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The Journal of Duck and Treacle
Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.
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2020.01.01 00.00
(All content Copyright ©2001-2009 Stephen P Spackman. All rights reserved.)
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2008.09.30 12.06
(untitled)
He pushed aside another of the strange thorny vines, using the stout stick he had so providently carved two weeks or so before. It was hot here; not the dry heat of home, but a wet stifling heat full of spices and life that soaked into the lungs like a stew. Along the almost-path were more of the trees with the plump red fruit that it was best not to touch, much less to eat. He thought of the dry, rubbery citrus of the lone stunted tree in the parched earth of the yard behind his kitchen, and his stomach churned with hunger.His memories all centred on that house. All his forty years he had lived there, amongst the heat, the dust and the chickens. All his forty years he had staggered through his life, drinking a little too much, eating not quite enough, helping out family and friends and neighbours with this thing and that in exchange for favours: never quite taking a job, but never quite taking charity. And he had had dreams. Not dreams of fame, not dreams of great deeds, not dreams of money or women or flight. For thirty years and more—for as long as he could remember—each time he closed his eyes in sleep, he saw a Book. It was not an ordinary book that he dreamt, not like the few ageing leather bound volumes that stood on the shelf unopened since his father died. Nor was it even like the foreign made bible pressed between golden boards that the priest kept so proudly in his church. No, the book he dreamt had a cover like cold grey stone, and set with coloured jewels that caught the light and shone like nothing he had seen in waking life. The ground beneath his feet, which had been tending more and more to the left, was suddenly soft. He could hear the sound of running water beyond the broad leaved bush that leapt to embrace him as his foot slipped in the mud. The walking stick proved again its worth as he recovered his balance and eased across the slope to the base of a sturdy young tree. Now he could see the stream dancing on the stones at the bottom of the gulley, the same stream, it seemed, that he had lost two days ago when a rocky outcrop and a vast fallen tree had forced him miles off to the east. The sun cut down through a gap in the canopy and struck bright dancing lines from the water. He understood them, and they showed him a way down a sharp cascade of rocks to the water's edge. He gratefully refilled his canteen. For a year now he had been following certain signs. At first they had been simple. A pattern in tea leaves that had led him to stroll past the cemetery one late autumn evening. The path of two dogs playing, or perhaps fighting, directed him to the store where the sharp, sturdy knives were sold. The set of a certain stone at the base of the dry fountain in the exact centre of the town square had sent him again and again on a seven mile walk in the blazing noon heat to the place where there was almost, but not quite, a cave in the side of the hill. Each time he followed a sign the impulse grew stronger and the signs themselves grew clearer, until now he found himself deep in the jungle of the interior, watching for meaningful ants or flowers that gave instructions by their colours. Under a fallen tree his path took him, in water to his knees. Then he came to a place where leaves again hid the sky and the side of the wash had fallen in, making a pile of rocks three times his height which forced the stream to rush through a narrow gap to one side. This rocky tumble he mounted laboriously, testing each unsteady step with his free hand, then lifting himself inexpertly with two feet and one stick. From the top he could see the small lake that had formed upstream beneath the trees, the water held back by tangled wood and stone. His way led there. Clambering down the rockfall his foot caught and twisted; he was forced to jump, and jump again, arriving at the bottom much sooner and more heavily than he intended. He stopped to breathe in the green tinted shadows, but the air seemed too thick to sustain him. Sweating uselessly, he dropped heavily to a rock by the stream and nursed his ankle. Slowly his pulse steadied, his laboured breathing subsided. All around him there was ... a sound. A leaf swirling by leapt out at him, urging him up, urging him on, commanding him out into the lake. He stood and splashed exhaustedly through the shallow water, pushing from beneath the lowered branches of the trees. And there it was: not a book, but a waterfall, a towering wall of cold grey stone from which water flew and hung like coloured jewels suspended in the air. What wonders was he here to read?
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2008.05.11 18.09
Duckmaster Q39
Duckmaster Q39 had a thing. He used it to perform certain unobserved actions. No one knew. Over the course of his life mystery slowly accumulated around him, forming a mist, a curtain, a wall, and finally a fortress of unknown strangeness. One day he stepped inside, and he never came out.
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2007.04.05 19.31
A glimpse into the life of Absurdisma Bancroft
Absurdisma Bancroft had devoted her life to dejuggling, the subtle art of making things stand still without touching them. By her eleventh birthday she was already listed in the Guiness Book of Records under egg stacking (hen's, hard boiled: seven), and to celebrate her eighteenth she repeated this feat in a boat. At university, she followed an eclectic programme of study, including courses offered by the departments of physics, mechanics, mime, biology, and sports medicine, ultimately graduating with a Bachelorate of Strange Things, and a Mastery of Oddness. She had continued in this pattern and was now in pursuit of a Doctorate of Philosophy.
Despite her personal and academic successes, she still lived at home with her devoted mother and father, she an underwater animal welder, and he a paint drying supervisor. It was a happy home, and it was said among their many friends that it was clear whence Absurdisma's many and special talents flowed.
On this particular Friday, late in the afternoon but early in the Spring, Absurdisma was hard at work with a blackboard, a graphing calculator, a stroboscope and a jar of voles. Voles were proving more challenging than the toads had been, at least in part because they were wigglier. But she was beginning to suspect that this particular batch of voles (obtained through contacts in the Psychology Department's Office of Cruelty to Animals) were prone to epilepsy. She would have to tell Willy that, if he once more tried to foist off rodent-factory seconds upon her, she would no more dress up as famous art museums for him.
Though in point of fact, in point of fact, this might not be entirely true. She smiled to herself, and a certain familiar warmth rose to certain familiar places. A particularly attentive vole, taking advantage of her distraction, made a bolt for it. The moment was lost, but not the vole; lightning fast reflexes honed through years of diligent practice enabled her to catch it and return it to the agitated tower before it even hit the floor.
In the distance a car door slammed, a key turned in a lock, and a cheery voice called out. "Absurdisma, darling! It came in the mail! Your grant has been funded, the approval came through, your elephants arrive on Tuesday!"
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2007.04.05 19.25
Not Going to Guatemala, Part the Fifth
Please excuse me if the following sounds confused....
The next morning, huddled under my airline blanket in the freezing terminal building, I awoke for no better reason than the impossibility of remaining asleep for more then twenty minutes at a time. Perhaps it is better, in fact, to say that the coffee shop reopened, and so I gave up trying. Our newly invented flight to Montreal was listed as leaving from gate 25 at 08:00. Also leaving for Montreal, at 09:00, was a second flight, at gate 23. Time ticked slowly on. After a while it was announced that due to unspecified technical difficulties, the 08:00 flight would be delayed until 08:15. The unspecified difficulties turned out to be mechanical problems, something involving the oil, and the flight was further delayed until 08:35. This would necessitate a gate change, from gate 25 to gate 23, in consequence of which the regularly scheduled flight to Montreal would be moved from gate 23 to gate 25, and delayed by ten minutes. Then it was announced that "the flight to Montreal" was now boarding at gate 23. Everyone, for both flights, descended on gate 23, where, it transpired, nothing whatsoever was happening. No flight to anywhere was boarding, and the two staff people at the gate asked everyone to go away and be patient.
At this point a further announcement was issued, to the effect the mechanical problems with the (by now) 08:45 flight to Montreal had proven serious, and the flight would be delayed until the late morning, or perhaps the afternoon. In virtue of this, and in its generosity, Delta Airlines would provide for each passenger a lunch voucher, if they would present themselves at gate 24. A rush on gate 24 ensued, where it transpired that vouchers for $7 (almost enough for a coffee and a muffin, at airport prices) were indeed being handed out. About half the passengers had received their vouchers (good for twelve hours, at this airport only, service not provided or guaranteed by Delta Airlines) when another announcement informed us that a new aircraft had been located, and that the 12:30 flight to Montreal had thus been advanced to 08:55, and the flight to Montreal was boarding immediately at gate 23. An intelligent passenger shouted, "around the corner they sell sandwiches to go!" and a great wave of passengers, with me, unexpectedly, at its head, rushed to the sandwich counter, bought sandwiches, had a quick and inexplicable discussion about Susan B. Anthony dollars, and sloshed back to gate 23 just in time to collide with a second wave of passengers arriving from gate 25.
At gate 23, once again, the staff averred that nothing was boarding, and so two announcements, in different voices, were made in quick succession: first, that all passengers for Montreal should be, not at gate 23, but at gate 25; and second, that all passengers for Montreal should proceed immediately to gate 23. At this point the passengers divided neatly into two groups; sadly, these groups can be characterised as (a) those running in all directions and (b) those standing in one place and shouting.
At this moment the cabin crew showed up at gate 23 and said to the counter staff that they were going to Montreal. A certain amount of discussion ensued, and some boarding cards were examined. Brows were wrinkled and new shouting started.
Bravely, I stepped in.
"Excuse me," I said to the lady in the uniform, "but are you aware that there are two flights to Montreal this morning? There is a regularly scheduled flight at 09:00, departing at 09:10, having a flight number starting with 5, and an exceptional flight at 08:00, departing at 08:55, having a flight number starting with 9."
