Greetings, Gentle Readers.

Up at 0430h on Friday morning to catch the shuttle bus to the airport.  After hauling the multi-ton suitcase of doom up Bellamy Hill and arriving (we thought) with a few minutes to spare, we discover that I’ve left my mobile phone charging on my computer.  Since Jules was convinced that we need the GPS functionality of the thing, I sprinted back down the hill to go retrieve it.  No sooner had I successfully grabbed the thing, hastily stuffed it into my jacket, and made it down the lifts and out the front door, the thing rang.  Sure enough, it’s Jules.  The news?  The shuttle bus came early.  Julie’s message for me?  Hurry up.  By the time I made it back to the Hotel MacDonald, I managed to sprint across the intersection at which the shuttlebus (containing Julie) was waiting for the lights to change.  I hopped on board and proceeded to shed enough perspiration to fill the snorkels of every man, woman, and child in Belize. 

Tired, exhausted, and dehydrated, we finally got to the airport with enough time to check the gravitic anomaly that is the suitcase of woe onto the flight, grab a bit of breakfast, and board the plane in a leisurely fashion.  Now, I’ve done a lot of flying recently, and my general conclusion is that North American airlines have been duelling over profits for quite some time, so they’ve cut out all of the frills, like free meals and headsets, and things like elbow room.  That was the case for United as well as Air Canada.  This flight was WestJet, so I was willing to try and keep an optimistic perspective.  Maybe this airline would be different.  It isn’t. 

Packed like sardines to the point where I thought my knees were going numb from being pressed into the seat in front of me, we were informed that if you wanted food, or headsets, or oxygen masks, you had to pay for them.  The bright point was the pre-takeoff announcements.  I’ve heard dozens of these over the past few months, so I must confess to being a bit jaded.  They went something like this:

“Allo, my name is Domenic, and if you don’t like my French accent, then tough, because we’re both stuck with it.  I’d like to introduce you to your flight crew today.  Behind the bulletproof steel door that only we can open is the captain, Charles.  Sitting next to him, holding his hand and sometimes stroking his hair, is the co-pilot, Michel.  In the middle of the aisle, you can see my new girlfriend – we just met yesterday – is the unforgettable... erm [aside: what was her name again?]  Oh, yes, Melanie.  And standing next to me at the front of the cabin is the handsome and very single Claude.  He is taking numbers, so ladies, get them ready.”

“And now, it’s showtime as we start our safety presentation.  In the event that the cabin [muffled whisper] decompresses, oxygen masks [muffled whisper, slightly more urgent] will descend from the [whisper: “Later!”] compartments above your heads [whisper: “I’m doing a safety presentation!”]  For your entertainment on this flight, we have two bathrooms, one at the front, and one at the rear of the craft.  There are six exits, which... erm... that flight attendant in the centre of the aisle is pointing at: two at the front, two over the wings in the middle, and two at the rear.  Please try and locate the exit nearest you in case you need to use it.”

And so, despite the discomfort and the relatively inhumane living conditions, the little bit of levity went a long way towards preventing my cynicism and general grumpiness from spiralling out of control, much as it did on my last flight into Los Angeles.  That, and the fact that we don’t have to deal with American customs.  That’s worth a gold star in anyone’s book.

The flight was relatively uneventful, aside from the girl sitting next to me asking for a blanket and pillow.  If “sitting” could be used to describe being shoehorned into a space unfit for a battery-farm chicken.  Turns out that the plane was sold out of such amenities.  I offered my scarf, marketing it as something that “acts as BOTH a pillow and a blanket.”  She politely declined.  I played a little “Heroes of Hellas” until Domenic returned to the airwaves.

“’Ello ladies and gentlemen.  We are landing 20 minutes earlier than scheduled, which is clearly because of me, so let’s hear it.  Clap, clap?  [pause for applause]  You are about to hear one of those phrases that is like a song in my heart:  we are now beginning our final descent into Hamilton International Airport.  For those of you continuing on to Moncton, this is your plane, and we will be happy to escort you on to your final destination.  If you do decide to disembark, remember to take your boarding pass and piece of ID with you, and remember that we will only make one boarding call, so if you don’t remember those things, have fun in Hamilton.  For those of you leaving us, your luggage will be on the carousels in the arrivals lounge within the next 48 hours.  On behalf of myself and only myself, I would like to thank you for flying WestJet, and hope that you’ll be with us again soon.”

Interesting that Domenic, as near as I could tell, never made much attempt to put any zest in the French translations of his announcements.  I got one half-hearted attempt at a joke, I think, but the rest sounded pretty routine, particularly since I’ve heard the same announcements en Français innumerable times on both sides of the Atlantic over the past two months.

The John C. Munro Hamilton International Airport is basically a barn.  With a baggage carousel in it.  At the opposite end of the barn are the two car rental kiosks.  After collecting the outrageously heavy bag and loading it onto a creaking and complaining luggage caddy, we collected this rather stout and sturdy-looking red Dodge Avenger.  I’m used to renting econo-boxes, so this was a bit of a paradigm-shift for me.

Looking around, I noticed that all the vehicles were somewhat squat and blocky.  Trucks, jeeps, SUVs, sedans, station wagons, sports cars... all rather square and heavy.  I suppose that since Hamilton is a bit of a steel-town, it’s not surprising that they like their vehicles made with a maximum amount of reinforcement and substance.

And so, armed with a printed Google Map and our functional but inelegant vehicle, we headed off north for Minden.  A few minutes in, we realized a few things.  The Greater Toronto Area has a smeg-load of radio-stations.  There were roughly 3 within each MHz of FM range.  And after a quick surf, we soon realized that none of them were playing Journey.  Obviously the Boston (TM) Premium Audio system was going to waste.  Unfortunately, I had also forgotten my happy satchel of computer and audio-visual patch cords, so I couldn’t hook my netbook, iPhone, or MP3 player up to the car stereo.  Thankfully, there was a logical midpoint between Hamilton and Minden.

Newmarket is a quiet, sleepy suburb very reminiscent of Sherwood Park.  There are plenty of green spaces and forests, and there are gentle hills and valleys crinkling the topography of the town.  They also had a ripping Radio Shack (now The Source) located conveniently close to a Greek place that does fabulous chicken kebabs.  A happy lunch, and we were off to Cottage Country, Journey in tow.

A cottage in Cottage Country apparently doesn’t mean what I thought it meant when I was growing up.  A cottage now is a sprawling four- or five-bedroom, multi-story dwelling, each one with its own independent water, sewage, electrical, communications, and natural gas systems.  The country is lovely.  Trees grow in abundance along the river and lakeshores, as well in copses.  The herbs and shrubs are numerous, the air is sweet, and the insects are belligerent and tenacious.  The water in the dam-controlled rivers is warm and refreshing, and the sundowner times are pleasant and pacific.

But the next day, the placid environment was about to be overrun by members of the Dunn family.

And that is another story.

Goodnight England and the colonies.

—mARKUS