Itchy Feet

I don't particularly care for travelling, but I do love a good plane ride. The moment my body is pushed back into the seat, and the adrenaline rushes to my knuckles as I swing into the air? I always look forward to it. I think my body understands it in a Pavlovian sense. The swing into the air means it's a solid amount of time where I sit still. I'm not moving, I'm not rushing from one spot to the next, but I'm set in one place. My muscles sigh as they sink into the sponge of the worn blue polyester of the seat. The clouds are beneath us, we're somewhere over the Great Lakes. The sun is streaming in through the windows and we're steady. There's nothing but the perfect shade of blue above. I have a playlist I listen to when I fly domestically. It's filled with The Hip and The Weakerthans - the usual suspects. Things that remind me of where I'm from, even though I'm just going to another part of it.

Currently, I'm en route to Vancouver and I'm all Toronto everything. My sweatshirt proclaims home in loud letters, my jacket is adorned with patches, my knapsack. I am Toronto Everything. Home is something you can't shake off you, and I'm a terrible chameleon. But I'm not there to blend. Really, my mind is set on the Pacific ocean. I don't care how I get there, I don't care if it's raining, snowing, whatever, I just want some beach breeze in my hair, and my skin caked in brine. I look for water no matter where I am. I will seek it out. There's some ridiculous part of my brain that is a diviner. Somehow, I will stumble upon it.

The winds are gently cradling us, rocking us back and forth and I can feel the tension in jaws around me. Others have self-medicated to the point where it's nothing but a gentle nudge. I remember this time last year when I was heading south to Los Angeles and there was turbulence that shook us consistently for about four hours. The chap next to me white-knuckled his seat, his nails leaving crescent moons in the vinyl of the armrests, his chin tucked into his chest, tucked into his shoulders, like an upright beach ball. I offered him half of my headphones and held his hand the rest of the way. I remember him clasping my hand tightly, every once in a while I would run my thumb over the clammy skin on the back of his hand. Flying does this strange thing where moments of complete intimacy happens between strangers and disappears completely once the wheels touch down.

I have a hidden stash of snacks I raided from the Starbucks near Gate D in Terminal One. I've already voraciously devoured a package of creme brulee almonds that I most definitely paid too much for, and I'm packing a delectable selection of various nut bars. It's not a five-star meal, but definitely worth it compared to what I'm sure is a twenty dollar package of three slices of cheese, some pizza pepperoni, and a slice of an apple that parades itself as a charcuterie board. I anxiously await a cup of coffee and pray that I don't stretch my bladder any more than it already is.

I think my biggest fear about flying is having to bug someone in an aisle seat to let me leave so I can pee. It's dumb, right? But I'm convinced it's the one thing that makes me the very definition of every conceivable Canadian stereotype. I will sit in my seat until I am absolutely certain that my bladder is about to explode and poison my insides before I even think of turning to the person next to me and asking them to release me from the confines of my seat. That literally means I would rather die than bother someone for something so absolutely minimal to them and their life at that moment. Ridiculous.

My eyes follow the animated airplane on the map. We're somewhere over Thunder Bay and we're three hours away from salty sea brine and brisk sea winds and my mind is a record on repeat. Sea. Sea. Sea. The drinks have finally come to us and the tea is probably over steeped and the coffee is probably cold and the water is probably lukewarm but beggars ain't choosers, right? My hands are sticky from the aftermath of my creme Brule nuts, but there is just about zero space between the folding table and my body, so the idea of digging around my giant knapsack that can barely fit under the seat in front of me for some hand sanitizer like a goddamn rabbit burrowing for the winter is massively unappealing. So I'm just going to sit here until my bladder stretches to the point of no return with my sticky hands and then politely turn to the gal next to me and beg to be released from my seat.

Just a few more hours until we touch down and I find my way to the end of the continent. But for now, the winds carry us, John K. Samson croons in my ears, and away we go.