"Well that explains a lot," said the lady. She went to her terminal, typed a few lines, stared at the screen, and picked up the microphone. "Will all Montreal passengers please check their tickets! If your flight number starts with a 5, please proceed to gate 25, immediately! If your flight number starts with a 9, please proceed to gate 23, immediately! Both flights will be boarding as soon as their flight crews have signalled that they are ready."
And we did.
My seat was by the toilet. At the back. Where it smells funny. The one that doesn't recline.
After sitting in the aircraft for quite some time, with the engines starting and stopping, it was announced that there was a slight difficulty, in that one of the passengers was lost. The crew of the flight beginning with 9 opined that this passenger was on the flight beginning with 5, while the crew of the flight beginning with 5 averred that the passenger was surely on the flight beginning with 9. Once it finally became clear that the passenger was in neither place, safety regulations required them to take all the baggage off the plane (a simple precaution occasioned, no doubt, by the absence of shoes to X-ray) and kick it around a bit in case it exploded, a simple process taking only half an hour or so. The passenger in question, I am sure, had long since given up and taken a bus, and was already back in Montreal—sans, perhaps permanently, luggage.
The stewardess observed that since our plane, unlike the other, had only fifteen or so passengers on it (a testament to the airline's diligence in contacting those who had had their travel disrupted), practically everyone could move to more desirable seats. We all did so, and waited. I was beginning to realise that the whole plane, and not just the seats at the rear, smelled of turpentine, benzene and vomit.
But eventually the luggage was suitably reassorted, we trundled out onto the tarmac, turned onto the runway, and reached, as it were, for the sky. The flight to Montreal was short and uneventful, the stewardess was seasoned and competent, there were few passengers and many peanuts, and we flew straight into Dorval airport and landed. Then it was up four flights of stairs, along the infinite corridor (not that one, the second one) to the immigration hall. Now, you may recall my documentation problem. I was starting, once again, to be nervous, despite my overall fatigue.
And at this point I shall tell you of my wondrous new discovery, of great relevance to those of you who may fly into Montreal from the States from time to time. As you come into the huge room with the huger queue where you wait to have your passport inspected, you descend an escalator. If, upon reaching the foot of the escalator, you resist the urge to push ahead for the best possible position in the queue and instead look behind you, there is a passage of dubious invitingness, and at the side of that passage are some of the nicest bathrooms in the airport. Ahhhh.
And by the time that load was off my mind, the queue was short and I walked up to the man and handed him my passport. He said, "Where are you coming from?" and I said, "Barcelona, via New York." He said, "Where do you live?" and I said "Montreal." He said, "Are you a resident of Canada?" and leafed pointedly to the place in my passport where the little card in its little envelope was not. I said "I am, but the little card does not appear to be in its pocket. I am hoping that I somehow left it at home." He said, "Hm. I think you had better have a talk with the immigration officer." I said, "I understand completely." He said, "Behind me, to your left. Thank you."
And so I went into the back for an interview.
Of course, this happens to me whenever I come back into the country, on account of the flag I seem to have on my file, and in this case I was expecting it, prepared for it, even seeing it as the solution to my problem. So I walked up to the counter (where there was no queue, for a change!) with good cheer.
"Hello, sir. May I see that? Thank you. Now, why are you here?"
"I seem to have mislaid my permanent resident card."
"Do you know where it is?"
"I am hoping that it is on my desk, by my computer. I don't think they even looked at it in Spain. You see, when I was leaving last week, my flight was cancelled, and when they sent us back from the gate to rebook..."
"The short version of the story, please, sir."
"Um, last time I was here I was told to check the status of my citizenship status on the website. So I took the card out at home. Perhaps I didn't put it back."
"Ah. These things happen.
"I notice, also, that there is a flag on your file. Did you once voluntarily surrender your landed immigrant papers?"
"Yes, well, you see, I first came to Canada when I was ten or eleven, and..."
"The short version of the story, please, sir."
"Um, yes. It says in your file that I did. Although it is really more complicated."
"Ah. These things happen. All right, no problem, if you find that you really have lost your card, remember to apply for a replacement as soon as possible. Over there, through the door, turn left. Have a nice day."
(There was also a place during this conversation where we shared a laugh about the competence of Delta Airlines. But I can't, at this remove, figure out how it fit into the conversation. Suffice it to say that I almost had fun.) And then it was off to the baggage claim area, where my suitcase popped out of the thingy just as I arrived, and thence to the Long White Hall of Doom, where the customs trolls lurk. And of course, on examining my little cardie, it is me that they pounced upon, and they sent me down the side passage into the room with the long queue.
And there I must wait, and I wait, and I wait. And while I am waiting I am observing the customs officers, and they are three: on the right, there is the immense bald customs officer who looks like a biker. In the middle is a middle aged lady who looks like a Nazi. And on the left is the roundish smiling gentleman with the most immense beard, like a ruff, completely encircling his head. And all the time I am in the queue I am thinking, I do hope I get the one on the left.
And I did.
As I trundled my luggage up to his station, I thought was running through my head, what a nifty beard! But remember, Stephen, do not get cute with customs officers. Never get cute with customs officers. Do not say anything personal. Do not speak until spoken to. Don't mention the beard.
And as I arrived at the station the man looked up and said, "Well, hello! May I say what a fine beard you are wearing? I am truly, truly jealous!" And I said, "Well, they say you should never say anything personal to the customs officer, but all the time I was waiting in line I was thinking, what an excellent beard you are sporting, sir. A wonderful beard. I wish I had one like it." And so we chatted about beards for a while, and whether it is better to look like Santa or Rasputin.
And then it was time for business, and he asked me where I had been and why I had been there and what exactly it was that I thought was worth $50, as I had written on my customs declaration; and I said that I had been to Spain and I had been there for a conference and they had given me this bag, and looking at it it seemed to me that it was worth more than $20, but it couldn't sell for as much as $70, so I had written down $50, but who could say for sure. So he said, "May I see this bag?" And I said sure, let me dig it out, and I dug it out of my bag and showed it to him and he said, yup, that seems reasonable, and look! It's full of phone books or bibles or something, you really did go to a conference, and I said yup, and he said that's all right then, and he asked me what line of business I was in, and I said software, and he said, that's interesting, let me tell you about all the new regulations I just had to learn last week about concerning when a laptop is a tool of the trade and when it is a display material and when it is a personal item and when it is an import. So I said ok and he did that and I barely understood a word and retained less. But he was friendly and chatty and eventually he finished and we were done and he said, "Have a very nice day," and I said "Have an awfully nice day yourself," and that was that. I walked out the door into the public area of the airport.
And that left me with only one task: to get a refund on my ticket to Guatemala.
So up the stairs I took myself, to the departures level, looking for a Delta Airlines ticket office.
Well, there isn't one.
So I looked for a random person in a Delta uniform and I found a random person in a Delta uniform, and I asked, and she said, "But we are all ticket-certified, sir. Just wait in any queue."
So being tired by now and feeling Delta rather owed me one, I interpreted this literally and stood in the special queue for the first class passengers, which was empty, and a big friendly man with a warm smile wandered over and said, "Come over here sir, where are you going, and how can I help you?" and I said, "It's not like that, actually, I've just arrived, and I have a ticket to Guatemala that I would like refunded."
"Let me see, let me see," the nice man said, taking the ticket and turning to his terminal. "No problem with that, the ticket is refundable, yes, I do this and this and ... oh dear. This ticket was paid for in Euros. I don't think I can make a refund in Euros. Dollars yes; the other dollars, yes; but Euros, not in Canada." His head sank in thought. "But ah! I don't need to refund it, I can cancel it. Then the payment will be reversed, you get your money back, and yes! It's worked. There you go sir, all done, and have a really nice day."
So I said, "Well, thank you. And thank you also for your competence, efficiency, good cheer and wonderful attitude. I would, however, like to remark that my enthusiasm for your service does not extend to the entire rest of the company that you work for."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, every flight I have taken with you on this trip ha been delayed or cancelled, and usually both. And on top of that, I came here through New York, and, well, the entire operation there seemed to be being run by a bunch of schoolkids!"
"Hm, yes. I know what you mean. Whenever we phone them up, they are confused. And if we so much as laugh, they tell us that we are being 'inappopriate' and hang up. How are we supposed to maintain a proper attitude if we can't laugh? I ask you. All I can say, sir, is that I have been a supervisor here for decades, and those people at JFK, they are still young. If you fly Delta Airlines again in, say, ten or fifteen years, perhaps we can hope that the corners will have rubbed off, and you will have an acceptable experience. But for now, what can we do?
"But at this minute, as I say, have a truly wonderful day. And ... thanks for your patience."
And that is the story of how I didn't go to Guatemala, at all.
