.

I know my dad shared my love of Christmas.  And I won the lottery having him give me so much wonderful advice to guide me through the labyrinth of life.

But, on Christmas Eve, to evoke him, I play Bing and eat some toffee.  And he’s here… and we’re both listening… and not singing along – cause neither of us can sing 😉

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life philosophy, shining examples

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beware of Japanese girls armed with credit cards!

December 24, 2012

I am still alive!  And hoping to add some new thoughts over the next week and in the year ahead.  I thought 2012 might be a little easier… but apparently not 🙂  And November through February always the scary part of my work year where extracurricular fun like writing gets punted in favour of client needs.

But it’s Christmas Eve so I get a couple of days off.  First, we will journey back to Paris as the tale was never completed.  The great thing with Paris is that everything is a bit larger than life so the memories stay in one’s imagination.

Where Paris really excels is in all matters related to art – that word applied in a very broad way.  And, in Paris, food is art.  I caught the end of some BBC or CNN program while I was in Germany and learned that apparently cheesecake is all the rage in Paris.  Unfortunately details were sketchy because the program was essentially over – but I was intrigued by the shop in the television images…

So did quite a bit of googling to see if I could figure out where I was supposed to go once I got to Paris… I wasn’t sure if I had it right but once I arrived I knew I had hit pay dirt.  And it was well worth the effort.  The bakery is called She’s Cake and is run by a charming woman named Sephora.  I had the fleur d’oranger – amande.  It was delicious and it felt like you had stumbled upon a special neighbourhood secret.

http://www.shescake.fr/

I also discovered I had come during the annual Paris Photo exhibition (mid November).  It required some waiting in line in the cold – but was worth the wait.  It is a show for galleries and collectors that is also open to the public so it is a little overwhelming but a great way to get an overview of world photography in a couple of hours and discover some new talent and be inspired.

Next door there was a fascinating exhibit called Bohemes at the Grand Palais.  The concept of Bohemia, gypsies and their role in art and European history.  Romantic, tragic, dramatic…

Normally the airport is not part of the story.  But the French have a flair for the dramatic… and a crazy love for bureaucracy.  And my Scottish genes make me cheap…

There is a wonderful VAT (value added tax) recovery scheme all over Europe called “tax-free”.  It’s not really true but you do get a decent amount of tax back so it’s hard to pass up.  When I got to Charles de Gaulle, I thought I was really clever popping into the first VAT-recovery station I found with my stack of forms, all completed and signed, my passport ready for a quick stamping procedure and on to my gate.

But NO…  every gate has its own VAT-recovery station apparently.  Seriously, France, do you think this might be why your economy is in the toilet?

At that moment I didn’t realize I had been condemned to hell by some random French customs officials.  I found the station that matched to my gate… but I also found a gigantic snaking line of beautiful young Asian girls clutching tax-free forms and giggling.  There was no choice but to succumb.

I was in line for a long time so was determined to figure out what the hell was going down.  I have never been in such a ridiculous line so my curiosity was peaked.  With enough time and careful peeking at passports, I discovered they were Japanese.  Apparently the Japanese still travel in packs.  I don’t know the connection between all the girls – other than a devotion to expensive shopping 🙂 – but they obviously had a handler and were all going through customs as the equivalent of a gigantic tax-free-form-stamping boa constrictor… better to stay on the sidelines than get eaten by it 🙂

And there was a small reward… when I finally got to the end of the line the customs officials were very happy to see me – mostly because I represented the end of the line – so they just grinned and stamped all my forms as quickly as they could 🙂

Travel is always full of new experiences and adventures.  An open mind, a sense of curiosity – and lots of patience – will make any travel experience an entertaining memory 🙂

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eating & drinking - well, travel stories

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who is “that girl?” ;)

November 22, 2012

I am really dating myself with this reference but since I have put my age into the public record, no secrets will be revealed 🙂  A few weeks ago I stumbled by accident on TV reruns of “That Girl”.  It had a fairly short run – but obviously long enough to be in syndication 🙂

http://www.tv.com/shows/that-girl-1966/

“That Girl” never had the power or cultural prominence of “Mary Tyler Moore” but they both informed my childhood view of women – and reinforced the idea that women could be strong and independent that I was so lucky to have as my childhood motif courtesy of my crazy, think-outside-the box family 🙂

