Travel Diaries

In my life, both personal and professional, I have been so lucky as to be able to rack up the frequent flyer points on several different airlines.  For the most part, I’ve enjoyed each of the adventures that I have had. The harsh truth of it though is that airplanes terrify me.  They are too loud and too hot or too cold and sometimes my stuff gets stuck underneath the seat in front of me on someone else’s gum (at least, I hope it’s gum.)  They smell like weird food and jet fuel and there is always that one, kindly older gentleman that I invariably sit next to always seems to smell like Rub A5-35, mouthwash and stale urine. 

Once, years ago in the dead of winter, when Pytor and I were flying to Sioux Lookout for a project we were working on, we left the Thunder Bay terminal and walked across the tarmac to our plane.  This was a new experience for me.  I didn’t know that you could board a plane without a ramp from the terminal- I suppose if I really thought about it, I would have recognized this, but I remember being partially alarmed and partially amazed by this fact at the time.  I felt like I was transplanted back to the 1970s and experiencing what real flying was like.  How smug I was to think that *I* of all people was lucky enough to experience this.  All you other travellers with your fancy boarding equipment, pssshhhhh.  *This* was real travel.

Two of the only four passengers, we hauled our bags through the cold and snow towards the plane in a cursory line. Though Pytor may recall things differently-the tricks of time and memory- I distinctly recall lugging HIS bag as well as mine; my short little legs scrambling to keep up with his lengthy stride.  As we approached the plane, we watched the ground crew start the props on the tiny twin engine plane, launching them by hand.  My faith in physics be damned, at this point I started to get a little worried.  I realized that my life was in the hands of whomever built this plane (I’m guessing at least 30 years prior to my birth) and all of those men and women that had maintained it over the years.  I was terrified.  And then I looked at Pytor.  The bead of sweat that had broken out on his forehead was clearly not from exertion.  (See my comments above regarding who carried the luggage for clarification on this.) From the angle I was standing, he appeared taller than the plane itself.  His shadow practically engulfing the wings in darkness.  In my terror, I cracked a joke “I wonder if my grandfather fixed this plane in the Second World War?” Realizing instantly that this kind of commentary was not helping either of us (Pytor’s stoic grimace instead of the hoped-for peal of laughter gave that away pretty quick.) I looked at the ground and took a deep breath, saying the first prayer I had recited in more than 20 years.

We handed off our bags to the ground crew and walked up the steps, only to enter the smallest, dankest, maroon-coloured tube imaginable.  Pytor, standing well over 6 feet tall, had to stoop low to avoid smashing his head on the ceiling.  And even I, barely 5’5’ (on a good day with a top bun and a bit of a heel) felt the need to squash.  As we both folded ourselves into our seats, Pytor reached across the aisle to point to the signage on the back of the seat.  “Do not smoke when Oxygen is in use”. Though good advice, I was a little unsettled by the pre-emptive warning that Oxygen WOULD be in use.  I was hoping for an “if” or “should Oxygen be required”.  Not a “when” as the sign suggested. 

After we were served some dubious looking unsalted peanuts from an ancient wicker tray by the  same man I assumed was the ground crew, this surly looking individual jumped into the cockpit, buckled himself in and started the taxi.  I turned in my seat to look across the aisle at Pytor.  By this time he had put his headphones on and forced himself into a fitful sleep.  I realized I was on my own.  I gripped the armrest and held on for dear life for the short trip to Sioux Lookout.  Following Pytor’s lead, I forced myself to fall asleep, music in my ears cranked as loud as possible to drown out the whine and occasional popping sound of the propellers.  I woke up with Pytor shaking my shoulder, informing we had indeed survived the trip unscathed and had arrived at our destination. I am certain I didn’t relax fully until about a week after we returned home, my fingers finally uncurling from their death grip-shape leftover from the armrest of the plane.  It was years before I could bring myself to get on a propeller plane again.

All this is to say that I’m not a great traveller in the best of times, but I have to remind myself that  I have survived it all before, so chances are I’ll get through whatever comes next.  

I was in full-on panic mode earlier this year when I was flying from Toronto to Edmonton.  In classic [insert unreliable airline name here] style, we left Toronto an hour late, and I was pushing it to make my connection in Edmonton.  Normally this wouldn’t be a really big deal, but where I was wanting to end up only had two flights per day.  Given that my flight was to end up connecting me with the second of these two flights, I was out of luck until the following day if I didn’t make it on time.  I would be late for my first gig with Three Things Consulting.  Not exactly how I had envisioned my entrance into the consulting world.

I was just settling into sleep as the pilot came on (incidentally somewhere over Thunder Bay) telling us not to worry but that we were turning around and heading back to Toronto.  There was, it seems, a smell of something burning in the cockpit that they wanted to check out, so we were going to be landing in case, you know, we were on fire or something.  I’ve done my share of crowd control in crisis situations, but let me tell you this: it is NOT a good idea to assure passengers that “the burning smell” in the cockpit is nothing to worry about, and then tell us we are turning around to get on the ground so we can “get checked out and make sure we are actually okay to fly.”  At this disclosure, I began to sweat.  I’m a particularly sweaty person in the best of times, but normally my all-natural Tom’s of Maine Lemongrass antiperspirant is up to the task.  Not so in the case.  I was smelly and soaked within five minutes of the pilot’s announcement.

The next hour and a half in the air was spent revising my Last Will and Testament, leaving all my worldly possessions to my husband, and trying to figure out how to respectfully tell him about my credit card debt that I had recently wracked up because of my ridiculous crafting obsession (yes, I really DO need that much floss for my cross stitch projects.) 

Landing heavy in Toronto was quite a spectacle.  Firetrucks and emergency crews were waiting for us on the tarmac (presumably in case we exploded with all that extra fuel we were carrying.)  Lights were flashing, and all kinds of people were milling about, making sure we were not on fire.  As it turns out, something was askew with the inflight entertainment system, causing the burning smell.  And though hellishly inconvenient for me and the other 200 passengers, I would argue that the decision to turn around and double check that we weren’t actually on fire or about to explode mid-air was a wise one.

I share these experiences as a reminder to myself that, there are always things far out of our control; that there are processes and people in which we need to place our trust.  In spite of what I might like to think sometimes, I am not the only keeper of knowledge, nor am I the only one that has challenges or difficulty in placing this trust (at least up front) in others.   This recognition is important and transcends my travel anecdotes, impacting the rest of my life and work. 

Often, the journey isn’t quite as we planned both in life and in this field.  There are fears and misconceptions and challenges that we could never have imagined and therefore are not totally prepared for. Trusting the process and the decisions of others can be hard, but it’s important.  After all, isn’t that we are asking the young people we work with to do? 

When we place our faith in the relationships we build with other people and agencies, the processes of other programs, and the practices of other cultures we end up creating not only greater learning opportunities for ourselves, but also far richer experiences for the young people we work with.  By role modelling this trust, we are unlocking incredible teachable moments for these youth, allowing them to create their own networks and expand their own skill sets.  Allowing them to build their own communities in which they themselves can be trusted, ultimately leading them to place where they truly feel they belong.  And that, my friends is what the journey is actually all about. Wouldn’t you agree?