Travelling to Australia - Vancouver

I suppose my trek to Australia began at the Vancouver airport (thanks for the drop-off, Caitlin!). The airport wasn't all that busy and the gentleman at the check-in counter was exceedingly friendly. Things started off well.. for the first 10 minutes or so anyway. My flight to Melbourne had one stop-over in Los Angeles, so, as I should have expected, I needed to go through American customs.

The Americans make you go through their customs on the Canadian side, I guess to stream-line things once you land. That's fine, I'd prefer to do my waiting during the time before my flight anyway than after I land. Predictably, the whole experience was rather frightful. I was typing on my BlackBerry to pass the time when one of the security guards roaming around barked at me that I wasn't allowed to use cellphones while in line. I resisted the urge to comment that a BlackBerry wasn't a "cellphone", as if this would have exempted me from the rule. Instead, I cocked my eye and gave him a confused look. He pointed to one of the 50 signs plastered everywhere in the room that I had clearly overlooked that displayed a cellphone with a red circle and thick red line through it. This didn't make any sense to me so I commented "well that's proposterous" and gave him an incredulous stare. He didn't appear to appreciate that comment but feigned he hadn't heard and instead glared at me and said "Pardon?". I decided fighting with the US Department of Homeland Security about the use of cellphones or other devices while in line AND while on their soil (the whole area and the gates past it are US property and soil apparently) likely wasn't the battle I needed to fight right at that time. As such, I pretended I hadn't said anything and replied with "I'm putting it in my pocket" and did just that. Satisfied, the thug continued with his patrol. It's amazing how the Americans are able to create an atmosphere of fear wherever they chose. The whole room just gave you a feeling of walking on nails. The line was slow, the room dark and in the distance a drill was going off that sounded like there was a prison break. This didn't stop for the entire half-hour I waited in line. To top it off, the guard kept yelling at people to proceed to the customs agent at "Number 8". I can only assume it was the angle at which he was standing, but the rest of us in line could clearly see that agent number 8 was busy, each of the five separate times he must have yelled at the next person in line to go there. Being the stooge that he was, however, he didn't bother to actually go check why people were ignoring him. Rather, he just yelled for a bit then quieted down.

Once through Customs, I proceeded to a conveyor belt where everyone was simply dumping their luggage. I'm used to dropping off my luggage at the check-in, but that's not how it worked here. They tag your bags at check-in, but then force you to drag them around until you reach this conveyor 45 minutes later. I was a bit hesitant about putting my luggage on this thing... Where did it go? Was there another conveyor I should be using? I queried the clearly bored gentleman sitting near the device to ask if this was the right place. This man was so clearly bored with his life at the moment that even human contact, a source of reprieve from his monotonous task, wasn't enough to bring him out of his trance. He muttered something about how I shouldn't worry about it and stared off. Seeing no other alternatives I entrusted my bags to the conveyor, gravely concerned I wouldn't see them again...

The remainder of my time prior to my flight was spent waiting at the gate. Two parents and their murder of children decided that across from me would be the ideal spot to sit, much to my dismay. I really don't like children and this lot were especially loud and energetic. I decided then was the right time to get my last Canadian donught and coffee from the Tim Horton's across the way as I could then relocate myself elsewhere, away from the children, without appearing rude. I indulged in two Boston Creams,a coffee and a bottle of water. I returned to the gate and sat well away from everyone.

The rest of my wait was fairly peaceful until the lot at the airport bar, right across from me, started with their fourth or fifth drink. I had met two of them in line at Customs. We had shared sentiments about the "Police State" nature of our wait. The one was wearing far too much perfum and I had spotted her with the group at the bar only after I had smelled her presence earlier. The group was getting a bit too loud and you could tell the flight-attendants, who were waiting with us until the plane arrived, weren't looking foward to dealing with them during the flight. The flight-attendants were all, predictably, French. Good luck finding any Anglo employees on a Canadian flight (it was an Air Canada flight). Apparently the Quebecois are the only ones who ever bother to learn Canada's other official language.

Eventually, we were allowed to board. I never understood why people get all antsy in their pantsy when they start calling out the rows who may board. 1) The flight isn't going to leave without you; 2) It's assigned seating - maybe people forget that. The first one in line doesn't get the best seat. The only thing they win is a chance to sit in their seat on the plane until everyone else gets to theirs; 3) the seats on the plane blow. Why would you rush to go sit in them when you can instead lay across a row of chairs in the airport, if you wanted. I decided to use the time to go to the washroom. It turned out to be quite a trek to the nearest one. By the time I returned there were only a few people left to board. Perfect timing. As I proceeded to my seat, I gave a mocking smile to those who had rushed to board first and were clearly already uncomfortable in their chairs. Much to my delight I had the entire row to myself. This allowed me to spread out and afforded a fairly comfortable three hours to LAX. The flight itself was uneventful. Air Canada now has TVs on all the seats (on this flight anyway) and satellite TV to go with it. I ended up on the Discovery channel and stupidly began watching a show about a commercial plane being shot down in Iraq - perhaps an ill-advised choice given my precarious position, 30,000 feet in the air. Curious to know how it ended, however, I ended up watching the entire show until its end an hour later. By the end I was quite anxious about my situation and nearly cried when the crew in the show managed to land their craft safetly (and miraculously). I prayed our pilot was equally good at his job. Of course, everything was fine. Besides dozing, reading and exchanging flirtatious glances with the one flight-attendant who had taken to looking and smiling at me whenever she passed, the flight was mostly uneventful. We landed in Los Angeles.