California Doomed: Horrors Behind Closed Doors?

Continued below (warning: I change tenses a bit, deal with my inconsistency accordingly):

So, as in my last post, I had recently, sweatily (What, so what if it isn't a word, I just made it one!) got through airport security, U.S. Customs, and I am alone.

In some countries like Cuba, you get screamed/shouted at if you don't continue moving after you pass through their security or customs area. So I try to walk really slowly around the edge of security.

I don't know if I will be yelled at or forced to move on.

I see the sign for the fancy schmancy Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge to my right, but realize I have no access without Feyoncé.

It is also then that I realize that HOLY-SHIT-WHERE-THE-HELL-IS-HE, HE'S-BEEN-GONE-FOR-A-WHILE-AND-I-DON'T-KNOW-WHERE-HE-WILL-END-UP-WHEN-HE-IS-DONE.

I am standing alone, without a watch, without a clue as to where he is or how long he will be.

So I put on my big girl pants and wait. 5 minutes. It feels like a long time. Until I still see nothing for the next 3 minutes... 5 more..

5 more...

and 5 more.

I finally approach someone official-looking and ask if Feyoncé will end up in the same place as me once he is done his "random check". The gentlemen assures me that if my guy is travelling to the U.S. that he will, indeed, have to come through the same security area.

He offers that I go to the lounge to wait for him. Or try calling him.

(While it would have been a helpful addition to this post to add photographs of all of the NO CELL PHONE signs posted throughout the security area, I feel that whipping out my cell or camera to document said signs probably wouldn't have gone over very well).

SO THANKS, official-looking-guy. Pretty sure I can't call him, and sure as hell HE CAN'T answer his own phone if he is in interrogation/being searched rectally.

So after twenty minutes have passed, I can feel whatever semblance of big-girl-pant-ed-ness I had crumbling under the weight of the terror that I will never see Feyoncé again/I will miss the flight/ I will die just beyond the border of the security area.

I mean, totally rational, right? Probably the most likely area to die. Or not.

So I start CRYING people.

CRYING at the motherfucking airport, at 31 years of age.

Crying at the airport.... Who? ME?? Nooooo.

After 35 minutes of anxiety and confusion, I finally see him making his way through the hundreds of feet of security aisle.

I cannot express the relief I felt.

I can see, too, that he is at least happy to communicate to me that although he has been violated in ways no man should ever (nor will ever) discuss publicly, that he knows that I NOW KNOW that he is alive and will be coming with me.

We head to the lounge together, STAT, because I need a mother-effing drink more than you can say "overreact".

SO... turns out there was a long line-up in the random screening section. That was it.



Yup, just a line-up. And a friendly search person who apologized for the delay to him. And some questions about pocket contents.

Jaysus.

Also? I think that the Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge at Pearson Airport waters down their liquor because I downed two triple vodka and iced teas in about 15 minutes and didn't feel it.

So that was the start to my first (and only?) trip to California.

Calm, cool, and collected.

Good thing I brought my big girl pants, eh?

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California Doomed: Customs & Cavity Searches

So it was kind of novel, having my laptop present with me while on the plane.

I am capable of killing hours at a time with laptop in lap (along with Puppaaaay! who was renamed officially to Ella a few weeks ago), accomplishing nothing, sometimes spending money, sometimes not.

The interwebs are a miraculous and terrifying black hole where time and space (and money) can disappear in (what seems like) an instant.

Anyway, so me and Feyoncé were scheduled for this trip to L.A..... (do you punctuate after a short form period? Jeez, I don't know these things, stop staring at me!).

I wasn't planning on doing much, since I still don't feel well (mind you, I had no idea a hospital stay was in my future).

We have this nifty little thing called a Nexus pass that allows you (slightly) easier (sort of) access into the U.S., if you aren't an asshole and you don't have a criminal record or anything.

Nexus: "Don't faahck mess with us"

You have to pass an interview and have your fingerprints taken (Feyoncé noted that we would be totally screwed CSI-style if we ever decided to rob a bank in the future, since we are "on file" now... not that we ever WOULD, but you know, if we ever WANTED to in the future).

They scan your eyeballs, too. The machine scans your mother-effing RETINAS, people.

It's kind of cool.

Unless they still decide that your travelling partner should be subjected to a full scan/further random investigation.

Okay. No problem. I'm cool. My form says something different. I'll just CALMLY proceed ahead to the baggage drop and security. NO problem. Cool. No problem.

I see Feyoncé meander away to the room that you cannot see for his (full-body cavity search and interrogation with two cruel government agents under a solitary swinging lightbulb) random check.

Full body scan - always better than a full cavity search. Imagine this is me, but with less boob. Oh, and less gun in the arse, too.

I start to weave through the thousand-foot long security aisle and get shouted at for going the wrong way. I wince and panic. (Keep in mind I am travelling with about the mental capacity of a 5-year old. An immature 5 year old).

I can feel the panic-rash starting and feel like all the security is looking at me like I am a freakish security threat with my borrowed backpack and stylin' boots over jeans look.

