We are at 11,277 meters above Nunavut, north of Iqaluit, headed towards Greenland. Our flight will take us over Uummannaq. Three hours into the journey, after some nice food, and not so nice wine, there has been time to think about our exit from Canada.
First and foremost, it feels right, It feels like the thing that we had to do. It feels like exactly the choice that we had to make. It feels like France was destined to be our home, and our destiny.
I’ve flown many times on Air Canada, but this is the first time on Air France. If you need to understand why I have left the country of my birth you need only look at the very different experiences.
From the moment that we walked up to the Air France check in counter with our mountain of luggage we were greeted with genuine warmth, and with an overwhelming sense that we were welcomed and valued guests. The Air France employees are just so nice.
They positively enthused over Beatrice, our Cat, and let us take extra pieces of luggage at no charge.
Instead of the horrid Air Canada attitude the feeling was that they wanted to do whatever would make our trip easiest.
Now I’m the first person to recognize that I’m likely caught up in the romance of the journey, and that the reality of life in France will likely be different and sometimes difficult.
That’s a good thing though, and that challenge is part of what makes this trip so important to me. I don’t necessarily want it to be easy, I just want it to be positive – they are two different things, and both are possible.
That romance doesn’t extend to the trip as a whole though. Air flight is never really exciting beyond the takeoff. Eight hours in a seat is boring, and There is not ever much to do on a plane except watch bad movies with bad audio. Although I’m surprised that Air France offers both Bonnie and Clyde, and Bullitt....
The other thing that’s occupying me right now is trying to plan our arrival. Once we land in Bordeaux (after changing planes in Paris) we will pretty quickly be collecting 10 suitcases (four of which are at the very edge of the 23 kilo weight limit), deal with our poor uncomplaining but unhappy cat (OK, she’s drugged too), dealing with customs, and picking up a rental car... um SUV, for the trip to either nearby a Novotel room, or our temporary home in Varaignes. Depending on whether we can mange a two hour drive on French roads. We arrive at 10:30 am, so I assume that we’ll manage it tomorrow... sorry, today in France.
Our one overwhelming image of this trip was created by Susan. She looked at us, and our huge collection of luggage, and said “Oh my god. We look like the families that you see arriving at YVR with a baggage cart stacked high with bulging suitcases and cardboard boxes! We’re immigrants! Hauling all of our worldly possessions with us!”
That’s the moment when my mind made the jump from “We’re taking a trip to Europe” to “We’re emigrating to France. This isn’t fun and games, it isn’t about sight-seeing and exploration. It’s about a life change, and about leaving the old life behind and beginning a new one.
As exciting as that is, and as enthused as I am at what the future holds for us, it is, in all honesty, daunting, and even frightening.
I’m still at a pretty rudimentary level in terms of speaking French, and right now I’m honestly not confident that I’ll be able handle French road laws, road signs, and local driving habits. If I can get us to the hotel without an accident I’ll feel much better about the whole affair.
I’m wondering about shopping, and food, and all of the myriad of everyday things that will suddenly be different and confusing. I’m worried about the times when I’ll hit the wall and have to figure out something that just makes no sense to me.
But I’m also looking forward to the days when I discover something I never anticipated that brings me joy, or just makes a a difficult Canadian task into something easy.
Like the way that checking in to an Air France flight with far too much luggage and a cat turned out to be simple and fast instead of a nightmare.
If you believe in omens this a is a very positive one.
What a difference couple of hours make. As lovely as Air France may be, the Charles De Gaulle airport (CDG) is another thing entirely. For reasons unknown the plane parked about twenty kilometres from the terminal, and we, with luggage, fatigue, and a cat, and had to stumble down stairs and endure a fifteen minute ride of tram back to the gate. Which was followed by a twenty minute hike from the far reaches at one end of CDG to the far reaches on the other. With a broken escalator.
The lineup for security screening was equalled by the following lineup for passport control. These were LONG line ups.
Finally, here’s the terminal at CDG.