necessary evils

Airports and I have a long and ugly history. They are the bane of my well planned holidays, the evil gremlin just waiting to throw a spanner in the works and keep me from enjoying the exotic destinations I’ve spent months dreaming about. I’ve experienced it all; twelve hour delays, emergency landings on remote tarmac, the embarrassing invasion of the hand held wand when the detector picked up some hidden minute trace of metal. Passport control officers who look like they would rather eat a lamb’s testicle than let me in the country. Sniffer beagles that look cute until they amble next to your bag. The ubiquitous duty free that forces me to buy giant bottles of liquor I never drink and fragrances I never wear because it’s cheaper. Not that I would know if it’s cheaper, because I don’t buy those things in my non-airport life. I’ve experienced the agony of Heathrow delays, the fear of Singapore’s machine gun toting security guards, the panic of discovering a hidden passport control at Rome twenty minutes before my flight. Twenty minutes is never long enough for a passport control in any country. The reason my hate-hate relationship with airports is at the front of my current agenda is that I have just bought tickets to Canada. Three weeks on the slopes of Whistler, smoothly cruising down the mountains during the day then cosying up with a hot chocolate and marshmallows at night. Three weeks wandering around and soaking up Vancouver. I’m lost in my daydreams already and my trip isn’t until November. But first I have to get through three airports. Three. Brisbane (bah) Los Angeles (eek) and Vancouver (urgh).