“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for Royal Air Maroc flight 209 to Casablanca. All passengers should now be seated on the plane for take-off.”
What? How did that happen? An hour ago, there was still a whole hour left to wait. I was blogging furiously, trying to get that “in transit” story posted while I was actually still in transit. I heard lots of Air France calls for flights to Paris. Every 30 seconds a smooth voice urged me, in loud, clear, unmistakable English, to head directly to France. I was not a fool. I knew that it was a trick. I was not going to France. Silly airport!
I did hear one little, teeny, tiny, timid bit of mostly-French muttering about pre-boarding for Flight 209 to Casablanca. Not boarding. Pre-boarding. No seat numbers. Just a way-too-soon invitation for the privileged and immobile to start hobbling up to the counter. Everyone knows that it takes forever for real passengers to actually be called to board. And everyone knows that a real airline always welcomes its guests repeatedly in loud, clear, incessant, unmistakable English. This is Canada, silly. Even in Montreal, everyone knows that you can tune out the French and wait for the real instructions to come along. They will. They must. It’s Canada.
And so I returned, with vigour, to my inner writer’s world. Change this word. Select that pic. Upload. Rotate. Copy, paste, tweak, re-read. There… just another few seconds and –
–and this startled blogger is running frantically to the desk, laptop under arm, cords flying, bags trailing, thinking a) “Strange. There were so many people in this room a few minutes ago,” and b) “It would be really bad if I missed my flight. Like, really, really bad.”
I hand my boarding pass to the utterly unconcerned uniforms. No need to rush. It’s just an airplane. A sadly uneventful shift for both of these bored employees.
Wait. There’s a problem. They are looking at me and pointing. They are scrutinizing my passport. Holy crap. This can’t be happening.
“Did you pay for your baggage?”
Did I ever.
“Where is your receipt?”
It’s in this pouch. No, that one. Oops, must have been back in the first one. Or the second one. Or maybe the first one again. Hey, I thought I wouldn’t need that paper any more.
Relief, victory, heroics: I suddenly remember pocket number three. Well, more like pocket number nine, but I skipped pockets three through eight, and there it is. The uninterested check-in people blandly type a few words and casually wave me through.
And here I am, twenty minutes outside of Casablanca, feeling groggy and dopey and utterly unfit to disembark. My few hours of sleep were interrupted by the intermittent and unpredictable flashing of my dysfunctional overhead light. Damn, that light is bright. And so are the other two beside it, turning themselves on and off with unsettling paranormality.
Deep breaths, Natasha. Breakfast and blogging. The moment I’ve prepared for for months and months and months is finally here, and everything will be just fine. Nearly missing the most pivotal flight of one’s life is, if nothing else, marvelous literary fodder. And just think of the scatter-brained stories still locked up in my scattered little brain. My, my, what a fruitful trip this has been already.
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