The dreaded security clearance
I checked in fairly quickly at YVR. No pretending where to go...I knew
exactly where to line up this time. Then I went and stood in line for
the security check. The lineup didn't seem so bad, so I thought I would
leave it and see if I could find a Georgia Straight to read. I did a
circle of the building and couldn't find one, so headed back to the
line up. Holy Jezus! I said to myself as I noticed the line up had
increased 30 fold! So I stuck with it and then noticed that it wrapped
and weaved to the security door, so that it would be forever before I
actually got a chance to get buzzed by the security guards. There was a
family with a cranky kid, and this kid's crankiness would cause his
baby brother to scream in hysteria. I hoped they weren't going to
Calgary, I said to myself. I was nearing the entrance when I noticed
Dark Peter wasn't there. I sort of missed his good nature as he turned
down bottles of dead love ones in shampoo. An east Indian gal was in
his stead and pointed me to the far line up. I notice that most of
these types of jobs are done by people of colour, east Indian,
Phillippino's and a few assortments of other types. Anyway, I was ready
this time: out came the laptop into the bucket, off came my coat into
another bucket and in went my change without having to be coaxed. AND
NO WATER! Boy, I am getting the hang of this travel business! (I wasn't
even wearing my "Other Thing", either).
Next was the walk through the magnetic metal detector mezmerizer. I
came through clean. A Phillippino asked for me to extend my arms. I
almost detected a happy face, so I felt good. OK, now spread your legs,
he says. I do so. He wands me and there is a faint squelch. I quickly
think if I have any gum wrapper! NO, of course not, we talked about
this in the car on the way to the airport. Did a gum wrapper get stuck
to my shoe? He wands me again, and there goes my belt buckle. What else
could it be? So he says: Undo your belt. What an a***ole! This is a
first! So I oblige. Then he asks me to turn around, exactly what I was
hoping he wouldn't ask me to do. Now I am facing the crowd coming in
with my arms up and my belt undone. He wands me again and then asks for
me to remove my shoes. I called him an a****ole in my head once, now I
called him an a****ole twice, and this time I was ready to say it out
loud. He sticks a bucket out at me, which I gather he wants me to
deposit my shoes into. In they go, and now I have to stick my legs out
while sitting. I imagine I am wrongly accused of a heinous crime in the
Philippine jungles and the military police are having their way with
me. Why me? I didn't even see what he did with my shoes! Suddenly he
stops, with both my legs extended and motions for someone else to come
through into detector hell. What, just like that? you are finished with
me? No "Thanks" or "Fine, you are free to go"? And where are my f***ing
shoes?
Oh s**t, my laptop, my coat and my money and carry on bags are at the
end of the chute and holding everybody up. No one knows who's s**t is
whose in these grey rubbermaid bins that piled up and everyone is
getting huffy. I was kidnapped for awhile folks, sorry, just let me
wander over in my socks and while I am wandering, I will nonchalantly
do up my belt as well. All normal for me, as I wander the streets of
Vancouver like this everyday, belt undone, in my socks, leaving my
clothes and personal effects to accumulate and piss everyone off.
I try to ask Jungle Torturer where my shoes are but he doesn't give a
fukc , I know he can hear my voice but he is playing God at the moment
and he has finished with me forever. I quickly scan the rack for my
shoes and now I am really worried: Man flies to freezing Calgary in his
sox!...Headlines appear in the Vancouver Sun and Calgary Herald. Oh,
and teaches in socks, and takes public transport in his socks, etc.
Well, at least it's not my underwear.
I start to panic now as I realize it is my laptop and my money creating
havoc there, so I vooff vooff (the sounds socks make on Airport carpet
floors) over there and rightfully grab my computer, computer bag, coat,
money and carry on bag. Now that my things are gathered up and in
order, I panic again, as I still have no shoes. I look over at the
other scanner chute and there is quite the commotion. I don't care, I
will push aside these gawkers and see if my shoes are there. What is
the commotion? they are looking at a grey rubbermaid container that
contain my shoes! I panic again, thinking something terribly wrong has
happened to them. I reach through the crowd and excuse myself as I do
so and say "I need these" and a fellow turns to me and says: "You
almost never got them back!". I laugh nervously at this strange
comment, while trying to decipher his meaning, but then an old couple
staring at my shoes, eyes following as the shoes quickly leave the
bucket by way of a long arm, both turn to me and say something similar.
They were all admiring my shoes as they had never seen anything like
them before: inside my shoes say "National Geographic" in their
trademark font and yellow colour, and of course the trademark yellow
rectangle is on the back of the shoes. Imagine...my shoes were
worthy of stealing! and it would have been true, then, the headlines
had it happened!
