Functionally ReTodded

Forgot to mention that my groceries weren’t there last night when I got back.  They only do that Tuesday thru Friday.  They’ll be there today).

Got my usual 6:30am wake up call, then proceeded to ignore it until 7:20.  Fuck.  Gotta hurry or I’ll miss breakfast.

Wait a minute.  These guys are nine o’clockers.  No rush.

Showered, realized that my head was now roughly the size of a number 12 PE ball from elementary school.  Note to self:  get some fucking sudafed.  Ugh.

Got dressed while talking on the phone with GBD and 1doh with one hand and turning my webcam to show 1doh my Hotel Suite with the other.  Not easy at all.  Choked down half a cup of coffee and headed for the lobby and my breakfast.

Note to self:  Buy some salt.  Apparently they need that stuff here for the roads, so what they put by the buffet doesn’t let any actual salt fall on to your food.  Hence, no good flavor on my eggs.

Oh, did I mention that they’re (and by they’re I mean we’re) expecting 15 inches of snow in the next 24 hours?  That’s gonna wreak havoc on the already 15 foot piles of snow that are all along the sides of the road here.

I hop on the shuttle and move to the back of the bus.  I figure that since I’m from the south and that there aren’t really any black people here, I’ll take up the fight for them, only not.

The shuttle fills to capacity.  I’m next to the window.  I realize that this wasn’t smart.

I was right.  I have to step over someone and shuffle down the aisle full of folks, then hit my head on the overhead bin.  That draws sounds that aren’t laughter, which surprises me.  Then I remember I’m in Canada.

It’s funny that the country that brought us so much comic genius isn’t down with laughing when the big white guy bangs his noggin on the roof.

I walk into work and a woman whose name I don’t know asks how I’m feeling.  When I say “Not that great,” she informs me that she’s making me an appointment for a physician downtown that I can see this afternoon for a shot of antibiotics.  Things are definately looking up.

More to come later.  I need more coffee and a plunger to clear part of my head.

Good day, eh. My name’s FRT and I’m coming to ya live from yer northern territory: Canada.

My journey started off on a bit of a sour note when I noticed Sunday morning that I was coming down with a touch of the sinus infection/bronchitis/ear infection. We all know how fun it is to fly with those things going on in your head. I solved that problem by having four beers at a Concourse E watering hole sitting next to a career Marine Chinook pilot who recently joined the private sector.

We had a nice conversation over a couple of cocktails and then, almost sadly, my flight was called.

I ambled down to the gate, feeling much better about my medical issues. I bought some gum, a water, and a bag of Combos for the flight. I bought the Combos because I am a grown man, and some air waitress offering me either 8 peanuts OR some cheese crackers makes me angry.

I haven’t traveled internationally in this post 9/11 world. I have also grown to block out the retarded color-coded terror level started by George Bush the smaller to help ensure his re-election.

It turns out, however, that you can not ignore the terror level color chart if you are flying anywhere. Especially the terrorist hotbed that is Montreal. Security at Hand Job International Airport Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport is beyond difficult, yet laughable in it’s patheticness. I’m fairly certain I could have brought an RPG and the woman with the six inch nails operating the scanner wand area couldn’t have found it.

Anyway, since the terror level is Orange right now, security is tighter and thus, much slower. Add to that the people that can’t watch the 4 minute “how to get thru security even if you’re foreign and retarded” video that shows on 20 big screen televisions as you wind your way thru the dregs of humanity.

By the way, I believe that the security checkpoint at HJIA is to today what the bus station or port authority were to our youth. I’m astonished at the number of the great unwashed that can apparently afford to fly places.

So I get to the front, and in anticipation of the bullshit, I’ve taken off my watch, ring, wallet, ipod, and removed everything from my pockets (including lint and possibly a booger) and thrown it in my bag or stuffed it in my coat. I’ve untied my tennies for easy removal as well.

I get there, and I remember that your laptop has to go in a tub of it’s own. I’m traveling with two laptops, so that’s two tubs right away. Add in the one holding my backpack and the one with my size 13’s and my jacket, and I’ve nearly depleted the airport’s stock of tubs.

Now is the panic part. I always either beep (possibly because of the huge foil-wrapped zuchini I stuff down my pants) or get pulled aside so some fellow from India can rub my crotchal region with the back of his hand repeatedly, all the while assuring me that my search is “by the book.” Sure. If the book is called “How to touch a total strangers penis in front of 50 witnesses and get away with it.”

If you beep, your shit goes out the other end of the scanner while Aquaneesha pokes you in the bunghole with that wand scanner. So now you have lost about five grand worth of stuff but also you’re no longer a virgin anally (if you were before) and you’ve been molested in front of the entire population of Uzbekistan.