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2007.04.05 17.58
Not Going to Guatemala, Part the Fourth
The return flight from Barcelona to New York was, technically, much like the flight out: relatively uneventful, and marred primarily by terrible movies and horrific food (the fact that I remember nothing of the details suggests that the fare on the return trip was in fact marginally better than the chicken with sugar sauce and mashed sweet potato of the outbound leg). But after an hour or two, after they passed out the American landing cards (green, as you may recall, and white), I started to develop increasing nervousness about the entire onward-flight-to-Guatemala ruse. As far as I know, I do not actually have the legal right to visit Guatemala. Spain, Canada, the US—these are all places I visit routinely and for which (at least until now) I have never needed a visa. But Guatemala? I had no clue. And again, there is the American penchant for demanding street addresses. Certainly I knew my connecting flight number to Montreal, and I could even provide a street address for my 'stay' there—I live here, after all, and presumably I would not object to my staying with myself for a couple of weeks before heading off to do whatever it was I was supposedly planning in South America—but what of Guatemala? If I wrote, "The Guatemala Hotel, Guatemala Street, Guatemala City, Guatemala," how would that go over? And the word "Guatemala" sounds good if pronounced with a Spanish accent—should I then conclude that it's a Spanish-speaking country? (Basic geographical facts become, it appears, harder to recall with precision in conditions of personal panic.) How convincing is my story then? Worse than that, since I live in Canada and I travel to the US not infrequently, getting caught telling porkies (pork pies -> lies, for those not in the know) at the now organised and computerised US border would be beyond dumb, and a serious problem for my career and my personal life, both. But the stewardess handing out the landing cards said that if we had any uncertainty as to how to fill them out, we should ask. So I betook myself to the rear of the cabin and sought advice if not expert, then at least better familiarised with such situations. These things, after all, happen all the time.
Furthermore, I reasoned to myself, while plans for misleading immigration officers are not things one normally discusses with anyone one does not already know quite well, in this case I had been given the bizarre advice about Guatemala by an employee of Delta Airlines, and speaking to further employees of Delta Airlines about my quandry could likely not further weaken my position—if everything went pear-shaped at the US immigration post, I would like to maximise Delta's involvement, rather than the contrary.
As I explained my situation to the nice lady, her eyes glazed over and her jaw fell open. Not, it seemed, a good sign. But she was more competent about these matters than she appeared, and in this wise: that she asked me to stop talking and made a call to the chief steward, who quite shortly arrived from the first class section and asked me to repeat the problem to him. The chief steward was a slim and distinguished black gentleman, nearing middle age, and he nodded sagely. "It is not a problem," he said, "this happens all the time. You are nervous only because they have explained the regulations to you, but not the politics. Here are the politics.
"The US border guard does not give a damn where you are going, or what your plans are. He wants to get rid of you, and send you to Canada. Then you become a Canadian problem. The Canadian border guard does not give a damn where you are coming from, or what your plans were. You are in his database, you are returning home, he will be officious and remind you to carry the appropriate paperwork in future, and he will send you on your way. You do not mention Guatemala to anyone, and no one will ask you about Guatemala, and it will not be a problem at all."
"But why, then," I asked, "do I need this ticket to Guatemala City?"
"That is easily explained. The Americans and the Canadians have agreed to cooperate in policing their borders. The Americans have agreed not to send to Canada people that the Canadians will then reject, and the Canadians have agreed, reciprocally, not to admit people in transit to America who the Americans will not let in. This way, America will not be stuck with Europeans the Canadians do not want, and Canada will not be stuck with Europeans the Americans do not want. Then, in turn, the Americans have delegated responsibility for checking immigration paperwork from the border guards to the airlines. This seems crazy, but it means that rather having to deport people back to Europe because they cannot be admitted to the States, they simply stay in Europe, which is better for America and perhaps even, more often than not, better for the travellers. The airlines do not like this, but the policy is enforced with fines, so of course they cooperate.
"But there is a wrinkle. The immigration laws of both the US and Canada are tortuously complex. Not even the immigration officers of the respective countries truly understand all the details. So when the Canadian policies are delegated to the US, they are simplified. And when the US policies are delegated to the airlines, they are simplified. And after two levels of simplification they make very little sense.
"But the purpose of it all is this: if the Canadians ever ask the Americans what on earth you were doing coming into the country, the Americans come to the airline and say, what on earth was this person doing coming into our country. And then the airline pulls out its database records and says, see? This person was travelling on to Guatemala city. We followed the policy. And then the Americans go back to the Canadians and say, we checked our records, and this person was travelling on to Guatemala city. We followed the policy. And then the Canadians can send you back to England. Or on to Guatemala city. Or wherever. But that won't really happen, because you actually do live in Canada, and in point of fact both the Americans and the Canadians can check on that. And in the mean time, Delta has a paper trail, and everyone's butt is covered.
"So: tell the US border guard that you live in Canada, that you are going to Canada, and that that is the whole story. He will like that. He can process you in seconds. The ticket to Guatemala, you keep in your pocket, and you cash it in when you get home." And that made sense. In the sense that such things ever make sense. So I returned to my seat, planning to behave as if everything were just as normal as in fact (if not in documentation) it was.
And eventually we arrived in New York.
Deplaning at JFK was confused and crowded, and involved negotiating narrow and unsignboarded stairwells, as by now I had come to expect. Eventually, the dingy passages and dodgy escalators debouched (but not after separating me from my companion) into the immigration hall, where we queued for a long, long time, during the first long of which a certain amount of James-Bond-esque leaping over the queue control ropes (and rather more British apology for jostling people) reunited us so that we could share the experience. And somehow, by that same miracle that ensures that one is always in the queue behind the person with the mountain of groceries all of whose price labels have fallen off, and despite having been in the middle of the crowd leaving the aeroplane, and in the middle of the queue for immigration control, we were among the last six people to actually reach the border guard. My friend went first.
She, it might be mentioned, had been rather concerned about some detail of her US immigration status which appeared, because she had been so rash as to go to wilds of Europe, to require her to present seven kinds of documentation to re-establish her status as someone they actually wanted; but in fact the man at the desk was more interested in making with his stampy things than he was in looking at her documents, and she was through the gate in a minute, and it would have been faster if his ink pad had been fresher. So then it was the turn of me.
I took a deep breath. I made sure that (a) my ticket to Guatemala was not in the little packet of documentation that I held in my hand, but (b) that I did have it handy in my shoulder bag. And I walked up to the wicket.
"Passport?" said the man. I handed him my passport, and the little card. "Where are you going?"
"Montreal."
"Where do you live?"
"Montreal."
"Thank you," said the man. He handed me back the torn-off bottom end of the little card and passed me through. So that, after all that, was that.
I rejoined my friend, and we went off in search of our luggage, and the gates for our respective onward flights. In these matters she had no trouble, and the biggest problem I faced was a longer wait for my departure time, so once she had boarded her plane for California, I sought out my gate—number 23, deep in the Construction Wing—located the nearest source of coffee, and settled in to wait. This took some time, a certain amount of reading, and a few mind-numbing puzzles from my curiously unwanted Christmas gift, but eventually the flight was called and we were sent out (along with passengers for two other flights), not through a proper docking snorky, but through the temporary wind-tunnely blast-shieldingy passages of smelly frigid misery, to the tiny aircraft which was to fly us to Montreal.
Now this process was not as simple or as pleasant as it sounds, for the simple reason that, as I mentioned, several flights were leaving from the same 'gate.' The passages of frigidity, correspondingly, were not simple linear tunnels, but a branching maze of misery, populated irregularly with damned and bewildered souls, some of whom had useful directions to give and some of whom did not, some of whom told the truth and some of whom lied, but only if it was Tuesday or Thursday and the lady in the blue uniform was either a truth-teller or a witch. But eventually I made it to an exit (in the middle of a concrete airfield, surrounded by aircraft), and a human-looking lady smiled brightly and said, hopefully it seemed, "Montreal?" and when I said yes, waved me into a particular aircraft. And I climbed the steps, was greeted by a child in an oversized uniform, and directed to my seat.
At first, I was the only passenger.
But slowly the plane filled up. Then we waited, waited and waited. Finally, we started moving, wandered aimlessly around the airfield for a while; stopped, started, stopped, started, and took off. Somewhere in this process, the child in the uniform gave us to believe that she was the stewardess, explained about landing in the water and how to breathe when you can't, told us that computers are ok but cellular phones aren't, and started handing out bottles of water.
The plane smelled of kerosene and vomit. The water was that fake spring water that Coca-Cola puts out, which tastes of formaldehyde and heavy metals. The stewardess was nearing panic. The flight to Montreal would only take an hour, and she had to give a packet of peanuts (or a biscuit, but not both) to every single passenger on the crowded plane. She had graduated from saying "oh dear" to "oh shit" when someone shouted, "Is this your first flight, dear?" and she said "On my own? Yes." The passengers were even less happy, but somewhat more forgiving, after that.
At around this point the ill-socialised and grumpy kid sitting next to me shouted at his parents, got shouted at in turn, went into a sulk, and started listening to music on his phone. Now, I have no idea if it is true that using a cellphone on a plane is in fact dangerous. I have no idea if the cell-tracking protocol that operates when no call is active is a matter for concern, and I surely hope that planes are well enough designed that it is untrue; but I have hopes of a rather better and much less pointless death, myself. This brat, on the other hand, was certain it was safe—so long as he hid the phone in his shirt, or under his butt, or in his hoodie, whenever the stewardess went past. I had a go at glowering at him. He glowered back. I cleared my throat. He switched to the ear that faced me. Finally (and by this point we were descending and the ground was starting to look close enough to hit) I said, loudly enough for eight other nearby people to hear, "Look, I fully appreciate it if you are bored, we are all bored here, but I believe it is a safety regulation that you are not supposed to use your phone while we are in the air, and for myself I would rather be safe than sorry." And I felt like a terrible brat myself, but the strategy worked, and he went back to being sullen and phoneless.
