A New Start – What Can We Say

A New Start – What Can We Say

The end of one day...the beginning of the next

As some of you now know, our time in Brisbane is now over and we have relocated to New Zealand.  I say “New Zealand” because the country has roughly the same population as the wider Brisbane area and more so because the town that we’ve relocated in, is virtually unheard of, except in New Zealand were it’s very popular, but only as a punch line to jokes.

For those of you that missed the bit where we left Brisbane, that account is found at Elvis Has Left the Thunderdome.

Life is all about managing expectations.  So we knew that leaving the blissful weather of SE Queensland for the land referred to as “The Long White Cloud” was going to be a change, and further, a change that needed to be managed.  Our research showed that rather than water that ranged between 21-26c and summer ambient temperatures consistently in the 30-40c range, we were going to live in a town where the Tasman Sea was 17-22c and the air threatened historic records at 30c. 

So we thought that it would be a good idea to leave Brisbane before we could enjoy too much summer and thus ruining the mood for our new home.  It was a simple and modest plan that attempted to accommodate a holiday, as well as a Christmas visit back in Calgary.  Well modest of sorts.  The itinerary included stops in Fiji, Honolulu and Calgary, before embarking to start our new adventure in New Zealand.  I guess I mean that it was modest considering that our travel included 5 countries in 4 weeks.

Calgary was a good call but full of it’s own adventures and misadventures, which is also the subject of a shorter update, found at Searching For Auntie Em and Toto.  Basically the anticipated magnificence of a White Christmas soon gave way to the misery of cold temperatures, reinforcing the cliché that you can never go home.  Although Spencer loved eating snow as it fell from the sky, we all agreed that -10c (and below) is inhumane.  However the short sharp shock of cold did ease our transition from Brisbane to New Zealand.   

A quick right into town, mate

Did I mention that the town we’re moving to is New Plymouth?  Did I mention that New Plymouth is beautifully located on the western coast of New Zealand overlooking the Tasman Sea?  This is a region of sea that’s as fickle as a school girl; some days providing the glassy calm of a Golden Retrieve’s gaze and others the vicious temper of a Bull Massif that had been raised in fight pits.  What this means to us, and I suppose the “real locals”, is that the water is a vast source of entertainment and wonder.  There is a good surf break, one that is typically devoid of crowds, a welcome change to our Australian experiences.  Perhaps this is because we’ll need wetsuits to venture in past our ankles, but we’ll see. 

All our various thoughts ricocheting through our minds regarding the new jobs, friends we had left behind in Australia, being even further away from friends and family in North America, new daycare, new bank accounts, grocery stores etc.  What brand of milk are we going to like?  Butter?  Where will we find a decent loaf of fresh bread?  All these things competed for space during the transpacific flight pushing us into exhaustion until we finally fell asleep.  Sleep on an airplane?  Right, I can imagine what you’ll say, but did I mention that Nicole’s company sprung for Business Class tickets out of Calgary?  Did I mention that Air New Zealand’s Business Class has pods rather than seats and that said pods fold down into personal beds?  Yes.  That’s right, just try a little, the first taste is free.  Too bad that the price tag on this ticket makes what I’d consider the “only way to fly” also becomes “justification to drive”.  But maybe….but probably not.  Maybe it’s the justification to find a well paying job.

Regardless of what being pampered was attempting to justify, soon sleep fell upon me and the surrounding comforts managed to staunch my anxiety from rising like a Monarch Butterfly on a summer thermal or the peaks of the kiwi mountains penetrating the long white cloud.  Unfortunately, this reprieve seemed over quickly.  As we started our descent I started thinking about all that we needed to do, the challenges that we faced in Brisbane and were about to embark upon again. 

Did I mention that New Plymouth is nestled at the bottom of Mt Taranaki (neé Egmont) the regions dormant volcano that towers over the landscape?  Or at least Taranaki is a mostly, usually dormant volcano.  Well mostly, usually dormant, for as long as most people that have lived here for less than 10 years can remember.  So at least this is going to be a beautiful location to live and probably pretty safe too.  Right?  Because even with a mostly, usually, for sure, usually during the last 10 years dormant volcano, there are no snakes or spiders or other dangerous Australian things, at least there haven’t been since the last volcanic activity in the area.

