Me, Myself and I

I go away once, maybe twice a year on a short holiday. I travel on my own, set my own pace and agenda. I relish these times. To think I must have aloneness - solitude. Sometimes, I go away so I can stop thinking. The world is full of noise. Ever present music, news of no import whatsoever, and the general yakity-yak which I am guilty of being party to. My recent trip to Fort Lauderdale was a trip to help me to stop worrying and thinking and to re-charge my physical and psychic energies.

I've often had people ask me who I was going away with. When the answer has been nobody, I have usually encountered a worried look or a comment suggesting the strangeness of someone contemplating wanting to be alone with themselves. Often, people will ask, "what do you do on your own?" The answer is nothing (if I choose) or something exciting and different.

I just read an article from The Chronicle Review which looks at precisely this topic.

I once asked my students about the place that solitude has in their lives. One of them admitted that she finds the prospect of being alone so unsettling that she'll sit with a friend even when she has a paper to write. Another said, why would anyone want to be alone?

To that remarkable question, history offers a number of answers.

Heather B.

Hey Heather-rooni,
It's Brown-Man...just wanted to let you know that you are thought of fondly.

La Floride 3

To re-cap: I had gotten to the airport with an expired passport. With no way to get into the States, I took a cab ride to the Brampton passport office, then to the Mississauga passport office, and after an eternity spent waiting in line-ups, I finally got my passport (thank you, CANADA!)and cabbed it back to the airport.
At the airport, I picked up my suitcase and found the Delta Airways counter. With nothing in hand except my reservation number, I managed to get my ticket to Fort Lauderdale via Atlanta.
With no time to waste I promptly checked in with boarding pass, passport and wallet in hand.
As soon as the U.S. customs agent (for the record, a Filipino man) looked up there was a moment - a split second - which told me this was not going to go well. Damn this face and beard!  The agent asked me the usual questions: travelling for pleasure or business; where to; staying at; born where?; uh-hunh; right.
He gave me my boarding pass back and stuck it in a bright yellow folder. It might as well have been a neon red folder.
I was told to go sit in a room to the side of the security check area. A brawny customs guy with blue latex gloves took my yellow folder. I sat down and waited.  I had to smile to myself. The guy next to me looked suspiciously like me...he had a North African look about him. I smile at him and he smiles back. For all I know this guy, unlike me, actually passed his bomb-making class.
Then, the first customs agent (Filipino man) shows up and says, "follow me sir." And begins to walk away, too fast for my tastes. I try to keep up and then give up and walk at my own pace. In a wholly different waiting area with no one around, I wait again.  I wait with nothing to do except to work the knots out of my neck for 15 minutes. It is now 2 p.m. One hour before my flight departs.
Finally, a fat white guy, Homeland Security himself, motions me into a smaller interview room. I am prepared for a cavity search, not because I am partial to fat white guys but because I have simply given up. It is now 10 hours since I woke up. I am tired.
I get the usual round of questions. Why am I going to Florida? To get away from the wife and kids I tell Fatty and smile...he looks at me with no expression whatsoever. He says, "That sounds kinda suspicious." My knee-jerk response was to make another joke and say, "you haven't met my wife."  Complete lack of affect. Have I got a business card showing where I work? This is one thing I did think about and hand Lardo my card from work. Several clicks on the computer, passport check, hotel address. When was the last time I was in the States...yadda, yadda.
Finally, Fat-Guy calls another border agent who asks to go through my suitcase.  They go through my suitcase.  Finally, the second agent exits and with his friend.  The big guy returns and gives me permission to go.
At last, success! Excellent!! I rub my hands in glee. My plans to out maneuver the forces of Homeland Security and deliver my wallet full of dollars into the faltering economy of the United States have succeeded.
The rest of my journey to Fort Lauderdale is quite uneventful. I sleep deeply for one hour on the first leg of my flight and chuckle through an HBO/Chris Rock special. I don't dwell on the journey thus far but try to take it all in and enjoy the ride.