“That Girl” was a little extra special for me because the actress featured was named “Marlo”.  Obviously my great uncle Elmo must have been a secret fan of the show because he never got that my name ended in an “a”, not an “o”.  But “Marla” was a strange Martian name in the small towns of my childhood and “Marlo” was so much closer than all the other “M” names I got called because I was shy and soft spoken so I was grateful 🙂

No doubt Zooey Deschanel is referencing “That Girl” in “The New Girl”.  Almost nothing in the 21st century is as “new” as advertised – it’s most often just an update.

Shockingly to me, this is my 100th post!  So I thought it should be personal and introspective.  I am not Marlo – or Zooey – but I like to think I have updated my own version of “That Girl.”

The show was a cheesy trifle so I suspect my version of “That Girl” is a little deeper than the producers of the 60s would have been envisioning…

I think I am better at the “that” part than the “girl” part.  In my family, there were only two offspring.  Whether nature, nurture or divine intervention, I was happy to be the substitute son while my sister revelled in everything girlie.

paris early days

She embraced pink, skirts, jewelry… I refused to wear pink on principle.  I drove my mother to the edge of madness by wearing the same pair of brown sweatpants during high school so many times they started to disintegrate.  Finally, at age 31, when the man I wanted to be perfect enough to marry proved to be a bit more challenging, I finally succumbed to my mother’s pressure to pierce my ears…  I think it was my first girlie moment – changing my appearance to mark frustration with a relationship milestone…

The years go by… and all of us grow up… even if it takes a while… so I am scribbling this wearing a skirt, fuschia tights and special edition 007 Swarovski earrings cool enough to get a thumbs up from the gorgeous Parisian hostess at the restaurant.

It took over three decades but I eventually figured the “that” part of “that girl” was the most interesting part.  A four-letter word with all kinds of meaning attached.

I only saw one re-run but I think the concept is “That Girl” is memorable.  She is not lost in the crowd.  So, if you aspire to be “That Girl” you are going to have to be interesting…

I’m not sure I have totally achieved that goal yet.  But I am making progress!

As part of my spectacular 50th year (only a few months left), I relived my Hermes experience.  In the strange loop that is my life, my first Hermes visit happened when I ran off to Paris for the first time on my own just as I about to embark on a surreal love affair that would result in my European marriage.

In those days I had a regular job – or the kind of irregular permanent job that meant I worked at least 60 hours a week every week so taking vacation time was practically impossible and my best hope was over the Christmas holidays.  I had just met the German guy and we were trading emails… back in the old days when we had to write them at work on our lunch break… but it made the communication more exciting.  He had just bought an apartment and, being a practical German engineer, wasn’t ready for me to descend on the exact dates I could convince my boss to sign off on.  So I went to Paris first.

Paris in January with a strong umbrella and a good sense of humour when the umbrella just ended up in knots in the wind.  Don’t go to Paris in January!  But it was the only chance I had.  And the Australian had made me take the metro all the time while we sat underground and he dissed Paris the entire time so I knew I had to take the city back on my own terms…

I live in a city where it is famous for rain so I will always have fond memories of walking the streets of Paris in the rain with my broken umbrella…   No Aussie jackass to spoil my love of the city of light and a budding romance a few days away in Deutschland.  It could have been a film 😉

And in the photo montage, no doubt I would have been buying my first Hermes scarf.  When I was traveling with the Aussie dude on my very first trip to Paris, I was traveling on $50 a day and there wasn’t really money for postcards…  so it was a promise to myself… someday… I would return to Paris and buy a real Hermes scarf… at the shop on Faubourg St Honore.

The first experience was just OK.  I was easily intimidated by the sales associate and walked away with something… but the true satisfaction  that should have come from such an expensive purchase had always eluded me… so, in the end, my second Hermes scarf not only marked my 50th year but also bookended my European marriage – and highlighted how far I had come in the past 15 years.