Leaving Vancouver
The plane trip is uneventful. No screaming kids, no lithpths or helium
induced speeches. It looks like I will have a seat mate. He sits in the
middle, me on the aisle. He comments on how there is an empty seat in
our row, so he is eager for the space (me too) and quickly moves to the
window seat. Looks like we will take off any minute. Whoops, wait a
minute, someone has just scrambled on the plane...it's our new
seatmate! She was on the wrong plane and almost went to Smithers! Oh,
poor her! Oh, poor us! we all stand to let her through to the window. I
check my belt and shoes for good measure and remove my bag from under
the middle seat and place it once again uncomfortably in front of me.
The cabin crew go into their choreography of showing us safety tips. It
is real dance moves. Take out the safety card from the front pocket,
show it by turning it thusly and they all do it the same way with the
same timing. Next is the oxygen mask. The fellow in the aisle is
getting ready to show us how to do it. He looks down at his shoes and
wiggles his legs. I sense a wild dance coming up. He shakes his legs
again and moves from foot to foot. Now comes the move. And they all do
the oxygen mask dance.
The little TV in front of me has an ad for the CBC show Vancouver Now.
Ed's show. Guess who is the host? Margaret Ghallager. I've known
Margaret for almost 15 years, though I only see her maybe once every 3
years. Ed's an old mate of mine from Warsaw days and this is his new
gig.
Landed in Calgary
At Calgary, I remember to go to the proper queue for the Taxi cabs this
time, as last time I trudged out the nearest doors and found a line of
cabs idling, only to discover they were waiting for the signal to
advance to the proper cab pick-up queue, a quarter of a mile ahead. I
am next in line. I move my bag to avoid the frozen spit on the
sidewalk. There is a Chinese woman ahead of me with a stack of bags on
her cart. Suddenly, a line of people appear behind me, and they all
want cabs RIGHT NOW. Heathens! This is a Queue! The fellow with the
whistle and over-large brown coat with epaulettes summons more cabs
from the cab line up a quarter of a mile away and some break free of
the already congested traffic to enter this area. Calgary has way
more vehicles than Vancouver, if an airport is any measurement. A
brash young kid several people deep behind me grabs the next cab. The
Chinese woman and myself are perplexed. I was going to tell the woman
that she was next in line but that was an obvious observation. She is a
bit flustered, and I am a bit exasperated. Finally it is sorted out and
Hanif is my cab driver. I try to be chatty with him, as this is what
you are suppose to do. I see it in movies all the time. He answers but
seems preoccupied with more important things, like talking on his cell
phone LOUDLY to his cousin/brother/buddy who speaks VERY LOUDLY so
there is a staccato chirping while he navigates this crazy airport
traffic with one arm free.
Conversation ended, he now feels chatty. So we talk weather, the price
of gas, will it snow and how was my trip (you go up and you go down, I
said, in my best kindergarten english. This is the synapses of flying
from Vancouver to Calgary, in case he is unaware). But he is aware and
agrees with me.
I soon ask if he is driving cab on Sunday, and we agree to meet for a
pick up back to the airport. He gives me his name and phone number and
it's a date. He doesn't like me paying by credit card. I knew he
wouldn't. He says he gets dinged the 5% charged by card companies, but
secretly I know he wants to rip his boss off and keep the cash for
himself. I promise I might have cash back to the airport (nope) and he
is excited to be at my service.
Hotel Hacker
I enter the Hotel Lobby and the same fellow from 2 weeks ago is on
duty. He doesn't recognize me (thank God! i thought all those little
cork bits and broken openers I left in the wake of trying to open a
bottle of wine would have me banned forever!) and is glad to welcome
me. The welcome quickly thins and crawls as he is visibly upset with
the computer. It won't accept my reservation, I find this out after
patiently watch him become increasingly agitated and finally, almost
whispering (I am tired by now) a "What seems to be the problem?" It
appears I can have the room for one night, but am rejected for the
second night. He tries and tries. I was going to suggest he call
someone, but he is determined to figure out for himself how to get out
of this silly mess. He has nothing better to do anyway. This is the
best fun he has had all night. When I came in, he was reading the
newspaper, and being so late in the night (10:30), he was reading stuff
he would have skipped if he didn't have to read it). He is turning into
a hacker, as he curses and types, retypes and and tries again. I was
finally going to suggest just give me the room for the night and we can
figure it out in the morning, as suddenly there is a fat lady that
needs attention at the other end of the counter.
