Trip to Africa: A Sorry Start

I'm en route to Africa. Here are my adventures, thus far

I phoned the cab company and asked for a time order for 5 pm. A bit after 5, the phone rang, alerting me that my cab had arrived. I put on my shoes, picked up my bags, opened the door, and watched the cab squeal off without us. I screamed a ladylike litany of cusses, but the car was gone. It hadn't even been two minutes since the call.

I phoned to complain, and about twenty minutes later, another cab showed. It's a good thing I'd given myself some leeway. We arrived at Pearson airport the recommended three hours in advance.

Going through security, I was randomly chosen to be scanned. I opted to be frisked rather than be x-rayed. This frisk was far more genteel than the surprise frisking I got in the Dominican Republic in 1994. That time, I'd been slammed against a wall without a how-do-you-do. This time, I was just politely and mildly groped.

I bought expensive food at one of the many interchangeable airport cafés: sliced turkey on a quinoa pilaf and green salad. It looked palatable. It was not. Turkey ought not to taste like dollar store bologna, and quinoa shouldn't ooze and be saccharine sweet. I ended up tossing out half of the squelching, pallid mass. A bag of chips and a granola bar removed most of the foul taste.

While queued up for the chips, I was embroiled in a Canadian vignette.

A woman was hemming and hawing over which bottle of water to purchase. Another woman waited for a bit, then said, "Sorry," reaching around the indecisive one for an Evian. "Sorry," she repeated.

The indecisive woman startled. "Oh, sorry," she said.

And then a man passed between the three of us, saying "Sorry" as he wove his way through.

And just then, the cashier looked up at me. "Sorry for the wait."

All I can say is that if Canada ever assimilates the rest of the world, you'll be sorry.