This time I was confident and in charge of the sales associate, rather than vice versa, and walked away with a gorgeous scarf that should end up bequeathed in my will.

I’m not sure if I am “that girl”, “the new girl” or simply “this girl”.  But, what is clear to me is the journey I have already undertaken and the confidence the “current girl” has.

It is the confidence of age and experience, worn lightly, making an Hermes scarf seem heavy by comparison.

This trip was practical.  I wasn’t a tourist.  There was no requirement for stories or adventures.  And – compared to most of my travels – it was pretty low-key.  But, in an effort to stay awake and combat jet lag on Friday night, I wandered into one of those bar-lounge-bistro-etc type places that only exist in France and was rewarded with more than just a 3 euro glass of great Cote du Rhone.

They had seemed determined I should sit… so ended up at a table almost in the lap of the guy strumming guitar and singing the kind of French chansons you would normally hear on the soundtrack of a film festival selection at Cannes.

I was happy to just listen but he kept smiling at me… in that come hither way that Latin guys have that is deadly… and he was a shaggy haired piece of French manhood with a great voice and a seductive delivery…

I gathered the table next to me was composed of his close friends, who spoke almost no English.  I really need to work on my language skills!   It was all not very clear… but it seemed I might be being set up with one of their friends who spoke English… Chanteur guy seemed sad I was leaving… and there may have been an interesting story there if I had stayed but sometimes you have to be the girl who knows what she really needs is some sleep!

Don’t worry… it doesn’t happen very often 🙂  My goal is to make my real life surpass all the treacly TV episodes and prove that real people are cooler than anyone on TV – fiction or reality TV fact…

Stay tuned! 😉

 

 

 

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let them eat cake! :)

November 15, 2012

I am typing this from the land of Marie Antoinette!  Sometimes one’s life really exceeds one’s expectations.  I am back in Paris – for the SECOND time in a single year.  The stuff of dreams in my childhood.

Back when I was climbing trees and hiding in wheat fields I ferociously hoped my adult life would be more dramatic and interesting.  But none of those prairie girl dreams could have ever prepared me for the astonishing reality it would become.

I will have to finish this after my late night Thursday shopping romp at Galeries Lafayette… but I am drinking free champagne as I type… apparently joining I Prefer is a great idea.  I highly recommend it!  And thus far, the Hotel Original Paris has exceeded my expectations.  I definitely recommend it.  Especially if you are traveling by train, as I was.  A few steps from the métro at Bastille.  From Gare L’Est or Gare du Nord, a piece of cake 🙂

http://www.hoteloriginalparis.com/

And, since we did reference cake, I guess I should provide the explanation…

It is one of those stories that did not have the happy ending I anticipated… but, maybe more importantly, really taught me about the complexities of life and how to embrace it and enjoy it.  As I think Joni Mitchell said, very poignantly, I’ve looked at love from both sides now.”

I think she said “life” but this story is about “love”… in all its complexity and messiness…

How we all take our weaknesses – and our strengths – and combine them with others into a mischung that is at all junctures part success and part failure but always human and engaging.

Yes, a bit philosophical… blame the free champagne the hotel supplied.  You gotta love it when someone knocks after check-in and you hesitantly open the door and he has an ice bucket and a small bottle of Lanson Rosé.  This is serious champagne!  Absolutely delicious 🙂

But the champagne is only a small part of the equation.  It is mostly fueled

my days in Deutschland

by the days I recently spent in Stuttgart.

Unless you are into Mercedes or Porsche, Stuttgart is likely not at the top of your list for a tourist destination.  But it is an industrial metropolis and part of the great Deutsch economic machinery.  Most people come to Stuttgart for work… but I was there for something more complicated.

The entire story is a bit too long and complicated for a blog post so we will cut to the chase and just say that the Germans are wonderfully hospitable and some German guy named Wolfgang wanted to repay my hospitality in Vancouver so I ended up on the Ammersee in Bavaria where I was reacquainted with the cute guy I had admired from afar at a company event earlier in the week… and – unlike normal people – I ended up marrying him and moving to Germany.