As soon as I think this, he somehow gets my first think to call
someone. His hacking skills suck and he is resigned to having to loose
face in front of me by calling SOME ONE THAT KNOWS SOMETHING. The
conclusion is exactly what my second think was. He is all cheery again
and happy for the conclusion, and there is a black squiggly line over
my head, cartoon style as I curse in my head the dolt. Thank you and
good night, he says. "Are you Mick Jagger?" I ask him in my head. Are
you some kind of Rock Star on stage tonight? Is it really that boring
and mundane a job? First, your computer performance was awesome,
especially when you tried to hack the system to see if you could get me
that extra room, and then your phone call to the next Comfort Inn was a
brilliant encore, where you got incredible advice, a true standing
ovation, and the way you gave me my room key card was a knockout. Truly
a command performance worthy of a "Thank You, and Good Night!" Not so
fast, buddy, I will be needing to borrow your wine opener momentarily
as I will be leaving your show to purchase some vino....
Wine + Dinner (with compliments)
This is my biggest worry...I am hungry, having eaten only predthelths
on the plane and a few nuts from my stash in my carry-on, and I really
want to make it to the merchants around the chilly corner before they
close for the night...and it is nearing 11.00 pm. No wonder I was
throwing eye darts at the night porter...I wanted him to hurry so I
could eat!
I wash up and scurry around the chilly corner (it is a lot nicer now
than 2 weeks ago. The sidewalks have real concrete on them and you can
see stars in the sky, and the dryness in the air just sucks the
moisture out of your lips and hands, not your lips, hands and NOSE).
The Rib joint on the corner looks closed, I pray it is not as I wanted
to try it last time but instead opted for a pizza that I managed to
make last for 3 days. I try the door and it opens, so I go in and spot
everyone sweeping and the chef is scraping the grills. I ask a girl if
they are closed, and the girl says, no, not yet. I glance at the chef
and he sends me a scowl. Seems someone wants to go home early. I am
polite and ask what time they close. Oh, good, there is another 15
minutes. She gives me a menu and I scan it, looking for simple but
tasty food, not wanting to piss off the night chef. The ribs sound
delicious and they come in all kinds of magnificent varieties, but I
know the chef has darts in his eyes at me, so I decide on the simple
fare of pulled pork. It comes with mashed potatoes and baked beans and
coleslaw and corn pone. That should keep me awake for several days! It
is expunged from the kitchen quite rapidly, in fact too rapidly as I
was just going to examine the old Blues LP covers on the far wall when
the call came out. Old dart eyes wouldn't keep his eyes off of me. I
wonder if he peed in the beans.
I next exit the fine establishment and take a left to the end of the
strip mall block to my favourite liquor store in Calgary. Massad is
there from last time at the till, and I am pleased, because it appears
he is still having trouble at the till. I check to see if they have a
good special of wine on at the front of the store like they had 2 weeks
ago and they do. This time it is S.African Shiraz//Pinotage I never
heard of, so I am excited. I make a mental note of that, then head into
the big cooler in the back to pick out a nice cold beer that will hit
the spot when I return to the Hotel room and complement the beans and
pork. Hassan is sitting on a box of wine near the back cooler, his eyes
slits as he tries to get a few nips of sleep until people like me
arrive to enter the cooler and rob him blind. I pick a nice Scottish
ale and then exit the cooler bent on grabbing 3 wine specials. I will
safely pack these and check my bag for the trip home. At the counter to
pay, Massad is all confused. He mixes my beer with the girl's wine
ahead of me, then gets even more confused when we try to tell him these
are separate orders. Hassan has to leave his box of wine to help out at
the checkout. Hassan is fit for the position of supivisor: his eyes are
still slits and he wants to put all my bottles in bags, slowly, one at
a time, while berating his cousin/brother/buddy at the cash. Massad is
ready to fall down now, as the pressure is mounting. I was going to ask
him the same question I asked him 2 weeks ago, but decide to ask Hassan
instead for fear of seeing Massad crumble under the pressure. Hassan,
do you have a wine opener? He lies and says he just sold out of them.
He just sold out of them 2 weeks ago! I was waiting for him to
recommend the shyster a few doors down again, but he said he just had
"stoppers". Oh, I see, stoppers are kind of like openers, as they more
or less hover around the same area of a wine bottle, namely the neck. I
wonder what he would do if I said I would have 5 of those, then?
Massad is taking too long to count out the change. I double check his
math and quickly head back to the hotel room as I can't wait to eat my
dinner that the chef peed in and to use that awful wine opener in the
front desk's drawer one more time.
