Day 9: Travelling

I write this blog entry on my mother’s old desktop computer, from the old home in Winnipeg. It’s a balmy -40 degrees, I left my backpack at home, and I had one of the worst flights in my life. I got to the airport, and purchased my ticket at the very last minute. It cost me almost 800 dollars. I quietly purchased the ticket, then walked to the nearest washroom and cursed out loud a string of obscenities bad enough to make small children cry. When I was checking in my luggage, I realised I left my backpack at home. This time I did curse out loud, drawing shocked expressions.

The flight wound up being delayed due to poor weather conditions. FOR THREE HOURS. I was incredibly bored with no book or MP3 player to take my mind off things, so I walked around the terminal over three times, and took in all of the awful sights that go in hand with this season. Ridiculously overpriced souvenirs like Santa cowboy hats and Calgary snow globes being marketed as “the perfect Christmas gift”. I thought about all the clichéd lectures my dad gave me, and I grew frustrated when I remembered seeing him at the mall.

When I finally got on the plane, I was seated between a mother and her infant, and a man with the bladder the size of a pea. I spent the flight budging to let the guy go to the washroom, and desperately trying to drown out a kid’s crying by watching the in-flight entertainment – “Alvin and the Chipmunks – Chipwrecked”. It was a total disaster of a flight.

I arrived in Winnipeg and after waiting for a good hour I realised the airline had lost my luggage. I struggled to keep a calm voice as I made my complaint. Then I caught a cab home, which was an ordeal in itself, since few cabs were operating in the poor conditions. When I finally got home my mother instantly dramatized the whole situation, making my awful travelling experience seem monumentally worse.

I now sit in my old room, in my old PJs (three sizes too small), knowing fully well that I will probably have to shovel the mountain of snow that’s piled up on my mom’s driveway. (Does the woman never leave the house?).

And that’s another reason why I hate Christmas.

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