It’s a long and complicated story that may find its way into the blog at a later date.  But the purpose of my recent trip to Germany was to finalize our divorce.

There are not a lot of great divorce stories out there.  But not that many

it all started on a beach in Antigua…

people marry German engineers 😉

So very few people are trying to follow a conversation in a foreign language while joking with the lawyer just prior to going into a court room to get divorced.  It was ridiculously bureaucratic and very German.  Some lady named Doris is going to officially receive my divorce decree so it can be mailed to Canada without going through some complicated, expensive process.  The system isn’t designed for you to have it sent to your ex so he can pass it on to you…

The lawyer was highly entertaining.  Once we had finished in the court, he shook each of our hands and said, “you are free!”  And then we had to decide what to do.  We had already wandered the streets as I took photos of some of the cute German buildings before our court hearing.  So we had our plan set.

We went for cake!  If you have never been to Germany (or Austria) for cake, you should really put it on your bucket list.  It was one of my favourite parts of living in Germany.  Hot chocolate (a wonderful bitter version completely different to its North American cousin) and Eierlikor cream cake.  Like egg nog in a solid form.  Delicious.

It wasn’t really a celebration.  Just us hanging out and doing things that we knew worked.  Later that evening I took him for dinner at Olivo.  I am pretty sure the chef has at least one Michelin star.  It was one of those meals that will definitely make my top ten list.  Technically six courses… but with two pre-courses (the first with six separate little bites) and then a petit four course AND a truffle course.  We emerged feeling like the foie gras duck that had been part of our meal.

http://www.steigenberger.com/Stuttgart/restaurants/

And now I am in Paris.  With no regrets.  We both agreed a few months ago as we were working through the details that we would both do it all again – even knowing how it would turn out.

I’m not sure I’m made for marriage.  But getting married – and moving to a foreign country where I spoke possibly five words of the local language – added many wonderful dimensions to my life.  And completely changed its direction in countless ways.

It is impossible to know what would have happened had I not said “yes.”  But I know my life would have been a lot less inspired… and I would not have learned about kaffee und kuchen.  I didn’t get married for the cake… but there was a lot of sugar and cream in the whole adventure… literal and figurative…

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life philosophy, travel stories

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my love affair with airports…

November 10, 2012

At some point I may actually finish my thoughts on my last trip to London but I have been working every minute to get to this point so no time for fun stuff like writing.  I am sitting in Terminal B of Frankfurt airport as I write this.  It’s almost 11am in Germany, 2am for me and I got more or less zero sleep on the ugly flight over.  No crush on Lufthansa.  Not quite sure why I couldn’t choose my seat ahead or why they changed it to the worst seat on the plane I think, amidst crying babies with not even a seat pocket to call my own.

But now I am here… in one of the many airports I know like a second home.  This one is likely the most special one for me.  A lot of interesting events in my life have transpired as I transited through Frankfurt airport.  I’ve never even been to Frankfurt.  But this airport…  I knew we would be landing in Terminal B and I would have to transfer to A.  I noted the really cool boutique where I once bought a pair of shoes now has an accessories shop as well.  Apparently I am not the only one who shops at the airport 🙂

I think some people find airports stressful… or boring… I do enjoy the final destination more but I am rarely grumpy in an airport.  And love just watching the action while I wait for my flight… airports are never dull.  Why I have a soft spot for the film Love Actually.  Four Weddings and a Funeral in my top ten but it was what Richard Curtis said about airports that really resonated with me… especially about airports and love stories…

I don’t make it a policy to date long distance… it just seems to happen… so I definitely know about airports and love stories… it’s one of those tales that is the reason I am in Frankfurt this time but that story will be told a bit later when its storyline has been satisfied.  Right now I am thinking of other airports and other stories…

The very first airport I ever entered was in Winnipeg.  And I was flying to Ottawa.  On my own.  I was a teenager and it was my first flight ever.  It was exciting and scary all at the same time.  Luckily for me, they were both super easy airports.  No one brandishing a gun at me who didn’t speak English very well.

plane landing serengeti

That was in Kilimanjaro.  Last year.  The point at which I thought airports were a piece of cake and if you dropped me off at one, all I had to do was follow the signs to get from the domestic terminal to the international terminal.