Except this time I also need a bottle opener, not just a cork screw. I
return and there is a new person on desk. I hope he isn't into hacking
computers! I ask him for his wine opener. That is the term the last guy
used 2 weeks ago, so I figure I'l save the confusion over "Cork Screw"
and just come down to his level with wine opener. He is taken aback
that I have knowledge he keeps such a device there at the desk. He
makes a big show of searching his top drawer for the ugly plastic blue
opener (that I was sure I threw into the pool last time I was here),
and I can see it on top of all the other crap he has in that drawer. I
was about to point it out to him when, in true Mr. Bean fashion he
smiles a crooked smile and licks his lips and announces he has FOUND
IT! I want to applaud him and say "Thank you and Good Night", but it is
not the same guy, so decide to accept the royal gift and bite my
tongue. Oh, I see there isn't a bottle opener attached, I say in my
best Yorkshire accent. He double takes me and I come clean: has he a
beer bottle opener? Open comes that same damn drawer as he again
scrabbles through it. This time I am praying for an opener, anything,
as I will not be able to get this bottle open without it at all. Even
that bent, rusty china army knife I used 2 weeks ago on my beer bottle
worked, but I promptly threw it away and panicked I might get some
weird disease because it came into contact with my bottle. He
can't find one, so I return to my room dejected as I know I will have
to struggle with this puzzle this time: How to open a beer without an
opener. I know, at parties, there are guys that will willingly do it
with their teeth. I envisioned me doing this. Man shows up to teach
teachers with no teeth and bloody mouth in Calgary. I will not Google
this this time.
I decide to open the wine and return the wine opener as soon as
possible, as he has taken my room numner and has my credit card number
on file, and I don't want to be paying for his blue plastic wine opener
for the next 3 years. So, for some reason I try opening the wine in the
bathroom. Maybe I was scared like I was 2 weeks ago when I used that
chinese army knife to surgically remove the cork and feared a massive
explosion, hence the bathroom could take it. Anyway, in goes the cork
screw and I wind it in as far as it'll go and the arms of the device
rise far enough for me to pull them down when I discover that the cork
is a plastic cork, whereupon the screw simply comes straight up,
leaving the cork in the bottle. Now I am really frustrated. I hit upon
the notion, finally, that if I screw it in closest to the bottle, it
will have some grip. It works! Now to get the beer open.
Last time I check the internet to see if I could get a cork out of a
bottle. I wasn't going to attempt to Google it this time, and searched
high and low for any device that would open a bottle. I heard voices
outside my door and in true neighbourly fashion, I swung my door open
and before I could assess the situation, my mouth ran ahead of me and I
found myself asking some teen girls if they had a bottle opener. During
my question, I could see into their room and I assumed it was a frat
party as everyone was in pajama's and if anyone would have an opener,
surely it would be them. But they stared at me and the wine opener I
was clutching in my hand and I thoroughly creeped them out. You see,
they were in their pajama's and mom and dad were also in the hallway
and suddenly I felt really evil and embarrassed. They approached their
parents in the hall, and I decided to put on a brave front and pass mom
and dad with a sheepish grin...I walked by, wondering if they were
wondering if their girls were next to some pervert that drank and asked
girls for bottle openers. For some odd reason, the girls were headed in
the same direction I was: the elevators. In their pajama's. Maybe this
is a stranger story than I am lead to believe? I mean, mom and dad are
there in the hallway, and these teens are in the PJ's and taking the
elevator somewhere, in their bare-feet, no less!
I am ahead of them and climb into the elevator. They arrive just as I
turn around and they see the creep in the elevator and decide to take
the other elevator instead as it has also just arrived. I am hurt. Now
I really feel like an evil one!
I return the wine opener, once again resisting throwing it into the
pool. There is no one at central command. Maybe I could try hacking the
computer myself? Or open that drawer and rifle through it to see if I
could find a beer opener. The teen girls pass by me. They exit the
hotel in their pajamas. It is -7 outside. Who is creepy now?
I return to my room, finally ready to eat and drink and check my email
and not worry about anything or anyone again. Except how to open my
beer. Remembering the party dudes who opened beer with their teeth, I
also remembered the trick that some party dudes used to open their
beer: counter edges. You place the bottle cap on the edge of the
counter and give it a good smack down, thus releasing the cap from the
neck. My challenge was not just my first attempt at this technique, but
to do it quietly as mom and dad were next wall over and I didn't want
them to get the impression that the creep was busting open bottles with
his bare hands!
So I went into the bathroom and closed the door. The countertop was
ideal, as it wouldn't disintegrate as I put my full force down on it
and the beer bottle. My first attempt made a rather loud THUD. I
thought that my next attempt will have to work or else the Calgary RCMP
would be paying a visit to room 403, looking for the man who tried to
get some teens to a beer party, who had undid his belt at YVR and
walked around in his socks. Next full force and the cap flew off, with
cheers from the mirror, toilet, sink and shower, as I held my arm up in
the air and shouted "Thank you and Good Night!"