Cape Egmont Lighthouse with Mt Taranaki in background 

Since this wasn’t our first time in the Taranaki region (or province, without Canadian style provincial boundaries or regional government) or in New Plymouth, we had some sense of what to expect.  We took advantage of being here for a weekend during a round of interviews that Nicole had been brought down for.  Ascetically, the area feels like Pincher Creek in Alberta, but with more moderate weather and a glistening sea on the doorstep.  Rolling foothills, pastoral landscapes that provide abundant homes for equine enthusiasts and dairy farmers alike.  Again, a beautiful locale to call our new home. 

Did I mention that New Plymouth is a great move, from a career perspective, for Nicole.  The Taranaki region is home to the base of the drilling operations for Todd Energy and they have a significant multi-well terrestrial drilling program with wells running ~5000m in depth.  Further, they have offshore licenses that they are going to kick off at some future date, which will provide additional challenges for Nicole and some amazing experience.  But I suppose that everything comes at the cost of something else. Did I mention that New Plymouth is remote, even by New Zealand standards.  We’re now a four-hour drive from either Wellington (nation’s capital) or Auckland (largest city with ~1.4MM people) or 40 min. flights to either centre.  And once you get to either Auckland or Wellington, Sydney is only three or so hours away.  Then another 17-21 to North America…  But that should be ok, provided that we can find everything that we want here.  Right?  Right?  And of course there are no dangerous animals and the volcano is mostly, always usually dormant. 

Did I mention that New Plymouth is a town of ~70,000 people, part of a larger (relatively speaking) regional population 100,000?  In fact there are fewer people living south of our location than in either SE Queensland or Alberta, even if you include the various scientific expeditions of Antarctica (at least based upon rough estimates, dubious data and my substandard math skills, and dubious data collecting from public sources for Tasmania, South Island New Zealand, Argentina and Chile).  So, being city people, Nicole and I had low expectations.  Even without box jellyfish and a dormant volcano. 

These expectations have been shattered.  No question the selection of goods and services is limited.  Items we’ve grown accustomed to in Brisbane, and Calgary before, have virtually disappeared, except for some online purchases.  (Currently I’m rounding out my legal skills by becoming conversant in the various import / export law of New Zealand to see what we can manage to order overseas and bring into New Zealand.  So far it looks like the shipping and duties are going to be ugly.) 

Unfortunately these goods that we’re talking about aren’t even luxury items, but basic necessities.  For instance, when I asked one of Nicole’s co-workers where you could buy a decent bottle of wine, they responded, “ahhh, well, we brought some over from Australia.  Maybe you could try Auckland.”  God Damn!  Something that our advance research failed to uncover!

But for every setback and frustration there is a glimmer of hope and redemption, something familiar and provincial about being in a small town.  These are the experiences that make moving around the world rich and worthwhile.  Within our first 10 days in town we’ve had the following experiences:

1)   Spencer and I were at the playground in the small regional zoo around the end of the day, when we came across another family.  Right, nothing surprising about that, is there?  Neither was the fact that the playground was emptying as people were starting to head home for dinner.  It was then that I heard a mother calling out to her kids, all of who looked to be under 5 years old, from across the field, some 15-20 m (40-55 feet) away.  She was simply asking them to take care and that she was taking one of her other children to the toilet.  I offered to keep an eye on them while she was gone.  Really, I was expecting that she’d rush back, whisk all the children up and leave.  This way it would finally be quiet and Spencer could play on whatever she wanted, without competition. 

Instead I get the thumbs up, mom takes off coming back in 15 minuets or so with “thanks mate.”  I’m still stunned, until then the only person that I had met that so sufficiently lacked judgment to leave a child alone with me was Nicole.