"We are starting our final approach," said a voice, "please put your seats in the upright, locked position. Oh." There was a pause. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have just been informed that we are unable to land in Montreal, and we will be returning to New York. Thank you."
And then we flew back to New York.
As we made our approach in New York, there was another announcement. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this flight has been declared cancelled. As such, it is not Delta's responsibility, and we will not be providing you with accommodation. Please check with the Delta representative as you leave the plane, and we will book you on an alternative flight, early tomorrow morning. Thank you."
I told the stewardess-child as I left the plane that she was undoubtedly working for the worst airline in North America, but she was too rattled to be impressed.
And so we arrived back in the terminal building of doom.
Chaos ensued. All the passengers from our flight, and it appeared (though I am not certain) many other people, descended on the Delta information desk. It was already late; many staff had gone home. Those who were left tried to book people on alternative flights. The first three passengers were placed on next day's 9AM to Montreal. And then it was full. Another four or five passengers got routed through Toronto. By the time I got to the front of the queue, I was offered an 06:00 flight to Cincinnati, to 'connect' with the 17:00 flight from Cincinnati to Montreal. By this point I was exhausted, I felt there was nothing I could do about it, and I took my new ticket and went in search of a bathroom.
Uh-oh.
But ultimately I found a stall that I was willing and able to enter, did what I had come to do, and started to search for a place to sleep in the by now all but deserted terminal. In the course of so doing, I again passed the information counter. There were eight people still there, five in front of the counter, and three behind. One of the erstwhile passengers was explaining to two of the remaining staff that his goal in travelling to Montreal was to meet his eight year old son, who was coming in on another plane, unaccompanied, and who spoke neither English nor French. The staff appreciated the degree of his concern, but shrug! what could they do? Another gentleman then explained that although they had undertaken to get him to Montreal before 9PM, this was of little help, since the speech he was to give at the opening of the conference was in the afternoon. This, too, brought sad little shrugs from the patiently listening staff.
But suddenly there was a whoop! There was a whoop, and a happy dance! There was a whoop, a happy dance, and an exclamation from the third Delta emplyoee, who had been, all this time, on the phone. And the content of the exclamation was, "Yes! Score!! They will extend the flight for us! Folks, we have another plane!!!!"
Frantic typing ensued, and the others then concurred, "Yes! It's listed! Quick, everyone, give me your tickets and we'll book you on it before it fills up!" So I joined the small mob, while that mob phoned their friends, and another handful or two of people started drifting back to the desk. "Me too?" I asked. "Yes, you too." My ticket was grabbed from my hand, and ticketta-tick, ticketta-tack, quick as a wink, a replacement was issued.
This new voucher was a little odd; because of the haste with which the changes were made, I had seemingly been issued a ticket for an 08:00 flight from New York to Montreal, there to connect with the 17:00 flight from Cincinnati to Montreal, but I figured, what the hell, just like the flight to Guatemala City, I didn't actually need to board the second leg (even if I happened to get teleported to Cincinnati in time for it). And the staff assured me that my luggage was coded so that when it arrived in Montreal it would stay in Montreal, so that was alright, too.
So that was much better, and all I needed to do was sleep in a chair in the huge, bright, loud, unheated airline terminal, and on the morrow, I would actually get home and—well, aside from some anticipated difficulty with immigration—all would be right with the world, and I could sleep in my own bed.
It was miserable. At about 3AM some kind soul dropped a blanket on me. Then it was still miserable, but it was a little warmer.
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2007.04.04 19.17
Not Going to Guatemala, Part the Third
Our time in Barcelona having now been skipped over as (like so much of life) fun but irrelevant, we come, as anticipated, to the day of our return trip. This time, my colleague and I were departing for the airport together, and (thanks to some prior negotiation with the airline which completely failed to appear in the narrative of part I) had some expectation of sitting together on the flight back across the great Atlantic Ocean. And so, with an oodle and a half of time to spare (neither of us being, by nature, the kind of person who shows up at the airport fifteen minutes before the flight and jumps up and down saying, hey, can I get past you? Only my flight is already boarding...) we trundled our luggage to the wildly convenient centrally located underground railway station, got on the train, and were whisked—or at any rate, conveyed—to the station at the airport. From there it was a quick trip by moving walkway (2/3 working) over the bridge to the terminal building itself.
And there, behind the immense queue, was the check in desk.
Undaunted, and still with 8/7 oodles of time in hand, we joined that queue, and started queueing thereby.
And we waited. And we waited. And we waited. And finally—it was our turn!
Together, we went to the counter, and commenced to check in. The clerk took our tickets, and took our passports, and asked us where we were going, and where we lived. And at this point the confusion set in. We explained it once; we explained it twice. The clerk looked baffleder and baffleder. Finally, a supervisor was called: a small, quick man with a quick, excitable manner and smiling eyes.
"What seems to be the problem?" the supervisor (I am guessing, since I speak neither Spanish nor Catalan) asked.
"It is these passengers," the clerk (I am guessing) replied.
"And what is it about these passengers that appears to be causing you such difficulty?" the supervisor (it seemed) continued.
"It is altogether entirely confusing! This first passenger appears to be an Englishman, living in Canada, travelling via New York! Yet, and at the same time, this second passenger, appears to be a Canadian, living in America, flying to San Francisco! But somehow they are travelling together! And this will not fit into my head!"
"Ah! Ah! Let me explain! The gentleman, he is English. He wishes to go to New York, because he is travelling to Canada. The lady, she is Canadian. She, too, wishes to go to New York, because she is travelling to California. And they wish to talk to each other during the flight, which is more convenient if their seats are adjacent."
"Yet still, somehow, this does not fit into my head!"
"They have tickets. They wish to fly."
"Aha! So I should do my job!"
"Yes, there you have it." The supervisor smiled, nodded, and walked away.
The clerk turned back to the computer, took up the first passport, and stopped. Stared. Called the supervisor back.
"I have the passport. I have the computer. I believe that now I am supposed to scan the passport and press a button. Or perhaps, press a button, and scan the passport. Yet where is the button that I am supposed to press?"
"Here is the button. You press it, thus. See? Now it is pressed."
"I see. And I scan the passport how?"
"With the scanner. Permit me. See? Now it is scanned."
"Aha! And next comes the reading of the screen?"
"It does."
"I should read it?"
"You should."
"I have."
"And what does it say?"
"The documents are in order."
"Excellent. Then perhaps we should say as much to the first passenger, and turn our attention to the second."
And so it was my turn. The supervisor took up my passport, leafed through it forwards, leafed through it backwards, leafed through it forwards again. And turned to me and spoke, in rapid, rhythmic and ebullient English. "Sir. You are, as I understand, an Englishman, a permanent resident of Canada, travelling back to Montreal, where you live, from Barcelona, where we are, through New York, in the United States of America?"
"Yes."
"And this, which I hold in my hand, it is your passport, and here is your photograph, yes, I see, and here, in this little envelope, this is where your proof of residency in the country of Canada, isn't."
(At this point, I should recall to your memory, as the discovery of the empty envelope recalled to mine, the incident on my first attempt to leave on this trip, wherein the Canadian immigration official sent me home with instructions to determine the status of my citizenship application. This is a process involving a web site and number printed, in small letters, on the back of the little card that is supposed to reside, at all times, in the little envelope stapled so conveniently into my passport. A process that resulted, I now recalled, in the little card sitting, face down, on my desk, by the computer. Where it probably, indeed, still sat....)
"Um. Yes, that is the little envelope where it goes. And, um, you are right, it is not there."
"Sir, I am afraid that we may have a problem."
I thought. "Yes, I see that this is a problem. But is it a large problem? I am English, and as things now stand, I have the right to be in Spain. I am English, and as the UK is a visa waiver country, I do not need a visa to visit America. And I am English, and because of the Commonwealth, I do not need a visa to visit Canada. In the worst case, I travel to Canada as a tourist, I go to my home, I pick up my resident's card from my desk where I seem to have left it, I return to the airport, I go to the immigration desk, and come back in. And the problem is thereby resolved."
"But I am afraid that still there is a problem. Let me explain.
"It is true that, as an Englishman, you do not need a visa to be in Spain.
"It is true, that as an Englishman, you do not need a visa to go to Canada.
"It is true, that as an Englishman, you do not need a visa to visit the United States of America.
"It is even true, that as an Englishman, you do not need a visa to visit Canada, and then the United States.
"However, as an Englishman, you do in fact need a visa, to change planes in the United States, without visiting the United States, in order to travel to Canada, and not come back, unless you can prove that you are a resident.
"And this is why you must travel to Guatemala."
I had an intelligent response to this information. "What?"
"Yes, it is true. According to Canadian law, you do not need a visa to visit Canada. According to American law, you do not need a visa to visit America. According to American law you do not need a visa to pass through America to Brazil, or to Chile, or to Australia, or to Mozambique, or to anywhere. But according to American law, you need a visa to go to Mexico or to Canada, unless it is on the way to somewhere else.
