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Published: December 9th 2014
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I have lived through 51.5 Canadian winters. The first few weren't so bad.....all bundled up and carried around as babies often are. Then I started walking and, still bundled up, fell for the old "snow is fun to play in scam". What can I say....I was young, naïve and inexperienced. By the time I started school, snow-men, snow-ball fights, snow-angels, etc.....were losing their appeal. But school brought with it a new and strong argument in favour of winter: snowstorms + long bus ride = many school days that turned into stay-at-home days. But that was oh-so-many years ago and I have been finding it increasingly difficult to come up with reasons to enjoy, or at least not hate, winter - legitimate reasons that are relevant to my current existence.......... "....so lovely coming in from the biting cold and curling up with a cup of hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire...." (yeah, sure, and may I add that "coming in from the biting cold" in my case means leaving my bathroom).
"....nothing like the sound of crisp snow crunching
and crackling under those thick-soled, cleated mucklucks....." (personally prefer the crackling sound of flipping through the pages of all-inclusive travel brochures).
"....shoveling snow is such great exercise.." (unless, of course, it kills you).
So I have given up trying to pretend, especially to myself, that I do not DESPISE these Quebec winters that never seem to end. What is there to do, other than grumble, complain, and endure? While that may sound like a rhetorical question, and indeed would likely have fit that definition, save for the fact that I do have an answer, specifically regarding the winter that has recently started its Reign of Frozen Terror. I can't make winter go away (years of failed attempts have finally forced me to accept this fact)...so....... I have decided to Run Away From Home. I will certainly admit that this is easier said than done, otherwise I would have attempted it years ago. After taking stock of my assets and liabilities, weighing
pros and cons, considering various obligations, limitations and responsibilities, there were really only 2 issues standing in my way: 1) a vague sense of guilt at doing what most people are not free to do; and 2) will my dogs forgive me when I get back? Clearly, neither of these issues, nor the two of them combined, were strong enough to block out the Call From Down Under.
Now would be a good time to mention my ace-card......family living in Australia. So for little more than the price of a plane ticket and the cost of an occasional excursion, I shall escape an entire Canadian winter, trading mukluks in for flipflops and shedding the Gortex parka in favour of generous layers of sunscreen. I sometimes wonder if I would be as fond of my brothers if they lived in, say, Iceland. But why waste time on disturbing hypothetical questions when the simple reality is so awesome? The journey begins with a brutal 4:00 a.m. wake-up call. I spent what little there was of the night in a hotel near the airport. Two cups of a beverage audacious enough to
call itself coffee, and I managed to haul my luggage, and sleep-deprived, middle-aged self into an awaiting taxi. The driver was awfully friendly and cheerful for someone who was up at 4:30 a.m. in order to enable someone else to embark on an Excellent Adventure. But it did earn him a substantial tip, so maybe the dude really knows what he is
doing. What follows is a blur of 5 airports in 40 hours. Over-all.....going through airport security was fast and efficient. I did have to transfer my checked baggage in both New York and Sydney, in spite of the adamant promise of the agent in Quebec City that I would eventually just wake up and discover my luggage in Brisbane. ( I wanted to ask if it would be surrounded by munchkins and would I be forced to melt the Wicked Witch of the West to retrieve it, but past experience has taught me that people in uniforms tend to be devoid of a sense of humour, especially early in the morning.) I had a totally unexpected break on the longest flight - L.A. to Sydney, 14 hours. The two seats beside my assigned window seat were not taken....as in unoccupied....empty, leaving me free to stretch out, do some Zumba, and actually sleep for a solid 3 hours. I would have slept longer had it not been for the flight attendant who woke me up to ask me to close the window blind, so that 'people could sleep'. My nephew was there as I staggered off the last plane in Brisbane. When he asked how it had been going through Australian Customs, I was forced to respond that I was not entirely sure that I had actually been through Customs. Other than the routine automated verifications, I was not questioned, body-frisked, or otherwise put under the magnifying glass. There was that uniformed beagle at Sydney airport, but he just sniffed as I walked by, and I believe I detected an ever-so-subtle wag of the tail. At the final electronic verification point, a confused looking elderly lady asked me if I was Australian (perhaps she thought I could explain the ropes and protocol). In my difficult to control booming voice I announced loud and clear that no, I am not Australian, but CANADIAN. At that a security official, several queues away, burst into a shining white smile and shouted towards me,''Canada? We all thank you for Rob Ford!' While most puzzled souls around me did not comprehend the reference, it did put a knowing smirk on my sleep-deprived face.
And so it begins...
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