Newfoundland: Day 0 (or, There And Back Again)

I didn't expect to have the opportunity to write about my travels to Newfoundland just yet...But nor did I expect to be spending my afternoon sitting next to a "Booster Juice" kiosk in Halifax, Nova Scotia, making the most of a series of "Ripped Berry Delights" with extra whey protein.  And if you had asked me a day ago to guess, just to throw out a rough estimate, of the number of times I would have to remove my belt, shoes, laptop, iPhone, and other personal accessories to pass through security, I might have thrown out a "one," or if I were feeling a bit cheeky, maybe "two."  I wouldn't have dreamed of saying "four."

And the day's not done yet!

My friend Mike, who may be on the road to studying transportation science, air travel efficiency, and the like, will appreciate this the most, I think.  I can't help but enjoy it.  But that might just be the extra whey protein speaking.

I woke up at 6 am, after a short three-hour night's rest, to be ready to head to Logan for the journey to Newfoundland.  The plan was to board the 8:45 am flight to Toronto, and there connect to St. John's Newfoundland, getting in around 4:30 pm.  Everything began as planned.  My dad picked me up at home and drove me to Logan, where I picked up my boarding passes and checked my luggage with no problems.  In fact, there were no other passengers in the Air Canada section at all, so by the time I made my way to security, I was way ahead of schedule.  It was then that I made my first foray through the security system, though at that time, the symbolic nature of those intricately cordoned pathways, and their now inescapable suggestion of the labyrinthine security process to come, had not yet fully impressed itself upon me.

Making your way through the security checkpoint isn't usually that big a deal.  Even for me, carrying a lot of esoteric and "suspicious" gear, it's not bad if I only have to do it once.  But it's definitely a chore.  I have to take my shoes off like everyone else, but I'm wearing these hiking boots with high laces, which means I have to unlace them all the down to the ankle so that I can remove them.  My belt comes off, which means my pants are now falling down.  So, with one hand holding on for dear life, trying to stave off public humiliation, I have to open my carry-on suitcase to remove the laptop, while making sure my binoculars and scope and camera are all still situated firmly inside, and fold up the tripod/backpack combination into a formation that will fit on the conyeor belt without attracting any unwanted delays.  Why didn't I take my belt off after taking care of all the other mess?  I wasn't quite practiced yet.  But believe me, by the fourth time through, I'll that order down pat.  I'm like those guys in the pit stop during an auto race now.  If passing through security becomes an Olympic event, I'll be ready.

So, after the security guy yelled at me for removing the laptop from the luggage but failing to remove the laptop proper from the laptop case (ugh), I was through and into the terminal.  I've never flown Air Canada before...it looks like it's just three gates in one small wing.  So when I entered, I immediately saw Bill and Mary, who were on the flight just before mine, although they would be stopping in Halifax, Nova Scotia on their way to St. John's, Newfoundland.  We were all excited to see each other again, and talked about our plans for the next five days.  It was a lazy morning in Logan Airport.  We were all there ahead of time.  We had done our part.

When it came time for Bill to board his plane, he noticed the first problem.  There was no plane.  Bill looked agitated.  He and Mary had a quick 45-minute layover in Halifax.  Any delay could be a big problem.  Other people, also perturbed, started standing next to the gate door, as if that just might impress upon fate the seriousness of the situation and the fact that such delinquency would not be tolerated.  Alas, the plane did not show up on time, and when it did eventually leave with Bill and Mary in tow, it was a half-hour late.  Good luck, Bill and Mary.  I still have no idea where they are.

Back to our story.  Unfortunately, my plane was due to arrive at the same gate that Bill's plane had just left.  So, now, my plane was late.  My boarding time had come and gone, and now I was pacing around the doorway, succumbing to the desperate hope that the airline system would observe my exasperation and, recognizing the inefficiency they were about to wreak upon me, seek a remedy.  No such luck.  My friend Christine was with me now, also bound for St. John's for a long weekend of birding, and shared my exact itinerary for the day.  We waited, and eventually, our plane showed up, and departed with us 30 minutes late.

It didn't seem at the time like that would be a big problem, though.  Our layover was an hour and fifteen minutes.  Even if we arrived in Toronto a half-hour late, surely that would leave us plenty of time to make our connection?  Little did I understand the bizarre sequence of maneuvers that are required when crossing national borders.