I am then told I am being randomly selected for trace substances on my hands. Some guy with (terrifying) blue rubber gloves wands over my hands to see if I am a criminal of sorts.

I also wonder, for a moment, if I have washed my hands recently and panic about that, too.

What's that Mr. Security Man? No, nope, been up to nothing. Sparkling clean hands. See for yourself. I loathe dirt. Didn't you see the liquid hand sanitizer in my bag?

I then REMEMBER, FOR ONCE, to take my damn belt off BEFORE setting off alarms and whatnot. I also remember to take out my laptop first, so as not to seriously PISS-THE-EFF-OFF the security folk like I did the last time I travelled with my computer.

I make it through, looking and feeling guilty as hell (of nothing at all) and make it to the other side of the joys known as U.S. Customs and security.

I even remembered to put all my "liquids" into a small zipper bag. (You know, the dangers of stay-on lipstick, lip gloss, chap stick, and a tiny pen-dispenser of hand sanitizer. World be damned, I am a dangerous bitch on a plane).

I pass through... but there is no Feyoncé. Anywhere.
ANYWHERE.

I am on my fucking own, watchless, vaguely aware of my surroundings, all disheveled from my check in experience...


Where will he come out? What if he went to the fancy pants Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge without me somehow? What if he enters into a completely different security area? What is taking so long? Why did they scan my hands and yell at me? Where IS HE?

And then FULL ON panic sets in.


To be continued...

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California Doomed: Airport Stylin'

So what can only be the wisest decision for my digestive system included not only the primary and secondary gluten assaults as provided by Pizza Hut pizza (mmmmm... blech), then a wonderful dinner at Kit Kat restaurant in Toronto...

I also figured it would only be in my most sincere and heartfelt best interests to go gung ho in the Air Canada fancy schmancy pants lounge prior to our flight to LAX (Los Angeles, California, for all you non-travellers or knowers of airport coding).

I can't help it. They have ever-flowing, always re-stocked tiers of cookie plates for any and all to devour.

Oatmeal raisin anyone? What's that? Oh, there's chocolate chip as well? Well fuck me and call me Uncle Charlie Sheen, full of winning tiger blood.

Well, not really. Don't do that. Feyoncé probably wouldn't appreciate it (and hell, I have no idea where you have been, what if you are a carrier of some horrendous STD or something?)

I digress.

So yeah. I was all excited for the gluten-free chick pea/cherry tomato/spices/olive oil salad. Had two bowlfuls. One of the employees looked at me bug-eyed, in awe of my (bravery? stupidity?) for consuming such a large amount of fibrous beans in a single ten-minute sitting.

What can I say, I aim to impress.

Speaking of which, WTF. I usually travel with comfort, and ONLY COMFORT, in mind.  
Feyoncé even commented with those EXACT WORDS.

As I have mentioned previously, I particularly despise the once-over twice-over I typically get from the Air Canada Lounge staff when I accompany my guy into their superior and fantastical territory (in my pajama pants).

SO this time... THIS TIME, I actually wore somewhat fitted jeans with BOOTS over my jeans. I know, fucking crazy. Feyoncé thinks the look is ridiculous, but I did it anyway to be STYLISH.

FUCKING STYLISH, bitches.

I was totally hot like this, all shadowy and mysterious. Sort of. Jeans over boots Babies, jeans over boots.

I say that now, with swollen calves, blisters, and sweaty feet. No one gives a solitary shit about what I look like at the airport, or anywhere else, for that matter. 

But I decided, "Hey! I am going to mother-effing California, y'all! They are all wealthy and fashion-savvy, and every single woman has breast implants and no grey hair! I better step up my freakin' game!"

So yeah. Um, I don't do stylish well. Nevermind stylish + travelling + cranky + gluten-filled-bloaty.

Also? The entire time I am typing this, I am fighting the fucking moron in front of me who is attempting to push their seat back with their entire strength. It's amazing what an upright laptop, strong wrists, and perseverance can do.

Fucker.


I'm pretty sure the small Asian lady in front of me will only be comfortable if her seat is pushed back into our departure port of Toronto.

Okay, that's not fair. I have no idea if she is Asian.

But I do know she is one of those assholes with no concern for others' personal space.

If I ever become the I-fully-recline-my-seat-and-don't-give-a-flying-fuck types promise me that you will shoot me or send a computer virus to me stat to smack some sense into me.

Anyway, have I mentioned how much I fucking HATE flying?

My wrists are sore from sitting in crouching-passenger-hidden-carpal-tunnel form, to keep her from crushing my laptop. It's the only force from stopping me from full on claustrophobia.

The next post will let you know how much fun the transition was from friendly (not really) Pearson Airport into that shifty, terrifying area known as U.S. Customs.

*I should preface the next post with a disclaimer that I am the hugest wuss ever, especially when travelling. Like, 5 year old mentality and calm, cool, collected-ness. (Read: none).

Yes, in the end I checked, she was a 4'-0" tall Asian lady. Who apparently feels like that little car that FEELS really big inside.



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