Bumps

As travel days go, this one went fairly well.  Yes, I was pulled for the additional security search in Halifax, but Toronto lost neither my suitcase nor the next portion of my ticket. My favourite sight en route most definitely was the the old codger–overweight, past 70, dressed in what looked like standard park ranger wear of khaki shirt and slacks, olive drab vest with multiple pockets– who was wearing a jeweler’s loupe and industriously (but seemingly grumpily) working on an embroidered tea towel.  At one point he studied his work while holding it aloft and I could see it was a map of Nova Scotia.

The woman next to me on the next flight was truly cranky and I did my best to stay out of her way.  But all my opinions of her changed drrastically as we landed.  Although the flight had been relatively smooth, the landing was bad:  we touched the runway, then bounced up again and bumped down hard.  She grabbed my hand.  “That was bad,” she chirped.  “My husband was a pilot and I hate flying and that one was bad.”  I couldn’t help but notice the “was” and the fact that the hand that gripped mine was wearing both a diamond and a wedding band.

The mile highness here is getting to me, or maybe it’s just that I’m three hours in advance of clock time.  I walked for a couple miles–it’s 70 Fahrenheit, or was when the sun was up–and felt like I’d been scraped up from the bottom of the sea.

Oh, well, tomorrow’s another day and it’s sure to come earlier for me than for my hotel mates.

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