Christine and I deplaned in Toronto, and joked to each other about donning our running shoes and racing to our connecting flight.  But upon entering the Toronto airport, I learned that because it was my first port of entry, I had to pass through customs.  And, I had to pick up my baggage?  And, I would have to pass through security again??  Maybe many of you are accustomed to this, but it was completely new to me.  So now, our forty-five minute buffer between flights was rapidly shrinking.  I filled out a customs declaration form, signing in blood that, in fact, I was not visiting Canada with the intention of "farming" or "trading live animals," waited in line, and delivered it to the customs agent.  Then, it was off to pick up my checked bags...?  Christine and I now had about twenty minutes before the plane departed...and the baggage carousel was still empty.  At this moment, it dawned on both Christine and me that even were we to make the connection on time, it seemed unlikely that our bags would accompany us.  But it was a moot point, anyway.  We waited for ten minutes for the baggage carousel to awaken, and by the time we had bags in hand, we now had about ten minutes before our connecting flight left for St. John's.  We moved with a quickness, just moving, not thinking, moving toward what we thought was the connecting terminal, our bags rolling behind us, perhaps with the instinct that just getting our bodies on the plane was the right strategy...We would worry about the fate of the luggage later.  But just as we rounded the corner, expecting to find ourselves at the connecting gate, we were faced with a scene that dashed all our hopes: another security checkpoint.

So, we gave up hope, then and there, of making our connection.  I reenacted my previous sequence of security moves, now somewhat practiced, cutting a few minutes off my time.  Yes, I saved the belt for last.  And once we were through, we were greeted by two very friendly Air Canada agents, who had already rerouted us, and were prepared to explain what the rest of our day would be like.

I have to say, the Air Canada staff was extremely pleasant.  Unfortunately, as I would find multiple times over the course of our interactions, their pleasantness seemed to be inversely proportional to their effectiveness.  But for now, I thought I was lucky to be in such sure hands, and settled in to listen to my new instructions.

The only remaining Air Canada flights to St. John's, where we needed to go, were through Halifax, Nova Scotia (ironically, where Bill and Mary had planned to connect, though their current predicament was still a mystery).  And there were two flights out of Halifax, one leaving at 6:45 pm and one leaving at 9:55 pm.  But the 6:45 pm flight out of Halifax was booked.  Could they put us on standby?  Sure!  I'll print you out a boarding pass for the 9:55 pm flight, and here's a little green sticky note that I just scribbled on illegibly to certify that you're on standby for 6:45.  But...wait...Does the computer know we're on standby?  Are the computer systems in Canada able to transcribe and record random scribblings through the ether?  Oooooh, no, sorry, I can't seem to put that in the computer from here.  Uhhh, well, were you going to tell us that?  Or were we just supposed to wave this green sticker at the pilot and hope that he would pull up to the curb and let us hop aboard?

Oh, that's a good point.  Kindly consult the customer service kiosk when you get to Halifax.

So, with that, we boarded the flight from Toronto to Halifax, and thus entered the rarefied world of "Standby Limbo."

The flight to Halifax was uneventful.  We more than half-expected to see Bill and Mary walking around, with their own byzantine stories of Air Canada "pleasantness."  But we didn't see Bill and Mary.  What we did see was the customer service kiosk to which we had previously been directed.  Just a kiosk.  No attendant.  We knew that getting on the standby list early was critical to our chances of making the earlier flight to St. John's, so we wasted no time in approaching another Air Canada representative who was busy assisting with a completely different flight that was starting to board.  I knew she wouldn't really have time to help with our specific problem, so I just asked, "Do you know where there's a customer service agent we could speak to?"

"Yes, right over there."

"But there's no one there."

"Yes, but that's where someone would be."

This line of reasoning didn't seem like it was destined to be fruitful, so I stopped it mid-course, and redirected.  Could she check her computer to confirm that, yes, we were indeed on standby for the earlier flight?  She said, "Oh, you have a green sticker, so there you are!  You're on standby for flight 8630."  Again with the green sticker.  But can you check to see if that's in the computer?  Sure, and after a few fiddles and diddles, she said, "Hmmm, it's actually not in the computer."  Canada has severely overestimated the technical capabilities of little green stickers.