2)   A couple of days later, I find my way into a local bakery / café and decide to buy a loaf of fresh bread for dinner.  You know, on the quest in the new town to find decent bread.  Like wine, another essential element for happiness.  After a short chat with the manager, I get a warm sour dough loaf and then realize that I don’t have the $3 cash to pay, so I apologize and produce a credit card.  Predictably, my new credit card fails, so I’m left making the awesome impression of the new immigrant that can’t afford bread.  Perfect.

So what happens next?  I’m expecting the manager to shrug his shoulders and turn to a bona fide freight paying customer, maybe casting me a suspicious or derisive look in doing so.  But no, we’re in the town where “Good People” live.  So, instead he says “Welcome to town, catch us up next time past.” 

What?  Really?  Really, really?  Idiot.  Like I’m going to make sure that I get back to buy more bread from this clown?  What if it’s no good?  What kind of business could he possibly be running, money laundering maybe? 

As it turns out the bread was fantastic and rather than imperiling his $0.80 of profit on the loaf, the three of us returned to Petit Paris the following day and spent $80 for lunch.  (Yeah, dinning out is pricey here)  So, a lesson in small town commerce, I suppose. 

3)   But while loaves of bread don’t’ fall from the sky, they (sort of) spring from the earth and represent small commodity economies.  What if you want to buy a car when you’re new in town?  Of course you want to, you’re renting some trashed out Ford Mondeo that looks like it was repossessed off the Brocket First Nation Reservation.  So what do you do?  Well you start by looking at what dealerships are around and trying to determine what they have for inventory.  Obvious answer. 

But what do you do when the local dealer doesn’t have inventory (as you’d expect to be the case in a town of ~70,000)?  Especially of course when you ask, for something specific. 

“Not to worry”, the dealer reassures us, “I just sold one a couple weeks back to a guy in town.  I’ll call him and see if you can take his for a test drive.”  Ah huh.  Right.  This is code for “you can buy what I’ve got, or pay me to bring it in.  If you don’t like it you can go back to Canada and cry”

But sure enough in a couple of days the call comes back from the dealership and the enthusiastic salesman advises, “yeah, so my client is on days off right now, so he can work around your schedule.  Does tomorrow or Saturday morning work for you?  He’s willing to accommodate you but also wants to book some golf in.” 

Predictably, I couldn’t answer the question as I was so stunned with it all and stuck trying to understand which part of the conversation was the unreasonable part: lending the car, working around our schedule, or waiting to see what we wanted to do before planning his days off. 

Of course all of our experiences can’t be like that, life isn’t so kind and really these updates would lack the zest that you’ve become accustomed to.  One such experience was the eventual purchase of our car.  Despite being offered all the convenience of driving the new car of one of the denizen’s of New Plymouth, we elected to venture up to Auckland to enjoy a weekend in the “big smoke” as it were, a proper city, one that boasts a broader selection of vehicles.  This, of course, meant that one of us had to return later to actually take delivery of said vehicle.  Ultimately it was decided that I would fly up Saturday morning and return (triumphantly) with a new car and that Nicole would take the rare opportunity for a day with just her and Spencer. 

With visions of the conquering hero played through my ample imagination, reality rose to meet me.  Everything was set in place, confirmed in advance, and re-confirmed, because in actual fact I was merely acting as agent in picking up a vehicle registered to Nicole.  Unexpectedly, at least for me, things seemed to be moving along well.  No delays in flights.  The taxi driver, who took me from the airport to the dealership, pointing out the landmarks along the way, was fair and engaging.

Unbeknownst to me, Misfortune arrived at the dealership at the same time I did.  In fact, I think it beat me through the door.  As it turned out the salesman who we had been dealing with was on holiday leave and someone who wasn’t collecting a commission was covering off the delivery of the vehicle.  Unsurprisingly this guy was as useful as playing Angry Birds on an Etch’a’Sketch.  I never did get a good look at it, but I think that his business card announced him as Max Distracted. 

Presenting contracts for me to sign, he asks, well actually almost grunts, “you’ve brought pen, right.”  No big deal, I happen to travel with pens, so I’m ok.  Then he adds, “You’re not really going to take the time to actually read that thing are you?” 

