Pee now. It's a long one.

What is it with guys who wear sandals all-year round? Don’t your toes get cold? I’m standing in the U.S. customs line at the Halifax airport on my way to Australia, and the dude in front of me has flip flips on. In January. In Halifax. In Canada. And to top it off, his toes are ugly. He had weirdly curved nails that had kinda yellowed. Well, let’s face it, most of us have pretty ugly feet – I had a blackened big toe nail that I damaged while jogging in shoes that were too small for me. But I spared the entire world the sight of it by not wearing sandals or flip-flops. I have a good heart. But not this guy. Noooo, his comfort comes before others’ nausea. This is just one reason why I hate to fly.

I have flown quite a bit in my life, but especially in the past 3 years since I’ve worked on ships. I’m lucky in that I have no fear of it at all, and I don’t suffer much with my ears, unless I’m sick. But in the past, well – let’s say 2 months, I have had so many bad experiences at airports and on planes that I really dread flying the friendly skies. Maybe things would have been better if Air Canada employees were actually versed in civility and common decency. It’s as if there are about 6 brains to go around. What you are about to read is a story so horrifying, so ghastly, and frankly, so long (sorry…) that it may dissuade you from ever stepping foot on a plane ever again. At least an Air Canada plane.

The following cautionary tale contains coarse language. Parental discretion is advised.

I was flying from Montreal to Halifax to spend Christmas with the ‘rents. I had purchased this ticket 3 months in advance (since I was leaving on the 22nd of Decmeber – I wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to cost me the equivalent of a condo in Manila). I spent a lovely night at my ex rickyd and his fiancé Photi’s house, and slept in the living room cuddling with my dog Buster so I wouldn’t have to go traipsing from the guest bedroom in the back of the house with my 429 pounds of luggage at whatever ungodly hour. The next morning, as I tore myself out of bed at 5 am for my 10 am flight, I looked outside the window to see a thick blanket of snow covering the streets. I dutifully checked the Air Canada website which told me my flight was cancelled. Fair enough. White shit happens. The website said to call the airline to find out what to do in such a case. I did so. I waited on the line listening to insipid musak for 2 hours. 2. Hours. T.W.O.H.O.U.R.S! Meanwhile, my dog Buster was doing the feed-me-I-gotta-pee-feed-me-i-gotta-pee dance around my ankles. (I didn’t want to let Buster out, because the other 2 dogs were asleep in rickyd and Photi’s room, If I’d put him outsde, Flora and Guinness would be doing the me-too-feed-me-I-gotta-pee-what’s-going-on-out-there dance, scratching at the door and causing a general disturbance.) So at 7 o’clock, I decided to call a cab, said a tearful goodbye to Buster, and headed to the airport where I would takes my chances. (Goodbyes are always tearful with Buster. He’s a 12-year old wise-as-the-ages devious-as-a-serial-killer Lab, who, despite being in fantastic health, has lived through 2 cancers and countless ear infections. Our Gay Poster Boy vet switched him to a vegetarian diet, and the ears cleared up. Like fathers like son.)

The airport is a fucking zoo. Since I don’t swear too often in print, let me say it again. The airport is a fucking fucking fucking zoo. At least a thousand people are crowded into this confusing and poorly laid-out terminal. There are no AC (let me abbreviate Air Canada from now on so I don’t have to throw up a little in my mouth every time I type it) employees on the floor anywhere, but a lot of high school dropouts in yellow t-shirts are handing out Ziploc baggies in which to put your carry-on liquids. Yeah, like any one is going to get to use them today. (This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is your tax dollars at work.) I ask 3 different people which mile-long line to stand in, and get 3 different answers. So I flip a coin (a 3 headed coin) and decide on the ticket counter. There are probably about 100 people in the queue and 2 people at the desk. Two. People. T.W.O.P.E.O.P.L.E! Luckily, I have the latest issue of Men’s Health and my Ipod so I am prepared. (Note – why does the Spellcheck on my MacBook list Ipod as an incorrectly spelled word? For that matter, why is MacBook?) I inch forward at the speed of rock. There is, however, a really cute redhead in line about 3 people behind me, so I have more entertainment that I had previously thought. (Damn, he has a girlfriend.) I get to the end of my playlist just before I make it to the window. Good timing. The woman, obviously exhausted and frustrated but generally very polite, said she could rebook my flight, but I wouldn’t be able to leave until the 30th of December. 8 days from then. I asked her if AC (gag!) would perhaps schedule some extra flights to accommodate the stranded passengers, and she said it was unlikely. At least she was honest. She said to come back to the ticket counter at 5, and maybe she’d be able to fit me in on a later flight that day.I asked if could a meal voucher (as I got from another airline when my flight from Toronto to Montreal had been delayed 5 days previously) and she said I couldn’t, because if I got one, then everybody would have to get one. Uh… yeah. Isn’t that the point? It should be said that it was 10:30 in the morning, my cancelled flight would have already left, and I did not get a boarding card. I didn’t think there was any point, and was told as much by the counter attendant. This is an important point, and will be brought up later. Do not forget it.

