After pulling things together at the last moment, moving out of my apartment at the eleventh hour, and waking at four in the morning, I was on my way to the airport. I was off on another adventure, on my way to the other side of the world.
Or so I thought.
My adventure was over before it began. I walked up to the airline counter and was politely informed that all flights to Toronto had been canceled due to bad weather. And since there's one plane to Hong Kong a day, it was game over: I was going home. Jessie was with me the whole way, and so we headed back to my mother's place, and enjoyed the gift of another day together. After the day before's tension, its insane rush, there was nothing left to do but relax and enjoy the eerie calm before the storm.
Deja vu: a four in the morning wake up call and a rush to eat and get to the airport. It was like a strange routine, like it was my job to wake up at four every morning and hurry to the airport. Just another day. Then it hit me: I had to say goodbye to Jessie for real this time.
After we'd parted ways at the security gate, you'd think things would have gotten easier - after the emotional pain of saying goodbye, I would be overcome by the excitement of the adventure I was about to embark on - but things were not going to be that easy. The emotional pain would soon be replaced by the physical kind: I was about to start feeling violently unwell.
Aboard the plane, I watched the ground disappear into the clouds, and was reading the newspaper the flight attendant had provided when suddenly the words started bleeding into each other. I squinted, trying to get them to settle, but it was no use, and besides, I had started to feel strangely uncomfortable. Before long I was squirming in my seat. I got up to go to the back of the plane when all of a sudden the world started getting dark around the edges. I was blacking out. The universe shrank to a point of light, which I chased down the aisle, nearly knocking over a flight attendant who had disappeared into what had until recently been my peripheral vision. I made it to the bathroom in a cold sweat. Nearly blind, I splashed water on my face and sat for a long time, until my vision came back and I felt I could stand. I stumbled out of the washroom and found the worried flight attendant, who sat me down at the back of the plane (where it's cooler) and turned the air jets on me and wrapped a cold cloth around my neck. I could tell by the motherly worry on the flight attendant's face that I looked as bloodless as I felt. If I had to guess, I looked as white as the clouds outside my window. The flight attendant, a pleasant sandy-haired woman in her early forties, suggested I go to the airport clinic once we'd arrived in Toronto. I told her it was out of the question: I had a connecting flight.
"Well I hope it's a short flight. Where are you going?"
"Hong Kong."
"Oh, boy", she said.
Or so I thought.
My adventure was over before it began. I walked up to the airline counter and was politely informed that all flights to Toronto had been canceled due to bad weather. And since there's one plane to Hong Kong a day, it was game over: I was going home. Jessie was with me the whole way, and so we headed back to my mother's place, and enjoyed the gift of another day together. After the day before's tension, its insane rush, there was nothing left to do but relax and enjoy the eerie calm before the storm.
Deja vu: a four in the morning wake up call and a rush to eat and get to the airport. It was like a strange routine, like it was my job to wake up at four every morning and hurry to the airport. Just another day. Then it hit me: I had to say goodbye to Jessie for real this time.
After we'd parted ways at the security gate, you'd think things would have gotten easier - after the emotional pain of saying goodbye, I would be overcome by the excitement of the adventure I was about to embark on - but things were not going to be that easy. The emotional pain would soon be replaced by the physical kind: I was about to start feeling violently unwell.
Aboard the plane, I watched the ground disappear into the clouds, and was reading the newspaper the flight attendant had provided when suddenly the words started bleeding into each other. I squinted, trying to get them to settle, but it was no use, and besides, I had started to feel strangely uncomfortable. Before long I was squirming in my seat. I got up to go to the back of the plane when all of a sudden the world started getting dark around the edges. I was blacking out. The universe shrank to a point of light, which I chased down the aisle, nearly knocking over a flight attendant who had disappeared into what had until recently been my peripheral vision. I made it to the bathroom in a cold sweat. Nearly blind, I splashed water on my face and sat for a long time, until my vision came back and I felt I could stand. I stumbled out of the washroom and found the worried flight attendant, who sat me down at the back of the plane (where it's cooler) and turned the air jets on me and wrapped a cold cloth around my neck. I could tell by the motherly worry on the flight attendant's face that I looked as bloodless as I felt. If I had to guess, I looked as white as the clouds outside my window. The flight attendant, a pleasant sandy-haired woman in her early forties, suggested I go to the airport clinic once we'd arrived in Toronto. I told her it was out of the question: I had a connecting flight.
"Well I hope it's a short flight. Where are you going?"
"Hong Kong."
"Oh, boy", she said.
