Well, you’re in Whistler now. And Rachel, Bucky, and I are not. At least, not yet. Here’s how my day has gone so far:
06:30: Stagger out of bed. Collide with Rachel in the bathroom. Wonder briefly why she’s out of bed, when her normal rising time is several hours later. Trip over suitcase in hall. Memory suddenly restored.
09:00: Put final touches on packing. Discover that 4 kilos of sour ju jubes from Farm Boy weigh my carry-on down more than I expected. Decide to take them anyway, since I know I will never hear the end of it if I don’t. Yes, Wendy, I’m looking at you. Addiction is a terrible thing.
10:30: At last, the airport. Staggering under the weight of a ton of sour ju jubes, we make our way to the security checkpoint. I am freaking out slightly, as I know the plates, pins, and screws that hold my ankle together will set off the metal detectors, which always excites the security dudes. Decide that if they give me a hard time this time, I will start stripping right there in the security area. Pretty sure the sight of my winter-white 56-year-old self will terrify them into leaving me alone.
Toy with the idea of pulling Bucky out of my purse and asking if they wish to examine my beaver while they’re at it. Decide this will get us thrown off the flight. Abandon plan, with some reluctance.
10:35: On the other side of the security checkpoint, discover that my sly plan was all for naught: the damn machine didn’t let out a peep this time. WTF, security dudes?
12:00: Board plane that will take us to Montreal. From Ottawa. Which, if you have even the slightest sense of geography, you will recognize is absurd, since Montreal is east of Ottawa, while Vancouver is definitely west. Adding insult to injury, we’re flying to Montreal so we can wait for 5 hours—5 hours!—for our flight to Vancouver. Air Canada clearly has a very warped sense of humour.
13:00: Realize, to my horror, that we never finalized plans to get from Vancouver airport to Whistler. At night. Up a long, winding highway that basically climbs along the side of a mountain, with the Pacific ocean below. Not cool.
13:10: Stop slapping own forehead. Call a very nice young man named Jericho, who arranges everything for us, and doesn’t even mention the fact that I left it a little late. My foolishness is further rewarded by the fact that our taxi will drop us right at your door. Score!
14:30: Decide lunch is long overdue. Find a restaurant that’s only extremely overpriced, rather than exorbitantly so. Eat something that might have been a grilled chicken sandwich. Rachel has smoked meat on spaghetti. I try to pretend she is not eating this.
14: 45: Bucky pops out for a quick thirst-quencher. Rachel seems less than impressed. Then again, she is eating spaghetti with smoked meat on it, so her judgment may be impaired.
15:30: Find our departure lounge. Find a place to plug in our laptops. Bucky guards our photo scanner (yes, we have a full-sized photo scanner in our carry-on) while Rachel and I hang out watching planes arrive and depart…arrive and depart…arrive and depart….and dream of a time when we’ll actually be aboard one of them.
17:01: Fifteen minutes to boarding time! We’ve almost made it!
17: 10: Packing up laptops, scanner, and Bucky…catch you on the flip side!
Karen, Rachel, and Bucky