"But do not worry. This happens all the time. We are used to it! We will send you to Guatemala."
"But I do not want to go to Guatemala!"
"You do not have to go to Guatemala. You merely have to have a ticket to Guatemala. Then we will look at your ticket and say, ah! You do not plan to stay in Canada! You are travelling later to Guatemala! So you do not need a visa. All our problems are solved."
"And this works?"
"Yes, I tell you, it happens all the time."
"Why Guatemala?"
"It does not have to be Guatemala. Guatemala is just an example. It could be Peru. But there is a lady over there, at our ticket office, she can very quickly sell you a ticket to Guatemala. It is fully refundable. It is very easy. You have a credit card? You can get a refund as soon as you arrive in Montreal. You will never be billed. It is not a problem."
"You're sure."
"Yes, sir, believe me, it happens at all the time. Buy yourself a ticket to Guatemala and come back here."
So—we walked over to the ticket office, and there spoke to the nice lady.
"Um, hello. I was just checking in for the flight to New York, where I am changing planes to go to Canada, and it seems there is an irregularity with my paperwork. And the supervisor said that if I had an onward flight from Canada...."
A certain light went on in her eyes. "Ah! I will sell you a refundable ticket to Guatemala. Do not worry, this happens all the time."
"This all makes sense to you, then?"
"Yes, of course. May I see your passport? Good. And your credit card? Thank you. Please sign here. Here is your ticket. You can get your refund from our ticket office in Montreal. Do not tell anybody about this unless they ask. But in case somebody does ask, I have given you a ticket for April the first, it is easy to remember."
"Um, thank you."
"Have a good flight."
So—we went back to the check in desk, and stood in front of the other queueing people (like the oodlless people try to do) and waited until the supervisor noticed us and called us over.
"Ah, good! I see now that you are travelling on to Guatemala City after you have visited in Montreal! This is not a problem, there is no problem at all. Everything is in order. Here, come over here, we will check you in, do you have bags to check?"
And as this is getting long, I shall leave my account of the return trip itself to the next installment.
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2007.04.04 19.05
Not Going to Guatemala, Part the Second
...And so, on the second day, I hastily repacked, and returned to the airport at Dorval. I took the city bus as usual, rather than the taxi for which I had a voucher, since I had no special need to have my luggage thrown in the gutter a second time. And at the check in counter I told the lady the story of my cancelled flight, and the story of the taxi vouchers that get your luggage abused, and she said here, accept this as Delta's apology, and lo she handed me a voucher for $10 good at the airport restaurants, and a boarding card. So at the first and least serious of the security checkpoints the cheerful and polite (not to mention cute and perky) young lady said, hi again! Why are you back so soon? And I explained about the cancellation of my flight, and she wished me better luck and passed me through.
Still knowing the US immigration routine, I again switched my white card (persons requiring a visa) for a green card (persons from visa-waiver countries), unless it's the other way around, filled it in, carefully giving JFK and a flight number as my street address in the USA, because that's what you do, and went to the US border guard, who also said, hi again! Why are you back so soon? And I explained about the cancellation of my flight, and he wished me better luck and passed me through.
Next, at the security checkpoint, the rambunctious crowd of francophone Africans said, hi again! Why are you back so soon? And I explained about the cancellation of my flight, and they wished me better luck and (after X-raying my shoes) they passed me through.
So finally I passed along the infinite corridor to the Halls of Boredom, where one waits and waits and waits, and there, $10 voucher in hand, I sought some breakfast. Now breakfast in the Halls of Boredom must be taken in a sports bar, because loud Bruce Springsteen (if it wasn't John E. Melloncougar) and wrestlers stepping on each others' faces is what the overwrought traveller really needs, and costs $12.50, and isn't very nice, but given that Delta had so generously given me a $10 voucher I paid only $2.50 to have a miserable time and eat what I didn't want in a place I didn't care to be, and at least the waitress was polite, when she happened to notice me. And she brewed me fresh coffee, which was merely yuck.
And from there I passed to Boredom Central and waited and waited and waited and finally! A plane arrived! And they let us on board! And it took off! And it flew!!!!
Most notable about this flight were the small size of the plane and the cabin crew, who numbered one. And he was Oh. So. Gay. So gay! So gay. He was very, very gay. Here was a man who was enjoying every moment of his life, who was truly living his dream, and his dream was to be a stewardess. When he explained about the exits, he did a sexy little dance. When he explained about the floatation devices, he did a sexy little dance. And when he explained about the oxygen supply, he wiggled to the left side, he wiggled to the right side, he rotated both his wrists, and he shimmied. Up and down the aisles he pranced with his peanuts and his bottled water, pointedly leaning over each of the passengers to display such cleavage as he was, perhaps, imagining himself to be displaying, and making such naughty remarks as he thought would be well received. And he actually was most terribly funny.
After not very long, we arrived at JFK, flying in low over the kinds of houses that you don't imagine being immediately beneath the flight path of a major airport, and as I was leaving the plane I thanked him for his good cheer and one-man in-flight entertainment and he thanked me for thanking him and that was nice.
Now the John F. Kennedy airport in New York City is an immense monstrosity of an airport with ten or twelve terminal buildings, and it is small and dark and poky and smelly and a dump. Coming off the plane there was not even a docking snorky; like the victims of a black and white film we were tipped onto the tarmac and herded across the field to a curious agglomeration of sort of mobile blast shelters, grey steel cages or runs that were designed to be slightly too narrow to carry your luggage along and slightly too opaque to see out of, yet sufficiently well ventilated to let the jet fuel fumes and the howling of the engines and the wind-driven snow to enter, pass through, and leave unhindered by all but our cowering bodies. Yet after a mere fifteen or twenty minutes of struggling through this sensory hell we came to a hybrid parking lot and garbage dump, where a fat unshaven person with a security badge waved us uncertainly into an unmarked back door, whence we climbed some stairs into the terminal building, which was dark, unfinished, packed with passengers and lacking any visible signage. Ah! New York.
Curiously, however, this was clearly not JFK airport. This was the Delta Terminal. During my entire sojourn of five or six hours I saw no indication—not a map, not a sign, not a transfer mechanism, not an exit, nothing—that any other airline, or any other terminal building, existed. It isn't true you understand; as you would expect, dozens of airlines in fact fly in and out of JFK. But Delta isn't about to let you know, because you are the customer, and you are there to be controlled.
But be that as it may. After some moments of bewilderment I found someone in a Delta uniform who seemed to be giving directions, fought through the scrum of hundreds trying to find out where they should go, and, well, found out where I should go. This turned out to be most of the way back to Montreal: at the far other end of the part of the building at the far other end of the passage at the far other end of the building in which I seemed to be. So out I set.
Half way into my travels I passed from the Unfinished Wing to the Finished Wing of the Delta terminal, and here there were shops and cafés and—signage! Of course, the signage was completely false. It isn't true that you can walk up the left-hand corridor clearly marked on the maps, following the gate numbers clearly visible on the ceiling; that entire corridor has been given over to gangs of security people ardently X-raying travellers' shoes. But there is another corridor (the one signboarded as being for the use of military personnel), and that, somewhat more circuitously, actually led (via a bookshop that was selling English/Chinese dictionaries, which I looked at for some time before deciding that I wasn't really equipped to judge their quality, but, curiously, not Spanish phrasebooks, which I had stupidly assumed would be the kind of thing that one would find in a bookshop in a major American airport) to the gate from which the fabled flight to Barcelona was to depart. And as I reached that gate I realised that my bladder was about to explode (ploo!).
The next twenty minutes of my life were a horror. I shan't go into details; suffice it to say that bathroom maintenance is one of those unnecessary frills that today's leaner and more focussed airlines choose not to provide to their value-conscious customers.
And then, ironically, I realised that I was thirsty.
In my search for an even vaguely subdisgusting bathroom I had passed several times in front of a foodcourtish area, and thence I returned and found a drinks vending machine surrounded by bewildered Germans being bewildered, in German. "'S geht nicht?" I asked accidentally, because I have this problem. I only actually speak 48 words of German (down from 103, when I lived there), and then only in short, panicked phrases, but it seems I must speak them horrifyingly idiomatically, because as soon as I open my mouth (which for reasons of German social dynamics is bizarrely hard not to do) everyone assumes that I'm entirely fluent and it can take twenty minutes to explain (with my 48 words) that I have no idea what we've been talking about. But in fact it did indeed nicht gehen, so we scouted around and found another place where they sold bottles of iced tea, and I reported back to the bewildered Germans who were thereby transformed into thankful and less thirsty Germans, and I, too, got some tea, and I sat down with my laptop and did this and that and drank iced tea and eventually I went to the gate and my flight was called and we boarded.
And. Then. We. Waited.
Sitting on the plane.
While they turned the engines on and off.
And we waited.
Eventually they came over the speaker thingy and said that there would be a slight delay and that perhaps they would start the in flight movie now, because although we weren't yet technically in flight, it was just as boring as if we were.
So we watched some terrible film. I think it was Flushed Away. Which, believe me on this point if on no other, should be.
We watched the whole film.