And had I been in Dar-es-Salaam it likely would have worked that way.  But Kili is a small airport, international only because of all the tourists flocking in to climb Kilimanjaro or see the Serengeti.  The tour company had offered to take care of me but I knew that would not be happening for free and I thought it would be dead easy…

Not so much… getting dropped off was easy and it was clear I was in the domestic “terminal”… but there were no signs for the international terminal where I was supposed to be going to catch my flight to Amsterdam.  And I had hours to kill…

I asked at least five different people, following the directions I got without any success… which is how I decided to walk around the building to the other side.  But that’s when the guy pulled the gun on me so I didn’t push it and went back to try for a sixth time.

And finally – success!  I DID need to walk around to the other side of the building – but I had to go THROUGH the building via an unmarked maze rather than follow the perimeter.  There was no lounge or duty free shop and they didn’t open the small, non-air-conditioned holding area until about an hour before the flight.  So I ended up on a cultural adventure.  There  were two open air spots outside to hang out and wait.  I had a packed lunch from my luxury tour company so I ate that and ordered a local beer.

The price came down each time I ordered another as I became a “local” instead of a tourist and I observed people coming and going.  It was fascinating.  It became obvious why I had confused everyone trying to find the international terminal.  Little white girls did not just wander around the airport on their own…  All the white people came and went in packs, wearing their shiny new safari gear, led by their local guide, until he had placed them safely on the plane.  More interesting were the local people who showed up, dressed for a special excursion, sipping Coca Cola out of vintage glass bottles and talking on their mobile phones.

Hanging out at the airport isn’t always such a fascinating cultural experience and many of my best memories are tied together with the early stages of grand passions.

My new NYC investment banker boyfriend driving my car to the airport on his first visit to Vancouver.  We were so wrapped up in our passionate good-bye I forgot he had my car keys!  So, just as he was about to go through security, I yelled, “you have my keys!”  In those moments in life you are oblivious to the greater world but obviously some people had been watching because, as he handed me my keys, the guy at the gate said, “you’re going to have to kiss her again now.”  And we obliged 😉

Equally memorable was my sprint through Frankfurt airport almost ten years ago.  It was the kind of passionate affair you know can only really last in a bubble and isn’t a realistic view of romance unless you think you are a vampire 🙂  But it’s really worth feeling like that at least once or twice in your life.

It was another long distance thing so he could only meet me in Vancouver for a few days after my business trip to Germany so getting on the plane seemed critical.  First he called me long distance from North America to make sure I didn’t miss my wake-up call… when we got to Frankfurt the plane was late and it looked likely I would miss my flight… but if I ran at high speed through the airport I just might make it.  And I did.  And seeing him smiling and sweeping me off my feet at the final destination made the airport marathon totally worth it.

I totally appreciate that I have watched too many films.  I treasure a dramatic arrival or departure.  I spend most of my time in airports alone watching the human condition.  But being one of the stories to watch.  Anyone can have a moment worthy of the cinema.  I think some of it is the magic of climbing into a giant bird and flying vast kilometers in a way that until about 100 years ago seemed as impossible as a man on the moon.

Sure it’s cool to send your mother in North America a text to tell her you have arrived safely in Tanzania.  But it lacks all the drama and romance of your actual arrival and departure from Kilimanjaro International Airport.  Armchair traveling will never compare to hearing the wheels roll up or down and the plane glide into the air or clunk onto the ground.  And then navigating your way through the maze of people and services that will take you from the plane through the airport into the real world.  And, if you’re lucky, someone will be waiting at one end to scoop you up and kiss you just like they do in the movies.  Keep it dramatic – but not gross… and you will be the envy of the other passengers 🙂

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artsy stuff, travel stories

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