29-30 May - Calgary to London Heathrow

A bit of a nightmare occurred while sitting at gate B24 in Calgary; what seemed an infinite troop of French-speaking Canadians paraded by.  Twelve year-olds, that is.  Nobody you could buy a drink.  Nobody you could chat up.  Well, a couple of chaperones, but, really, they've got more important things on their minds, you know?  The murmur, though, was steady, and near cacophonous to my weary, inebriated brain.  To the other, I didn't notice until after the fact that they boarded another flight.  Don't ask.  I didn't; problem solved.

The flight from Calgary to Heathrow was, strangely, pleasant enough.  Part of this is simply the fact that I was, by now, well on my way to devastating intoxication, though some of it had to do with the fact that I was riding an Airbus 340 across the Pond.  Eight across, and the flight was nowhere near full.  Those who actually booked middle seats stood a good chance of being alone, and having room to stretch out and sleep.  I found myself seated next to a pleasant old chap with only a thumb on his right hand.  A bright-eyed world traveler, he was something of a kick.  That is, he didn't so much drink with me, but certainly didn't mind the rate at which I put away the Jack Daniels, and had fairly encouraging words for my efforts to procure more liquor.  Which is another thing.  Apparently, booze on these flights is free.  A stewardess, whose name I forgot if I ever knew it in the first place, secured three bottles from First Class; apparently, not even the attendants from coach are welcome up front.  After that, she and another attendant allowed me another four bottles of Canadian whiskey-don't ask me the label, I couldn't tell you-before I did them the favor, apparently, of passing out.  I had watched Iron Man, but didn't make it through How to Train A Dragon before I went down.  At the very least, I can say I wasn't especially obnoxious.  To be certain, I have no memory of anyone telling me to tone it down before ... er ... um ... right.  Exactly.  There is a chunk of time missing.  I was awake well before the end of the flight, but I cannot account for a few hours in there.  I must have been out.

Coming into Heathrow, I noticed two things: council estates, and sheep.  Don't ask me to explain.

29 May - Seattle to Calgary (Bad jokes in good humor)

29 May - Seattle to Calgary

When Drew called, all of fifteen minutes before the alarm rang, it was easy to tell it was going to be one of those days.  Everyone seemed calm.  Instructions for meeting up in Bath Spa were simple enough, both for me and the folks in England, but that’s later.

Of note at Sea-Tac was only TSA security.  I had blundered, or so it seemed, and left a bottle of Beam in my pants pocket.  Most days, this wouldn’t be an issue.  Today, though, a security guard instructed me to step aside for a brief, additional security check.  He frisked down my legs, specifically.  And you know how it goes.  Liquids in a bag, and all that.  But he completely skipped my pockets.  I don’t know, maybe they feared plastique wrapped around my calves, or something.  The profile seemed of simple enough criteria.  Every third adult male, or some such.  I chuckled about it with a random stranger; we both recalled better frisks at concerts, and come on, those checks are a joke.  Life goes on, &c.

Bought a note pad and pens at a news stand, knowing full well I was going to drink my way through the day, starting with a shot of Woodford at a sports bar in the terminal.  Wondering what I might forget, it seemed a good idea to scribble down a few things.  Whatever happened, it would be a fine and fun story to tell people, and each turn seemed more and more bizarre.

Instead of Vancouver, the original transfer point, I was off to Calgary after a three-hour wait.  Probably should have drank more, or maybe not.  Philosophically, it’s a wasted (ha!) question.  I was just tight enough that the wait didn’t bother me.

And I was also just tight enough to embarrass myself, but that’s a long story and easily forgiven by the offended.  Or, rather, the blessedly not offended.  If I live a thousand years, I don’t think I will ever be able to explain how one of my descent could mistake Canadian tribal for Filipino.  Did I mention it was embarrassing?  Can we leave it at that?  I mean, I didn’t flinch when I mistook a guy’s mother for his wife, but this ....

Right.  We’ll leave it at that.

The flight to Calgary was pleasant enough for a Bombardier jet.  Probably a bit more pleasant than a turboprop would have been.

And, just as we had to walk across the tarmac to board in Seattle, so also did we have to come in through the snow in Calgary.

Wait, wait, wait.  Let me make that clear.  Yes, it was snowing in Calgary.  The lovely, unoffended woman I rode next to on the plane was amazed at that bit.  And, indeed, it seems only a couple days before, Calgary saw thirty centigrade and sunshine.

Customs was an interesting experience, though, as an officer quizzed me for about five minutes in what seemed less like an official interview than a pleasant chat we were undertaking because the rules say we must.

Picked up a pack of Belmont cigarettes for an outrageous price, even accounting for the twenty-five count, according the recommendation of my seat mate.  I’m afraid I must disagree with her though.  Belmont’s are not excrement like Marlboro, but they’re hardly the great smoke she suggested.  But standing out in the snow with a few locals who couldn’t stand the weather and the pleasant Chinese fellow with the mother who was not his wife was pleasant enough.  There is this old saying among my friends: “I’ll step outside for some fresh air and a cigarette.”  In Calgary, though, it was true.  Even crossing the tarmac among however many jets spewing exhaust, the air was clean, the breeze swirling snowflakes quite refreshing.  Of course, after breathing on an airplane, almost anything short of nineteenth-century Manchester is probably an improvement.