Lucky me, I get to poop around the airport for 6 and a half hours. My sister very graciously offered to come pick me up or at least come to the airport to help kill the time. But I was fine. I had my brand-new sexy aluminum MacBook and a Facbook addiction. I paid 10 dollars to put my luggage into storage, which was well worth it, because I didn’t have to push this giant cart around, and I could go pee if I wanted without having to worry about leaving my bags alone and having some nogoodnik hiding heroin in my shaving kit. I find a table next to a power outlet (which was incredibly lucky!), and hunker down.

5 hours and 15 friend requests later, it’s 3:30. I decide that maybe I should go to back to the ticket counter early in case there have been some new developments. Ya never know. I’ve been standing in line for about 20 minutes when I overhear someone say “…bus…Halifax…” What? Squeeze me? So I jump out of line to find this person, who turns out to be a passenger who’s been waiting since yesterday to get the hell out of Dodge. She tells me that AC (puke!) has hired buses to get us to Halifax, and that I should hurry up and sign up, because they’ll be leaving at 5. That was how I found out. No announcement over the PA, no AC (Wretch!) employees on the floor to answer questions. No, I found out by divine accident. If I had waited until 5 to go to the ticket counter, I’d still be in Montreal. I run downstairs to get my bags out of storage, happy I’d be getting home before the New Year, but upset that I had to take a 17-hour bus trip. If I’d wanted to take a goddamn bus, I would have bought a goddamn bus ticket. It turns out I did.

Newly reluggaged, I venture to find where to register for the bus. I asked 3 different people who gave me 3 different answers, so I flipped my already over-used 3 headed coin, and decided on… that one. It was the wrong one. I was told to go…over there (insert tremendously vague hand gesture here). Well, the route over there was straight through a massive throng of tired, sweaty, stinky and frustrated (but since they were Canadian, polite!) fellow travelers, all of who must have thought I was trying to butt my way to the head of line. After about 20 minutes and countless “Pardon me what that your foot, I’m so sorry”s (remember, I have a cart with 736 ponds of luggage), I make it to the honest-to-God place I was supposed to be. It was 4:30, and my bus was going to leave in half an hour. Or so I thought.

Enter “The Bitch”.

The Bitch (or TB for short) is an AC (barf!) employee faced with the daunting task of rounding up all us wannabe Haligonians (yes, that is the proper collective noun). She was at least 50, but had had so many face-lifts, she had a beard. Her makeup must have been applied by a trowel. She had aubergine dyed hair, long cotton candy pink fingernails, lips and cheeks, and more mascara than RuPaul at Pride. All of these elements actually served to make her look far older than she probably was. Understandably, she must have had a tremendously difficult day. However, it is always easier to say “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have the answer to that right now. I’ll try to find out for you. Thank you for your patience.” as opposed to “If you would stop asking me such stupid questions, I might be able to do my job!”. Oh yeah. When I first saw her, she was yelling, Yelling! at a man who had been stuck at Dorval for 38 hours (as I later found out) who had asked her if there would be food provided on the buses or if the bus would be making stops. He was not yelling at her. He was tremendously polite (Canadian!) and was actually laughing at the situation, because really, what else are you going to do? I asked her if I could sign up for the bus, and she started to yell, Yell! at me about how I should have done this a hour ago, and that she wasn’t there to be my servant, and how everyone has been bitching and complaining all day and she was fed up to here with all this shit. I started to laugh (which probably didn’t help matters) and suggested politely (I swear. I was ultra polite and I used my calm CBC voice) that since all the passengers were calm and trying to make the best of a bad situation, that maybe she could be a little understanding of our predicament and not take out her frustrations on us. Well, you would have thought I had skinned a hamster right then and there. She tore into me like there was no tomorrow. Who the hell did I think I was? Some jerk (yes, she used that word) who wants to get home to Mommy and Daddy. Clearly I had no fucking (yes she used that word, too) idea of what she was trying to do for all of you people! You, sir, don’t have my job!