Perhaps I have eaten my food too quickly, or that chef really did
sabotage my meal, within 45 minutes I need to visit the toilet, fast.
Calgary's air is crisp and clear and I have my lunch in the cafeteria
as the mess is open for business. I am fairly hungry after the bowel
cleaning last night and thin pieces of toast for breakfast, so I follow
the most popular line up. Looks like baked pasta. I finally arrive at
the server's side and ask what he has. He says he's out of the
Bolognese pasta, all that is left is a chicken/noodle/cheese affair. He
has no official name for it. I agree to it and he slops it on my paper
plate. After paying for it I sit in a corner and begin to regret my
culinary choice. It smells suspect and tastes rather weird. I should
have gone for a salad, but it is too late and I am hungry.
Lil picks me up after class and we head down to thrift about. I don't
have much luck: the records are a boring lot and there are no ceramics
or glass that is unusual, not any tea towels for Pearl. I come out of
it all empty handed, while Lil has managed to find a few things. I stay
for dinner, a late Chinese New Years noodle and sushi. Eventually we
move the the couch to watch a movie. I know what is coming next. I
follow the plot for the first hour, but suddenly my head starts to bow
and I snap it back into position. Ah, yes, the movie. No good, my head
drifts downward and I need to lift it back straight on my shoulders
again, but it is getting too heavy. Finally Lil says I should go back
to the hotel and sleep, and I think this is a really great idea.
I am lying in my bed when the teen girls arrive back from somewhere and
they are giggling, laughing, running up and down the hallways and
slamming their doors. These are heavy doors and do not close quietly. I
figure it is late enough so that they will settle down and go to bed as
well, but that is not happening. I have figured out that they have no
parents, that the adults I saw are chaperones and at the moment, the
chaperones are asleep but the kids they are chaperoning are not. That
spells trouble in my book. Doors are slamming and giggling and
whispering and more slamming. I doze but cannot get any start in the
land of Nod because of the bleating in the hallway. I tell myself one
more slam and that's it, I will yell at them. It is quiet now and I am
happy I don't have to sit up and yell, so I am drifting off when SLAM
SLAM jolts me upright. I yell. There is silence. No more giggling or
slamming doors. Sleep.
Morning I am in the breakfast room, reading the paper and trying to
enjoy coffee from a styrofoam cup. Enter a junior basketball boy's
team. Each one is 6 foot and starved and talking at the top of their
voices. James sure got it last night, Pete is still sleeping, he's
gonna miss the bus, adam was sick last night and so on. And these kids
are hungry. There's a huddle at the waffle machine, each one offering
tips on the best use of the waffle machine. Apples and muffins are
disappearing rapidly and cereal is now all over the floor. There is no
where to sit. I am not finished and intend to enjoy a relaxed moment
after the lousy night. The place has erupted as the waffles become
ready and for the most part the room is a blur of team colours (blue).
I hear some giggling down the hall. It gets closer, now it is at the
doorway and who should enter but the girls from across the hall and all
their teammates. They are in green and there are many sizes of them, so
they are not basketball. The boys in the room fall silent, some elbow
those who have their faces in their breakfasts. They are all staring at
the girls. As for the girls, they have immediately quit giggling and
are now behaving like adults. Some of the boys mouths hang open
revealing a mix of cornflakes and muffins. Some are thinking out loud:
If we only knew last night....Indeed, the boys must have been on a
lower floor to miss all the racket from last night. There is dead quiet
as the boys eat and watch the girls prepare their breakfasts. One thing
is certain, there will be nowhere for the girls to sit and eat.
A small man enters the room and there is no doubt he is the boy's
coach. If this were his house, he would've blown his whistle to get his
boys attention. But the boys, upon seeing him enter, start to chow down
quicker, even standing and eating as they know they have to go NOW. It
doesn't take long to round them up, especially as the coach has
promised them another stop at Tim Horton's. Now there is room for the
girls to sit. And they start their bleating, as there are no boys
around to look them up and down. Only a guy in the corner trying to
read his newspaper and drink his coffee from a styro cup.
The day passes, I make it through the airport with no problems or waits
and I am soon skyward. I catch an earlier flight, and get to see some
mountains. No TV's on this flight...good. I can read my book. There is
a coughing, choking lady to my right at the window seat. I am trying to
hold my breath as much as possible for fear of catching another cold as
I did last time in Calgary.
I am happy to be at YVR
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