Someone did come on the speaker thing now and then to apologise. To say that we could leave now, after which we would drive around a bit, then turn the engines off again. To say that they had changed their minds and that we couldn't leave now after all. To say that there were only two runways open. To say that there was only one runway open. To say that we had to be de-iced, or re-iced, or re-de-iced. And finally, as the credits rolled, to say that we were number two in line and that we should turn our phones off again because—here we go!
So then we flew to Barcelona and we got off the plane at a civilised airport and the border guard glanced at my passport and said 'thank you, sir,' and I bought a ticket and took the train and got off at the station beneath the convention hotel and I went upstairs and got my badge and there was my friend and it was as simple as that.
And the conference was fine and our paper was well received and Barcelona is a wonderful city and although my friend had experienced great drama and a deep sense of personal unsafety on the day during which I was delayed, that is her story to tell and I experienced none of it. I just had a really nice time.
And (since this is a story about not going to Guatemala, and not a story about visiting Barcelona), that brings me to the trip home.
But that's the subject of my next installment.
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2007.04.03 18.58
Not Going to Guatemala, Part the First
Once upon a time, I made a mistake regarding my immigration status in Canada. Not, you understand, a euphemistic 'mistake'; merely something entirely legal but fundamentally ill-advised (or more precisely, critically unadvised), which resulted in my situation being temporarily ambiguous, and later, supposedly, retroactively clarified. Somehow, however, it also resulted in a flag being put on my file, which results in my being subjected to a full interview with the immigration officer whenever I enter Canada, despite the fact that I have lived here most of my life. Such is the background to my tale.
A few weeks ago I went to a conference in Barcelona with my friend and colleague who, it chances, now lives in The Valley (that valley) and who, while she speaks several languages, does not number Spanish (or for that matter Catalan) among them. Not speaking Spanish (or indeed Catalan) myself, we decided to combine our two ignorances into one larger one, and both booked flights via JFK airport in New York, with the idea that we could travel together and share our disorientation on arrival. And this in turn necessitated flying with Delta Airlines, the second of a pair of bad notions, as you will see.
Come the designated day, I betook myself to Dorval Airport (which I refuse to call PET because I never did understand what everybody saw in Mr. Trudeau—and as far as I can tell, the airport is yet in Dorval) at the appointed hour minus the recommended getting herded around like a sheep delay, and there, for a change, matters proceeded quite smoothly. The check in staff almost knew what they were doing, and gave me nearly the right paperwork. The first and least serious rank of security people were cheerful and polite (not to mention cute and perky) and passed me through without fuss. Knowing the routine this time (having flown to the States for another conference but recently), I switched my white card (persons requiring a visa) for a green card (persons from visa-waiver countries), unless it's the other way around, filled it in, and went to the US border guard. Why Canada tolerates having US border guards on its soil I will never understand, but perhaps it is in the nature of a gesture of an apology for when we burned the White House down (yes!) in the War of 1812. But that is by the way.
The US border guard himself was a decent sort, cheerful, faintly apologetic for the proliferation of procedures that has resulted in us needing a passport and an immigration card and a customs declaration and a fingerprinting and a photograph—and soon, we are told, a microchip, a cheese, a beagle and a verandah—just to change planes in a country that they think is fantastic but that the rest of us would perhaps rather not visit. I sometimes think that Americans don't understand how to take death and destruction in the nature of sport, even as they promote it as a way of life. But that, too, is by the way.
Past the immigration people were the security people, a rambunctious crowd of francophone Africans who jollied us along with exhortations to save everyone trouble by not letting the beepy thing go beep and extollations of the joys of the x-irradiation of shoes. And thence I passed along the infinite corridor (not that corridor, another, different one) to the Halls of Boredom, where one waits and waits and waits. At least, in this modern world, there is overpriced coffee to be had in these locations. But still; one waits, and one waits, and one waits.
After much waiting and further, additional waiting, an announcement was made that there was a slight technical difficulty with the aircraft, which would occasion some supplemental waiting. Which waiting was waited, for perhaps half an hour. After which a second announcement was made, to the effect that the aircraft had a slight oil leak, and that through the application of additional waiting, all would be made well, and the flight would depart. Further waiting was then made, for perhaps another two hours, at which point a third announcement was made, this time that, through the slight leak, all the oil had leaked from the plane, and it was thought that, by and large, it would be better if the plane did not depart at all, but that alternate arrangements would be made for the transportation of the passengers, without further waiting. Which, while a bad thing, seemed very much better than the worse thing that might very well occur if the jet engines seized up at 20,000 feet, and I believe we could all appreciate this point.
So everyone in those halls of boredom leapt to their respective feet and proceeded to the little desk where two harried representatives of Delta Airlines spent twenty minutes attempting to figure out how to place all the waiting passengers on the zero alternative flights, and not getting very far at it at all. At which point they gave up and announced that two people could not possibly process all the people from the flight, and asked us to go back to the Delta check in desk, there to be rebooked.
This process involved going through the door marked 'do not pass this door,' up three flights of stairs, along the infinite corridor (not that corridor, another, different different one) to the Canadian border post. For in passing the US border post, despite not having left Canada, we had left Canada.
Since we had not in fact left Canada, everyone was passed through to the luggage hall promptly—except me, for I have a flag on my file.
So I was sent to have an interview with the immigration officer, and the immigration officer asked me where I lived, so I told him, and asked me where I had been, and I said I hadn't, and asked me what the status of my citizenship application was, and I said that I didn't know, because I didn't. And he asked me why I didn't know, and I said because the immigration department is mind bogglingly slow and haven't sent me any mail for many months, and he said, but they do have a website, and I said well I guess they do, and he said, ok, go home and find out how your application is coming, ok? Because then you'll know, so I said ok, and he sent me through.
At which point I passed through to the luggage place, where nobody knew what was happening with our luggage, and waited half an hour for it to appear. But appear it eventually did, so then, with luggage (literally and figuratively) in tow, I went upstairs to the Delta desk, there to get rebooked.
Upstairs at the Delta desk I found all the other people from our flight, along with all the people for another flight, waiting in line for a desk staffed by two people. A vast increase in service capacity from the two people who were insufficient to serve us at the other end of the airport, as I am sure you will appreciate. But after a further delay of a mere hour or so, I reached the front of the queue, there to be told that the next flight for New York was the same flight as the flight that had not flown, only tomorrow, and that I should go home and come back then. And they offered me a voucher for a taxi. By this point, I should mention, I was becoming quite stressed about the fact that my colleague was still expecting to meet me in New York. But looking at my watch I realised that, due to the utter inadequacy of my purported connection at JFK, her plane from the West Coast was still in the air. So I further asked the lady at the desk if a message might be sent to her, saying that I was to be delayed by 24 hours and, if my calculations were correct, and if I went straight from the airport in Barcelona to the conference, I should still be able to arrive during the coffee break on the first morning of the conference. And after several tries at dictating a message and one at writing it out longhand, the words were typed, the button was pressed, and the message was transmitted.
So that done, I went to the taxi rank where all the taxis stood, but there were none of them. So I waited and waited and waited until finally a taxi arrived driven by a man who spoke nor English nor French, who could not read street numbers, and who drove me around and around and around. Yet ultimately, by dint of waving and hollering and writing of notes, I succeeded in navigating him to my home. Discovering, at this point, that I was paying him with a voucher and that he would get paid no extra for all his excursions, he took my luggage, threw it in the gutter, and drove off.
It was at about this point, I think, that my phone rang, and it was my colleague, asking where I was. I was at first confused, having thought that this had all been explained to her by the airline, but said that I was still in Montreal, and that I would nonetheless be in Barcelona for coffee on the first day of the conference. She was upset (as indeed I was upset) that this was not working out at all as planned, unhappy, as I became unhappy once I appreciated the circumstance, that the airline had not in fact made any perceptible attempt to deliver my message, and unenthusiastic about arriving in Barcelona on her own. But what can one do?
And then her plane to Barcelona left, so I checked on the status of my citizenship application (still not even listed on the website, processing time now given as fifteen months), and went to bed.
Such was the first day of my trip not to Guatemala.
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2006.11.18 11.27
Obsession
Once upon a time there was a small ant who liked to turn Left.
He walked around and around and around and around and around.
He didn't get anywhere.
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2006.04.13 11.23
Lifestyles of the rich and happy
The upper floor of their home is overheated and painted in a lush jungle theme, for the sake of familiarity, and it is here that they keep their first pet, an adorable eight pound pocket elephant. The lower floor has been painstakingly waterproofed, sealed to a depth of around one wellington boot, and flooded (a row of guest wellies is found by the front door). It is here that their second pet lives—a very small whale. These are people who truly love their pets, and want their pets to love each other. Since it is a simple truth that spiral staircases are almost equally inconvenient to elephants as to whales, they have had installed a pet elevator with a stepped floor like a wharf, one half wet and one half dry, in which are found a stately elephant boat for when the upstairs pet wishes to visit his downstairs friend, and a water-filled supercharged rampless-jumping whalemobile (derived from military and moving picture technologies) for when the downstairs pet wants to jump the elephant in his native environment.
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2006.04.07 12.19
The Bones of a Romance
First, perhaps you should read my inspiration: ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) lesnuages's Stone Tale.
That evening he came and sat beneath her window.
"When I was in the Orient, I imagined someone like you," he said.