And that’s when I came out with perhaps the best and snappiest off-the-cuff reply I have ever come up with. I said (calmly still politely, but with undertones of revenge on my breath) “Oh no. That’s where you’re wrong. I will have your job.” She turned around in a huff and left to a smattering of applause (Thank you, thank you. I’m here all week.) We were then told by another AC (spew!) employee, who was apologetically polite, that the buses wouldn’t arriving until 8 pm. 14 hours after my odyssey had begun, and far longer for many. I had 842 pounds of luggage, and I desperately had to pee.

At 7:30, I returned to the rendezvous point, figuring I’d get there a bit early. There were only 5 others waiting. Odd, I thought. As we were chitchatting, I remarked on how calm and un-angry we all were. We just wanted to get home (or wherever) and if we had to take a bus, we had to take a bus. After about 15 minutes, one of the guys gets up to find out what’s going on, since no one else has shown up. He returns minutes later and says he heard a rumour that the buses were picking us up downstairs at arrivals. A rumour. This is how I found out. No P.A. announcement, no employees on the floor. So we rush downstairs. The place is a fucking zoo. There must be 300 people waiting to get on what I still thought was 2 buses. I honestly just about turned around to head back to my sister’s for Christmas. O.K., there are actually 7 buses. But they won’t be arriving until 10 pm. At that point, that cute redhead from the first line asks me if I’ll watch his luggage while he goes to the washroom. Thank God, because I can ask him for the same favour when he gets back (and maybe a couple of other favours…) In the meantime, AC (heave!) employees start chucking those bags of pre-cut apples into the crowd like they were vendors at a baseball game. This is the first sustenance AC (hurl!) has offered us all day! I devoured them. They were warm and brown, but who cares? TB has reappeared, flames shooting from her eyes, and brimstone belching out of her mouth. All buses will be going directly to Halifax, except one, which will be making a stop in Moncton. I decide to take that one, since there’ll be a fair amount of people getting off, and I’ll be able to stretch out for at least part of my journey. So we are being herded onto the buses like cattle, I stand back and wait. I’m one of the last people to get on, and TB asks me for my boarding pass. I told her I never got on, since by the time I got to the airport, my flight had been cancelled. “Well, you can’t get on the bus”

What?

I was told I didn’t need to get my boarding pass well you were told wrong please get out of the line I have other people to deal with no you’re dealing with me right here right now I am getting on this bus whether you like it or not I have not I repeat NOT been waiting at this fucking airport for 15 hours without any offer of food or anything and been treated like shit by people like you who can’t be bothered to be decent or kind or polite to people who have it much worse than you or than me for that matter to be told that because I don’t have a boarding pass when I was told not to get one that I can’t get on a bus which will take 18 hours when I paid for my goddamn ticket for a goddamn plane to see my parents whom I haven’t seen in 8 months to spend Christmas with them for the first time in 8 years. You, Madam, are sorely mistaken.

I got on the bus.

Waiting for me at the airport was my Mom’s dear friend Kay, who drove the hour to the airport to drive me the hour and a half to Lunenburg only to drive back the hour to Halifax. I cried when I saw her.

I had a wonderful Christmas with my folks, and it was hard to leave to join the big Vee. I didn’t end up making a complaint about TB. Yeah, she probably shouldn’t have her job, but she might have been a low-level peon who didn’t regularly deal with customers (with good reason). Or she could just be a raging bitch. I haven’t made inquiries into a refund. To be honest, I can’t be bothered. It would be too much work and pain and tsuris that I don’t need or want. That being said, I would rather jump naked into a pool of razor blades than fly AC (retch!) ever again. I wonder if Qantas flies to Halifax…