La Floride 2

Having left home early at 3 a.m. Having been to the airport, begged, walked half way to Saskatchewan to find the luggage storage place, taken a mistaken cab ride and then another cab ride, had I must admit, left me a bit of a wreck. I kept telling myself that I would accept whatever became the outcome of this fiasco. That I was doing something, logically, steadily and not compounding my initial error. Deep breath, neck stretches, smoke, coffee...things which are diametrically opposed to each other but comforting nevertheless.
In order to complete the passport application I needed two references. Moreover, I needed two people who could be contacted by the passport office to verify my identity or I couldn't get my passport. I know plenty of people but they are mostly nine-to-fivers. I thought of my friend Tracey O. (at home on maternity leave) put her down and put the name of my Supervisor, Brigid, down. I called Tracey, she was not home, left her a message to call me back asap. Now I remembered that Brigid no longer works on Mondays....crap! I had to come up with two people and two people who would be readily available so the passport clerk would not have a difficult time getting through and verifying my details. I couldn`t use any relatives: they`re all out of town at a secret compound learning how to build tiny but powerful bombs.
My friends at work, I thought. I tried several people without luck, then it occurred to me: Technically, the ladies who work at the main office with my agency have known me for a little more than three years, and, they work at their desks and are not out and about meeting clients.
So back I went on the cell phone. Claudette, the receptionist, laughed and kept asking me if I was pulling her leg. "No," I said. "I'm not kidding." I asked the ladies in accounting and HR to vouch for me and without missing a beat, Madeleine and Kerry said yes. Lots of ribbing and laughter at my expense, but damn, they came through for me.
My number in the line for hapless people with passport forms properly filled out was 139. The board was at 121. So, again, time to kill. Fortunately, my comfort food was in the same plaza as the passport office...so off I went to McDonald's. I didn't really feel like eating but I knew it would be a bad idea to continue running around on sugar, caffeine and nicotine. In retrospect, sitting down for thirty minutes was a good idea.
I then made my way back to the passport office. The number on the board was 127. I took a seat with the alongside the other restless, sad-faced people. 45 minutes later, I was finally standing in front of Filipina passport agent. She looked to be 18 years old but was totally on the ball. She understood exactly what I was telling her. In fact, she took my two sentence story in without blinking. So I sez to her, "I'm not sure you understand my situation. I missed my flight at 6:45 this morning..." She cut me off and told me I would be able to get my passport within an hour.
"Thank you," I said to her. "Thank you so much!" She just nods and says, "You're welcome." Just like that, 'you're welcome." I paid my $187.00 for a five year passport gratefully.
So now I had an hour to kill. Assured that I would get my damn passport, I went downstairs into the plaza and tried (tried but failed) to relax.
Exactly an hour later, I had my shiny, new passport in hand.
Now to re-book my ticket. Being a day from hell this was not as easy as it sounds. I stayed on the phone with a Gandhian travel rep for 30 minutes while she checked various times and dates, different partner airlines, pricing, and on and on. I finally ended up being transferred to Delta Airlines to arrive in Fort Lauderdale through Atlanta at 9 p.m. My original ticket would have had me arrive at 3 p.m.
My last cab driver had handed me a business card with his cab company's phone number on it. Naturally, I called the same cab only to be told by the dispatcher that I was calling from Mississauga and the cab company in question was based in Brampton and therefore could not pick me up to go to the airport. While on hold on my cell phone with the airline rep, I dialled 411 from a public phone. Got the number for a Mississauga cab company and called them to get me to the airport.
It was 12:50 p.m. by this time and my flight was scheduled to depart at 3:05 p.m. Recommended check-in time for flights to the U.S. is two hours prior to departure Time crunch...the cab showed up at 1 p.m. I got in the cab and tried to use the time to relax. Sure, yeah - relax. Also, called my wife at her work to let her know I was officially fucked. She wasn`t at work. She had to leave early because my son was apparently sick and his school had asked her to pick him up. The little guy had thrown-up twice already.
So off to the airport I went. Onwards Blixen, onwards Rudolph, Onwards Karim...drive damn you, drive!
More mayhem to follow at the airport with Homeland Security...

La Floride

Yesterday, Monday morning, I headed out to the airport just like I was told to at 3 a.m., to catch a plane leaving at 6:45 a.m. As I get to the airport, I prayed that all would go well. I prayed 'cause late on Sunday night, I looked for my passport and realized that it had expired in December!
I got to the airport hoping that my other I.D. cards along with a recently expired passport would get me through the Homeland Security barricades. After playing dumb, cajoling and almost begging the not-so-nice ticketing agent, I gave in.
I called Northwest Airlines (my carrier) then called the passport office, then surfed the web to find that there were two passport offices near the airport. The first of these was in Brampton.
The plan was to, as a last ditch effort, go to the passport office, plead ignorance about the expired passport, explain that I had missed my flight and wanted desperately to get back to the airport and TRY to get on a later flight on the assumption that Northwest would re-book me as a result of my lack of foresight.
The Brampton passport office opened at 8 a.m. To kill some time, I ate a danish, put my suitcase in storage, again, on the assumption that I would get a new passport and be able to re-book my flight and therefore, actually have a need to come back to the airport.
My cabbie took me to the old location for the Brampton passport office. Then, to the new location. At the new location I learned that the Brampton office could only give me a passport within 48 hours. BUT, the Mississauga office could give me a passport today!! Again, I had time to kill and so used my time to get a passport photo taken with the help of a calm and calming old commisionaire (Gill was his name...look him up) at the Brampton office.
Another long cab ride led me to the Mississauga passport office. When I got to the passport office, I was shocked to find about 60 people already seated and waiting to see a passport officer. After standing in a long line up and explaining my problem to one of the passport reps, I was told that, 'yep,' I could indeed get a passport there and then. But, I had to fill out an application and stand in line again to get a number, which would put me in yet another longer line.
Fine. I did what I had to...fill out the form, stand in line and get approved to stand in another line.

More to follow...

Cheb Mami