Sunday Afternoon PS

Sunday afternoon, 1830 in Frankfurt, I’ve no idea what time it is here. According to the little map on the video screen in the back of the seat in front of me, we are now flying over England. Over Manchester, to be exact. I’ve been travelling for 11 hours and we have managed to go 32000 feet. Sigh.

Sunday afternoon, 1900 in Toronto. The Canadian Immigration Officer asks me where I came from. “Frankfurt”, I tell him, “although we are actually travelling from England, but for some reason Air Canada sent us to Germany first”. He cracks up, and stamps the forms, still laughing as he calls the next person forward to his desk.

Monday, 0900 in Toronto. We’ve had a good sleep at the Sheraton Hotel, which is actually located in the airport so no traffic to contend with. Now we’re at check-in. The Air Canada lady says, “Where are you going? Charlottetown? Are you sure? I can’t see that on here …”

“You’re joking, right?” I pull out my iPhone, with yesterday’s e-mail from Air Canada inviting me to check-in early. Perhaps my tone is a little brusque.

“Ah yes, here it is. No need to be surprised”.

I explain the saga from yesterday, and she giggles, then says she can understand why I sounded a bit upset. Still, our plane is going to leave on time today.

Monday, 1800 in Charlottetown. We’re home. So are all our bags. The house is still standing. Our neighbour comes across the road to greet us, laughing. “How was Frankfurt?”

The dog is happy to see us. There is still snow in the garden, but the forecast storm has not yet appeared. I light the fire and make a cup of tea. Suddenly I realize – everyone has laughed at the Frankfurt story, but nobody has been surprised.

Travel in the 21st century, I guess – or perhaps it’s just because it’s an Air Canada story?

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