Fearing that we had not had enough greasy, fatty food in the
last two weeks, Colleen and I opted for one last good ole fashioned American
meal at everyone's favorite franchise restaurant: Chili's. Yup, the toilets at 20,000 feet and my
seatmates were not going to be a part of the Brent Moreau Fan Club. After seeing Colleen off to the other
terminal and saying goodbye until after Christmas, I made my way to the West
Jet check-in counter. The huge line-ups
sent off immediate alarm bells in my head, as I was travelling standby to
Toronto on my West Jet employed sister's passes. Following a long wait at the check-in
counter, then security, then the boarding gate, myself along with a couple of
other standby passengers were told that the flight was full and we would not be
getting on. Shit. Shit.
Shit. Time to figure out a Plan
B. Fortunately, the sloth-like and
not-too-bright employees at the Lauderdale Airport informed me that I could
catch a flight to Montreal and then connect on to Toronto. While it would take an extra few hours, I was
at the mercy of the airline, so it appeared that a detour through the Belle
Province was in order.
That afternoon, I was originally scheduled to get in to
Toronto at 2:30pm where my father was to pick me up. My new flight itinerary had me arriving after
8:00pm. Before boarding the plane to
Montreal, I quickly sent a Facebook message to my father and brother to alert
them of my new travel plans, as well as an email to my old man. Despite my best efforts (I swear Dad!) my
cell phone was not working in Florida, so I just had to hope that either him or
my brother decided to check their Facebook.
So, with the best of intentions I boarded my flight and started my
travels back to my childhood home....
And then I arrived at the Toronto airport. And no one was there to pick me up. And my father doesn't own a cell phone. And I
couldn't get a hold of anyone at home.
And I was officially what the British like to call "Royally
Fucked". Here I was excited to be
home for the Christmas holidays and I was stranded at the airport like a
forgotten piece of luggage. Yes, it was
great to be back. Eventually, after
surmising that my father must not have gotten my messages, I set about trying
to figure out a route via public transit that would get me to my parents'
house. Soon, I went from being elated at
being back in Southern Ontario to being pissed right off when I realized it was
going to take me a few hours to travel a distance of less than 75km. Oh, joyful bliss. But then, as if it were an early Christmas
gift from the infant baby Jesus himself, my phone rang and it was....my
Dad. I came to discover that my father
being the uber tech savvy guy that he is never got any of my messages and had
spent the better part of five hours at the airport that afternoon waiting for
me before eventually returning home. I
am still not sure if he just assumed I was deceased or what. Well, my pity quickly shifted from myself to
my father and it would be safe to assume that my visit home was off to a fantastic
poorly communicated start. Following
large amounts of groveling and begging, Mr. Brian Moreau agreed to drive the 45
minutes back to the airport and pick my sorry ass up. Yes, Christmas vacation was officially back
on!
~Brentski~
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