CANADA - Coming home :(

Related pic gallery: The drive to Toronto

After wonderful Paris and all the love stuff, I had a few weeks left before reality was to violently beat me about the head, neck, chest and head, and thrust me into the hell that is my normal, everyday, boring life. How depressing... so I clung desperately to the last remaining glory days by staying in sweet Switzerland with Sandra.

The lines in my forehead grew deeper, the darkness under my eyes was returning to its former colour, the thoughts of work drudgery were already beginning to harden my arteries, expand my spare tire, and thicken the skin on my office-chair-sittin' ass. My body started to arch like Quasimodo's, preparing itself to crouch over a cold keyboard, and endure the barrage of customer requests to do this and do that. My journey was coming to an end, and I was panicking! My sulk caused a rift in the space-time continuum, I was growing a perma-frown and I was soon to be on the first of five airplanes back to Canada! "Nooooooooo! I want to stay! Don't make me go!" I repeated over and over to Sandra, but the day came when I had to say goodbye, and off we went to the fucking airport. I was distraught at leaving the excitement of travel, not knowing what experiences I would have each day in whatever place I was visiting. Will I keep in touch with the great people I've met on the way to finding myself? I think so. I hope so - I'll need places to stay when I come out to play next time. I was nervous about leaving Sandra, wondering if this was the end of our relationship journey together and if she would go on with her life as if we'd never met. I was plagued by stupid insecurities that were driving me insane. What was I going to do for money? I've thrown everything away - my business, my money, my property... Would I be going back to live with my parents at the age of thirty-six, sitting in front of the television eating cheesy puffs and watching the soaps? Actually, it doesn't sound so bad ... my mom does make a sweet pot of chili.

It was very sad staring back at Sandra through the thick glass past the Swiss customs, waving while a serious lump was building in my throat. Reality slammed me like a thousand ton truck knocking me to the concrete and driving over my head. I was leaving my year long love story... I was in a girly movie and it was a sad ending. She disappeared and I felt terribly alone.

It took me five planes to get back home, with the last one landing in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where three of my best friends were to meet me! I walked to Canadian customs and proudly handed my passport to the authorities, hoping they would look through it and say "Wow, you've been to many places around the world, you fine Canadian lad!" but they said nothing. Then I went off to the luggage carousel and watched everyone else's bags go 'round and 'round until there were none left. Incredible. I go around the world to twenty-four countries, eighty-one cities, I flew on forty-five planes, went through thirty-three different airports, and twenty-eight train or bus stations, and I lose my backpack and belongings when I arrive home!? I can't believe it.

Cristine, Adam, and Durga came out from Toronto to welcome me home!! Well, they weren't there when I got there - their plane hit the runway two hours after mine, so I had a few Tim Hortons coffee's and patiently waited until 11:30 when the 'arrived' word flashed red on the arrival board beside their flight number. At this point I had been awake for almost thirty-two hours. I watched people reuniting with family and friends until I got a glimpse of Cristine's bright orangy-red hair come around the corner - with six-foot-four Adam and tiny Durga close behind. My buddies were here! I hadn't seen them in over a year and I was glad to see their old work-ravaged faces again! Cristine said she needed a drink, so I opened my shirt, looked down and asked it if it was OK to go for a bit of a boozer. A few days earlier I had Sandra's face digitally printed upsidedown on a white t-shirt so I could look at her whenever I became lonely. Yes, I'm insane - and I think my buddies thought so too, judging from the looks on their faces as I spoke to my chest. My shirt said that it was OK, so we dropped our bags off at the hotel in Halifax and walked to the nearest bar we could smell.

Adam and I shared a room and he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I drifted off into a coma sometime later and dreamt I was gleefully strolling through the bright halls on the third floor of the hotel, waving hello to the concierge behind the front desk as I went past. I looked down and followed my toes moving across the ugly paisley carpet in my dreamy state and happily realized I only had underwear on and the Sandra-upsidedown-shirt covering my torso. As I was floating past doorway after doorway, I became cold and really had to pee... Funny things, these dreams... but I don't remember ever being cold or having to urinate while in fantasy land. Consciousness slammed a cinderblock in my face and I became swiftly and painfully aware that I wasn't dreaming. I had opened my hotel room door, leaving the keys inside, with no shoes, socks, or pants, walked past the desk clerk waving and smiling hello, got in an elevator to the third floor and woke up. "Holy shit!" I said aloud. "I was just sleepwalking," I said to the empty hallway. I was in a complete stupor - after a brief moment waiting for my brain to rouse I freaked out, thinking, 'How the hell I'm I going to get back into my room?" "What's my room number?' I questioned myself. Then I remembered the concierge and his curious expression as I walked past him in my sexy evening wear. I was going to have to go back and ask him what room I was in - and if I could have another key. No need to explain anything to him, I'm sure he's seen it all before. I wasn't embarrassed at all as I approached the desk, pulling my Sandra t-shirt over my manhood. I was finally back in my room, giggling to myself about the story I was going to tell my still sleeping friends in the morning.

My lost baggage was delivered by the airline the next day, and I swifty changed out of my crusty clothes and into fresh ones before we braved the city of Halifax and all it has to offer... seafood and beer! Off we went to the Alexander Keith's Brewery for a gallivant back in time when beer wenches sang pretty songs to you as you gulped a dark brew, then to a spectacular seafood celebration overlooking the harbour before settling into another drinking establishment to wet our whistles once again! Then some putz puked on me. Yeah, I guess it isn't good luck like when a little birdy craps on you, but his hot vomit did warm me up a little, I guess.... Anyway, the four of us were sitting at a round table next to a metal staircase leading up to the second floor. I had my back to the stairs, drinking happily, when I felt a sprinkling of goo cover the back of the jacket I was wearing. Thinking it was just a beer that someone had mistakenly spilled on the stairs, I wasn't concerned until I noticed my friends' horrified faces all looking past me at something. I slowly turned my wooden stool so I could see the exciting commotion behind me. There standing on the metal steps was a wobbly young man teetering from his alcoholic overindulgence with streams of bile and his half-digested nourishment dripping from his open mouth. He was about to topple down the stairs as he looked at the lake of puke that had just surged up from his stomach and splashed all over everything, including me, sitting two feet away and at the same level as the contaminated walking surface. Nobody but myself and my three befuddled friends noticed the mayhem. Seconds later groups of women with high heels climbed the steps, unaware of the soupy substance defiling their expensive footwear, and it was business as usual. I was afraid to look at the back of my jacket with the warm chunks of debris deeply cemented into the fabric, and then there was my hair... do I continue our social drinking with the smatterings of heavy upchuck slowly dissolving the proteins in my golden locks? I guess so. I'm hardcore. As long as we continue our hooch sucking in smokey bars I won't be able to smell the back of my head. "Does this stuff only happen to me?" I asked my buddies - and they just laughed - at me, not with me.





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