Surprisingly enough I got thru unscathed despite my medic alert bracelet. I’m fairly certain that with the attention it draws, somewhere in the TSA training video, they mention dirty bombs hidden on the wrists of fat white English speaking Norwegian-German guys with swollen faces.

Onward to my gate.

As I mentioned, I don’t travel much now, but I assumed that flying internationally I would get a huge airplane and flight attendants dressed in french maid outfits or something.

No.

What I got was a “jet” that seated about 80. That’s not a jet. That’s a fucking school bus.

Oh, and I also didn’t get a jetway to the plane. I got to walk down some stairs and across the tarmac like a Gitmo detainee to my plane. $900 round trip and I’m not even as good as cattle.

I boarded to find a plane that was almost not tall enough for me to stand up while walking to my seat. Egad.

During the preflight announcements the captain told us that our 20 minute delay was due to non-flight related mechanical issues. Specifically that there was no running water in the forward lav. (Front of the plane bathroom for those of you in 1950’s Ohio). We were assured that the bathroom was stocked with hand sanitizer “should we wish to wash our hands.”

Should we WISH to wash our hands? Really? Sweet Jesus.

Luckily I sat next to a nice sleepy girl so my aisle seat allowed me to stretch out some. At least until the call to pee arrived.

Despite peeing at the airport, four beers will make you pee again. So after hearing the warning about the forward lav having no water, I figured I’d head for the aft lav, because I’m smart like that.

Only I get to the back of the plane, and there’s no aft lav. God dammit people. If there’s no AFT lav, why on God’s green earth do you refer to the other one as the forward lav?!? Just say “THE ONLY LAV!!!!”

So now I get to traverse the crotch destroying corridor that is the walk to the front of the plane and I’m the first person to use it, so I know everyone’s watching me.

I get in the loo, ducking my head to get thru the door, and I reach a startling discovery: I cannot stand up.

Not because I’m drunk. Because the plane barely acommodates my height at it’s center. This water closet is far to the side of the plane, meaning that while I can stand in the middle of the plane, I cannot un-duck my head in here.

Suddenly this is like trying to pee at 1doh’s kindergarten. I’m decided whether I should sit to pee or kneel to pee or pee in the sink full of handiwipes or just pee all over the fucking floor and claim an airline-wide bias against tall people.

I couldn’t sit down to pee as I am a grown man, I can’t pee in the sink (yet), and if I peed on the floor, I’m pretty sure they’re returning the flight and handing me off to some air marshalls for a spend the night party in the lockup.

So I opt for semi-kneeling, but I still have to be far enough from the toilet to handle the pre and post flight operations, and I nearly ended up like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. I used the pump style hand sanitizer and went back to my seat convinced that if I had to pee again, I’d just do it in my pants while I “acted” like I was asleep.

Drink and snack service started, and I was delighted to be offered three options:

peanuts, raisins or cheese crackers.

How exciting.

The guy across the aisle from me surprised me however by assertively stating “I’ll have the cheese crackers AND the peanuts please.”

I felt so alive to witness this man standing up to tyranny that I was fairly certain this was how our founding fathers felt while dumping tea into Boston Harbor.

My feeling of elation soon passed when I asked for a beer.

“We don’t have any beer. Only one red wine or we have spirits” said my aisle-filling air waitress. “You asked for it,” I said to myself as I ordered two scotch and sodas. I’ve never had scotch and soda before. I like scotch and water. But I was interested in the bubbly texture of beer and since my dad said you can never mix scotch with anything from the Coke family of drinks, I went with soda.

It was nice.

Fast forward to the nice smooth landing and we’re on the ground and only ten minutes late. Not bad.

I once again have a wander across the tarmac and into YUL (call letters for Montreal’s airport). I proceed up five escalators. WTF? Did my plane land in hell? This is astonishing.

I get to customs and only one person’s in front of me. I get thru, there’s a cabbie at the door, and after a brief conversation about our kids in which he said “fuck” roughly 87 times in ten minutes, I was at my hotel. Not bad again. Left my house for an international flight at 3pm and I was in my hotel room at 9:45pm.

And the hotel was also a pleasant surprise. Since I’m staying two weeks, the admin to the guy in charge up here figured I’d want more space, so she booked me a suite in the Residents Inn. It has a kitchen. Not a mini-fridge. A full fridge, microwave, a stove, a sink and even a dishwasher!

And it has multiple data ports so I can either sit at the desk, the kitchen counter thingy, the sofa or just recline on my king sized bed. Very nice.