"Tell me of the Orient," she said, "for I have never seen it."
And so they talked until the shadows grew out to the horizon....
The next evening he returned and sat beneath her window.
"When I was in the City, I dreamed of someone like you," he said.
"Tell me of the City," she said, "for I have never seen it."
And so they talked until the trees turned black against indigo sky....
Again he returned and sat beneath her window.
"As I was doing business in the town today, I thought of you," he said.
"Tell me of the town," she said, "for I have never seen it."
And so they talked until the moon came and turned the world to silver....
He came again and sat beneath her window.
"Sitting in your garden, I find I have fallen in love with you," he said.
"Tell me of my garden," she said, "for I have never seen...."
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2006.03.26 23.05
Piggy! :8)
Once upon a time there was an electric piggy. He liked to wander in the forest wherever his extension cord would reach, and surprise his friends. Dzzzzzt!
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2006.03.25 07.49
Made of each other
Snakes are made of wiggly,
Wiggly is made of snakes;
Snakes and wiggly are made of each other,
Wiggly is made of snakes.
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2006.03.19 12.20
Elephant collecting
Once there was a little girl who collected elephants. She kept them in a book, all neatly organised by continent. She wasn't cruel to them; indeed, every evening she would make a huge stack of sandwiches and carry them upstairs, where she would feed the elephants, page by page, being careful to give each animal its personal favourite filling. In exchange, they would tell her stories of distant lands: the African elephants would speak of their jungles, the Indian elephants of their religions, the American elephants of their ghettos, the European elephants of their bureaucracies, the Asian elephants of their rivers and mountains, and the Australian elephants of strange, athletic bipeds with corks on their hats. The one thing missing in her life was an Antarctic elephant.
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2006.03.08 22.25
Abstract of the Day
We investigate the application of polysyllabic vocabulary to an ultimately jejune problem space. LSMs (Large Spurious Matrices) are applied to further the obfuscation of the exposition. An attempt is made to introduce nk*-partite Hausdorff eigentensor distributions, with satisfactorily confusing results.
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2006.02.19 11.40
Gnibz%t Beans
Gnibz%t beans, seasonally available in most groceries, are easily prepared and pleasing to the human palate. Be careful, however, always to buy the 'instant' or pre-exploded kind. Cooking the unexploded beans requires patience, skill, special equipment and a large measure of foolhardiness.
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2006.01.13 15.55
I shouldn't be posting this
And if you're reading my story, you probably shouldn't be reading it.
Here's how it happened.
He was sitting, writing intently by lamplight, in the richly furnished tent. There came a discreet clicking from beyond the tent flap. He called out, "Yes?"
One of the huge red creatures, his captors, slid silently in from the darkness, its polished carapace gleaming, its claws politely crossed upon its chest. It spoke, in its strange clatter of rasps and booms. "The King requests your presence."
"Um—may I finish this thought? I have but two sentences to write."
"I will wait. But the King, too, is waiting."
He turned back to his page, but the words had evaporated. The King? He had wondered these four days who had been responsible for his dramatic abduction, had even hoped to meet him once the comfortable terms of his imprisonment had become clear, but a King?
He set down his pen. "Never mind. Let us go."
He rose from the chair, straightening to his full height, though that brought him barely above the guard's waist. He took his over-robe, a defence against the chill desert night, from the arm of the divan where he had left it, and put it on. He crossed the carpet and stepped into the night, his captor silent at his heels.
On the makeshift street of oiled sand between the two looming rows of tents, he turned right towards the largest of them, which glowed ornately across the end of the road. But the guard clicked politely and gestured in the opposite direction. He reversed himself, and they walked side by side between walls of shadowed fabric that shifted fitfully in the breeze. He saw no sentries, but he knew they were there.
Past four or five immense tents they came to a side-street onto which they turned. It shortly reached a lip and tilted downwards. A cacophony of flickering light and drumming sound seemed to erupt upon them as they headed into the bowl in the stony plateau: a confusion of darkness and flame, of shrieking and rhythm. It was a moment before the eye and mind adjusted to the scene.
He stopped, astonished.
The depression was large and deep enough to hold five thousand men in quiet concealment. What it now held was a vast roaring bonfire, circled by the nightmare forms of the enemy soldiers, some of them reclining immobile, some of them sitting and drinking, some of them fallen in tangled heaps while they drummed upon each other's resonant bodies. And through the fire—in the fire—there were dancers, their huge shining forms whirling through the flames, drawing the smoke and fire into ephemeral shapes and shifting forms, crackling and flickering and laughing in the blazing heat.
His guard turned to him, his rigid, immobile face seeming to grin in the unsteady glare. "A good party tonight." It stood for a moment, then moved to the side, skirting the revelry. The heat was intense, almost frightening, on his right side; the cold of the desert night sucked at him from his left.
On the far side of the bonfire they came to an area strewn with ornate rugs. On the central rug there was a huge, dark, chair, carved all over with dancing demonic figures. And in the chair there was a huge figure, taller sitting than the tallest human stood, blood red, gleaming, with spines and serrations along its limbs, its shoulders, its head. Another spiky form stepped from the shadows bearing a tray, placed it on a side table, and scraped quietly in what passed for a whisper among this kind.
The King looked up, turning huge shining golden eyes upon him.
"Ah! My friend! Be welcome!"
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2005.12.19 20.25
A Short Paper
Abstract
Good!
Introduction and Conclusion
Good method solves problems.
References
People.
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2005.10.26 20.02
Song for the Chinese
Mud is made of cheese
Cheese is made of mud
Mud and cheese are made of each other
Cheese is made of mud
ps While I sympathise, I don't believe. To quote the bunny, 'Cheese!'
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2005.10.26 09.04
A small song
Ducks are made of cheese
Cheese is made of ducks
Ducks and cheese are made of each other
Cheese is made of ducks
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2005.08.10 22.09
Cooking
One time the Stuffie got a Magic Cooking Wand. She says she got it from a friend, but I think she got it from a fairy godrelative of some description, or possibly an elf. Anyway, it was soon going to be supper time, so she went to the kitchen with her magic wand and got out an onion. And with a wave of the wand, she chopped it up, chippy-chop! Then the wand said, 'garlic next!' so she got out some garlic and with another quick wave, smashed it flat, whupp!
Next came the vegetables, and the wand chopped those, too, each in a different shape. Finally, with a last wave of the wand, she put in the salt. And the wand said, 'whoops! Did I put too much?'
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2005.06.30 22.58
17. Eating Out
F%nrian culture, as you will rapidly discover for yourself, supports copious restaurants serving food in a wide variety of styles. The menus themselves, however, are highly traditionalised and rigorously codified. Indeed, except at specialised children's restaurants, the printed F%nrian menu contains no descriptions of dishes; simply two columns of numbers. The left-hand column lists the prices; the right-hand, the traditional numbers of the dishes.
As a quick (and cautious) rule of thumb, a human should be able to digest any prime numbered dish. That said, however, under no circumstances should you order a number 43. We cannot stress this enough. It is unlikely that you would survive its cooking, and a certainty that you would be in no state to enjoy it afterwards. Indeed, even the F%nrians only order the dish on their anniversaries, since it takes them this long to grow it back.
As an additional caveat, while you will meet the occasional human who claims to enjoy an 11 or a 19, they are certainly lying; or if not, they are committed users of recreational anaesthetics.
We can, however, certainly recommend that you try a 23 before you leave. If there is still room, and you are feeling athletic, you might also enjoy a 7, though it might be best to get a long-time resident to show you the trick of making it stop.
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2005.06.26 02.33
The Fisherman and the Golden Fish
[The story is not entirely mine. The words are.]
Once there was a poor fisherman who lived with his poor wife in a poor hut in a poor village by the Sea. Every day he would set out from the poor village in his poor boat to fish for fish in that Sea. Every day he toiled and toiled, fishing for fish and catching very little, until the sun slid low in the sky and, exhausted but content, he rowed back home to his poor wife with his meagre catch. On a good day there were fish for smoking and fish to sell; and on a poor day, there were fish to eat.
One particular day, when the sky was bright and the sun was gold and the light danced and sparkled on the Sea, there came a mighty tug on one of the fisherman's lines. He ran to it, he caught it, he pulled on it, he fought it, and finally, after much struggle, he landed a fish. But what a fish! It was immense, with scales like beaten gold, and intelligence shone from its deep red eyes.
Though the fisherman was amazed when it started to speak, it was no surprise that it did so in cultured tones.
“Ah, so, now you have caught me,” said the fish. “And since I have no desire to become supper, and since it is within my power to do such things, I should be glad to grant you a wish, if you will be so kind as to let me go.”
But the fisherman, while poor, was content with his lot, and replied, “O Fish! It is kind of you to offer, and kinder still not to be angry with me, but there is little that I need in my simple life. I have my wife, I have my home, I have my boat, I have food to eat and the sun and the sea to keep me company as I work. Since this morning I have already caught enough to feed my little family for today and for tomorrow and for several days after that. I can think of nothing more that I need, and I will gladly let you go so that you can continue to bring your obvious breeding and gentility to the Sea.”