So, (sigh), can you put it in the computer?

"Let me see...it doesn't look like I can do that from here.  You'll have to go down to see a ticket agent.  Take those stairs down and turn left.  She'll be able to help you."

Christine and I walked down the stairs, and stopped.  The door through which we were supposed to find the individual who could solve all our problems had a big red "No Re-entry" sign on it.  Huh?  A security guard sat his watch at the desk.  He confirmed that yes, the ticket agent we sought was through those doors, but re-entry was not permitted here.  And that meant there would be only one way to return to our gate.

Security checkpoint #3.

Christine and I stood our ground for a few moments, but there was nothing to be done.  I steeled myself for yet another unconscionable pass through security, and we walked through the glass doors, beyond which there was no return.

So now, we were back at the entrance to the airport!  We found the ticket agent's line, and stood and waited for one of the representative to beckon.  But an official-looking Air Canada man strolled by, and asked why we looked so frazzled.  As we began to explain, his eyes, like some laser-focused sniper rifle, fastened immediately upon the small green sticker still affixed to my boarding pass.  He jumped.  It was as though I had revealed some ancient totem, proving I was the rightful king of Air Canada.  Maybe this little green patch of paper did have more power than I realized...

He said our names, and he said them again, slowly.  He closed his eyes.  He said them one more time.  Or rather, he chanted them.  This incantation continued, and by degrees, my faith was being renewed.  Just as Frodo couldn't fully comprehend the power of the ring he carried with him, so perhaps was I ignorant of the full potency of the green sticker.

He broke free from his trance with a start, having murmured our names several more times, then looked me right in the eye, and said simply, "You're all set."

It was not the certainty, but the finality with which he uttered this conclusion that reassured me.  Although nothing apparent to me had changed in those last ten seconds, who can deny the possibility of that which exists beyond the scope of our own senses?

He said, "Go back through security and head to the gate.  You'll be all set for the earlier flight."

And then as mysteriously as the man had appeared, he was gone.

It took only a matter of seconds for Christine and me to begin questioning our new-found confidence, but no time for that!  There was another security checkpoint to cross!

So here it was, number three.  By now, I was an expert.  I whipped out my laptop and unlaced my shoes with the grace and dispatch of a Cirque du Soleil performer.  I leaned this way and that, in perfect pace and rhythm, such that my shoes slipped off just as my tripod and laptop hit the conveyor belt in synchrony.  And then, the piece de resistance: my belt weaved its lithe way from out its constraints, and with one hand placed perfectly upon the pants, I strode with poise and aplomb through the metal-detecting archway that I had made my own.

But with little fanfare, Christine and I gathered our belongings, recomposed, and headed for our new gate.  Because there was still plenty of time to spare before even the earlier of the two flights to St. John's, we walked around, and happened upon a juice shop that specialized in healthy, fruit-based protein-packed libations.  It was just what we needed.  But as I sipped my "Ripped Berry" with whey proteins, I glanced over and noticed that we had walked in a circle, both literally and figuratively.  We were once again standing just feet away from the woman who had originally directed us to head downstairs to find a ticket agent.

Christine and I approached her, hoping to confirm, for what he hoped would be the last time, that we were, indeed, on standby.  And as we sidled up to her desk, instinctively, fear took over.  We both thought we knew what the answer would be.  But the answer we received baffled us even further.

It's rare that you get the opportunity to use a great word like "Kafkaesque" and really mean it without sounding pretentious.  But if there ever were a scenario that warranted the use of such an amazing adjective, this would be it.

"Would you mind checking the computer again to see if we're on standby?  We spoke to a ticket agent, we think."

"Sure, let me check," she said pleasantly.  "Ok, let's check you first.  Yes, yes, I see your name, you are on standby for the earlier flight!"

I was dumbstruck.  Christine and I exchanged looks of wonder and disbelief.

"And let's check Christine...Annnnnnd...No, nope, looks like the agent didn't get around to her, sorry."

So here I sit, next to Christine at the juice bar in Halifax, Nova Scotia, planning to pass through the doors again, the ones with the red "No Re-entry" sign, the point of no return, in order to find yet another ticket agent, who might be able to add Christine to the standby list.

But after that, there's only one way back to the gate...

And you know what that means.