“Well said, O Man,” replied the fish, “and so indeed I shall be about my business. But I shall remember this meeting, and if your fortunes should ever change for the worse, and there is ever a thing that you need, come back to this place and call for the Golden Fish, and I will give you what aid I can.”
So the Fish leapt back into the Sea with a mighty splash and swam upon its way. And the fisherman reflected on this event and the curious ways in which one meets the most amazing people as he rowed back to his village and his hut and his wife.
@
~~~~~~~~ <>< ~~~~~~~~
When he got home, his wife was getting ready to make fish stew, and was carrying the big old chipped clay pot from the back of the hut to the front. The fisherman greeted her with a grin and a laugh, and said, “O Wife! Wait until I tell you what happened today!” and proceeded to tell her the story of his meeting with the Golden Fish.
As she listened to the tale, the wife's face grew longer and paler and the big clay pot slowly slid from her grasp, until finally it fell with a crash! on the ground.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she said, “that you caught a magical fish,” (the fisherman nodded) “and it offered you a wish,” (the fisherman grinned) “which could be anything you wanted,” (the fisherman laughed) “and yet you came home with nothing???”
Puzzled, the fisherman replied, “Well, I have fish! And he was a decent sort, and so polite, and there is nothing that I want that I don't already have.”
“But couldn't you think of anything?” asked the wife? “Not even - not even - not even a replacement for this cracked old pot that I must somehow cook our supper in?”
“But,” said the fisherman, “but I did not know the pot would break, and it seemed a perfectly serviceable pot this morning. And in any case, I had a good catch today, we can take some fish to the market as soon as it opens and trade for a brand new pot.”
But the wife would not be pacified, and her words turned to anger and her anger turned to shouting and the fisherman soon left the hut and went for a walk along the shore in the moonlight, lest any other pots be damaged in the storm.
O
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he came home his wife was calmer, but he could tell by the way she apportioned the stew that she was not truly happy.
So the next day when he put out in his boat he thought as he rowed, and finally he came to a decision. He went to the place where he had met the Golden Fish, pulled in his oars, and called out as politely as he knew:
“O Golden Fish! O Golden Fish! It is your friend the fisherman. Might I have a word?” And not two minutes had gone by when with a burble and a splosh the Fish leapt from the Sea and rested its head on the side of the boat.
“Aha!” said the Fish, in jovial tones. “Let me guess. You went home and you slept on it, and you have realised that there is something missing from your life. You are a simple man, yes, but not quite as unworldly as you yourself suppose!”
“Well,” said the fisherman, “perhaps you are right. There is this pot, you see, a clay pot, in which we cook our supper. And last night, in a stroke of misfortune, it came to grief. It is still a pot, you understand, and it still holds water, mostly, but... my wife's life would be much easier if it were a little less cracked.”
“I see,” said the fish. “You would like a new pot.”
“Would that be a big problem?” asked the fisherman.
“Why no, oh no!” laughed the fish. “Pots are quite easy. I've done quite a lot of pots for one thing and another. Should I make it a nice one?”
“Um,” said the fisherman. “I'm sure a clay one like the old one would be quite adequate, practically speaking. But my wife might like something a little more fancy. It would be nice. But I don't want to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble, I assure you,” said the fish. “In fact, I think you will find one behind your hut when you get home. I hope you like it. It looks quite ornate, but I put a little extra magic in it to enhance any fish that might be made in it. And I don't think it will easily break if you drop it.”
Well, the fisherman was delighted, and thanked the fish, and thanked him again, and the fish told him he was quite welcome. But by now it was late and the fish had to go to see a cousin about some seaweed, and the fisherman went home to his wife.
@
~~~~~~~~ <>< ~~~~~~~~
When he got back to the hut his wife was standing in the door. In her hands was a huge metal pot.
“Will you look,” said the wife, “at what I found out the back?”
“Ah, yes,” said the fisherman, “I had a word with the Golden Fish. He really is a very nice fellow....”
“But this pot!” said the wife, “Just look!”
So he looked and he looked, and he stared and he stared, and he had to admit that it was a very fine pot. It was elegantly shaped and made all of silver, carved and decorated with oceanic motifs. And, by way of signature, at the top of each handle was a discreet golden fish that made a sort of a wink when they caught the light. On the bottom he found engraved in script so fancy the fisherman could barely puzzle out the letters: For my newest friend: A simple pot for the making and serving of fine stew.
“Well,” said the fisherman, “that is a fine pot.”
“That's as may be,” said the wife, “but you are a fine fool!”
“Huh?” said the fisherman, puzzled once more. “Didn't we need a new pot?”
“A pot!” shouted the wife, slamming the door so hard that the doorpost cracked and the door twisted out of its hinges. “You capture a magical fish, and it grants you a wish, and here we live in a disintegrating hovel like this, and you ask for a mere pot!? A pot, at that, which says right on it that it's for stewing fish, if I remember my letters aright. Now you run right out and you speak to that ungrateful fish and tell him that he can keep his fancy pot. He is to give us a house, a new house, a proper house made of stone, with columns in the front and glass in the windows and a pump for fresh water in a room at the back!”
The fisherman went for a walk.
O
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day the fisherman put out in his boat. All day while he fished, he thought; and all day while he thought, he fished. And when the end of the day approached he made his decision, and rowed over to the place where he had first met the Golden Fish, and pulling in his oars, called out as politely as he knew:
“O Golden Fish! O Golden Fish! It is your friend the fisherman. Might I have a word?” And not two minutes had gone by when with a burble and a splosh the Fish leapt from the Sea and rested its head on the side of the boat.
“Hello, hello,” said the Fish, “And how does this fine day find you?”
“All is well, by and large,” said the fisherman, “except....”
“Except...?” prompted the Fish.
“Except.... The pot, you know, is wonderful. I cannot thank you enough for the beautiful pot. But....”
“But...?” prompted the Fish.
“But... my wife... um. I wonder...?”
“Yes...?” prompted the Fish.
“I ... think that she doesn't like our hut very much. And she was wondering—we were wondering—I don't think she really likes our hut very much, and....”
“...And you were wondering if there was something I could do?”
“Um,” said the fisherman, “Um, that is to say, perhaps, yes?”
“It's not such a big problem,” said the Fish. “I think I should be able to help.”
“Are you sure?” said the fisherman. “It's really not too much to ask?”
“No, no,” said the Fish. “I've done houses before. It really shouldn't take more than a few minutes.
“Tell me, do you like staircases?”
So the fisherman thanked the Fish, and thanked him again, and was embarking upon a third and more thorough thanking when he understood the embarrassed look on the Fish's face and stopped. But it was getting late and the Fish had to help his great Aunt with an accounting problem, so they took their leave of each other and the fisherman went home to his wife.
@
~~~~~~~~ <>< ~~~~~~~~
When he arrived back at the village, the fisherman was bewildered. His hut was simply not where he had left it. He walked up the shore and down the shore and was half way to the market when he noticed, far up on the hillside, an unfamiliar mansion.
Slowly he walked towards it, taking in the great row of windows with real glass in each one, the huge pillars flanking the ornate porch, the discreet golden fish that made a sort of a wink when they caught the light, set at each corner of the entrance by way of signature. An ornately engraved foundation stone near the front door read, For my newest friend: A modest dwelling suitable for family living. And from that very doorway issued his wife.
“Will you look,” said the wife, “at this house!”
“I have been looking,” said the fisherman.“It is amazing.”
“Amazing, yes, it is,” said the wife.
“I think our friend the Fish did a fine job!” said the fisherman.
“Our friend? You call him our friend now? You caught that fish fair and square, husband, and you gave him back his life. And now it is only right and proper that he should repay our kindness!”
“But hasn't he done that?” said the fisherman, puzzled. “He gave us the pot, and this astounding fine house, and he was always so nice about it. No trouble, no trouble, he said.”
“But he is a magical fish, and we gave him his life! Isn't that worth some trouble? Isn't that worth more than some stupid house? Don't you think he owes us still? Here we are, me and you, with this mansion to live in, and yet—we are still just a humble housewife and her slack-jawed fisherman of a husband. Living here in our mansion, and having done what we have done, we should be nobles, me and you! I should be famous, and rich, and beautiful and young—people should come from miles around to see us and listen to our tales and bring us gifts to win our favour! Isn't you precious fish willing to give us at least that much?”
And slack-jawed indeed the fisherman was, and dumbfounded too. But after a moment he recovered himself, and though he had hardly been able to wait to see the inside of the new house, he found himself saying, “Wife? I think I shall have to take a walk and think hard on what you have said.”
And take a walk he did.
O
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following day as he set out in his boat, he was still thinking. The following day as he fished for fish, he was still thinking. The following day as he rowed to the place where he had first met the Golden Fish, he was still thinking. The following day as he called out, as politely as he knew, he was still thinking.
“O Golden Fish! O Golden Fish! It is your friend the fisherman. Might I have a word?”
Not two minutes had gone by when with a burble and a splosh the Fish leapt from the Sea and rested its head on the side of the boat.
“Hello, oh, hello!” said the Fish, “And is it possible, let me guess, that I can help you again, this fine day?”
“I think,” said the fisherman, “that I could use a new wife.”
“That might be better for both of us,” said the Fish.
@
~~~~~~~~ <>< ~~~~~~~~
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