“That thing.  Could he really mean a contract, the foundation of all commercial discourse.  The imperfect, yet demonstrable, expression of ad item?  This was a legal document.  A contract. A thing of beauty.  It’s not a monstrosity like the meticulously restored ’68 Camero that’s always roaring around our apartment.  How could someone, especially a salesman not appreciate this?” Ah, yeah, as both the agent taking possession of a car and a lawyer, I think I probably should. 

But no, Max presses me, “Just initial there, and we’re done.”  You mean where it says that I’m waiving all consumer protection rights because I’ve bought this on auction, even though we’ve purchased this retail?  “Huh?”  This, I say, pointing to the provision.  “I’ve never seen that…”  and so it goes.  Eventually I’ve decided I’ve wasted enough of the salesman’s otherwise commission potential rich Saturday, sign the documents and proceed to be given the orientation of the new car.

For those of you who don’t know me too well, the details of car don’t hold a great deal of interest to me.  Nicole?  Well of course, as the engineer, she can tell you the Make, Model, Year, mileage, torque, transmission type and rating, GVM, towing capacity, fuel efficiency, displacement weight and towing capacity for every vehicle she’s owned and even most of the one’s that I’ve owned, even if I had owned them prior to meeting her.  Me?  I can tell you the colour, most of the time.  Well, sometimes I get the colour right.

Nevertheless, when Max Distracted starts his orientation in a derisive tone about the complexity of opening the fuel tank, he loses what tenuous grasp he ever claimed on my attention.  I suddenly realize that he’s not talking about opening the tank for repairs or something, but merely refueling.  I admit at this point I drifted off a bit.  In fact, I recall my future starting to flash before me.  Long gone were the visions of the returning hero, but rather I could see myself crouched over a savagely beaten body.  It appeared that it was the body of Max, even while the clown that was yammering somewhere in the distance in the recess of my mind, but I was elsewhere.  I was trying feverishly to resuscitate Max, presumably to re-visit further savage beatings upon him.  There were other visions, like being asked at my arraignment hearing “Mr Milne, what excuse do you offer for the alleged Grievous Bodily Harm that were attended upon Max Distracted?”  “Ah….I suppose that I’m not really sure, probably that the police arrived before I was finished killing him?” 

I regained my tether to Max’s orientation, to understand that the GPS wasn’t working, extra keys had been lost, the crack on the windscreen was something that I had probably done looking at the car and that basically it wasn’t his sale so he was more interested in catching up on the cricket scores and telling me how great it was that his parents live in Calgary, but nothing about the car.  At the end of the day, I picked up the car, some wine and found my way back to the highway and while I didn’t return to a parade, Nicole was certainly happy to see the new car and the wine. 

So this is our first few weeks in our new home.  We’ve managed to fly across the world, twice.  We’ve avoided hurricanes, earthquakes and blizzards, and we’ve discovered to find bread, wine and a car.  Although we've had our last Little Creatures for a while, I think we’re good.

Darren Hanlon, who was the inspiration, or at least a catch phrase for my last round of blogs, could possibly understand how we feel having left Queensland for colder climates.  (Oregon for him, New Zealand for us).  His rhetoric is this:

What can we say?

It was supposed to end this way,

Now we disappear.

What will we miss the most?

The feel of sun?

The taste of beer?

What Can We Say – from the album “I Could Love You At All”

Yeah, the taste of beer, the feel of sun, but also the laughter of friends.  So far, so go.  I think that life in New Plymouth will be a good adventure. 

Black sand beaches and small volcanic domes  

We hope you’re all well, know that wherever you may be, be it Canada, America, Europe, the Middle East or Australia, we miss you all.  

Searching For Auntie Em and Toto

I had always thought it was a clever metaphor.  Symbolism perhaps.  An artistic flare that allowed the viewer to understand more than dialogue ever would permit.  A device that created an understanding that left an indelible mark on one’s experience.  The subtle touch in The Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy finally returns home; leaving the Technicolor magnificence of Oz to return to a dusty monochromatic Kansas.  The opposite was the case when Jeremy Irons, in Kafka crossed between his monochromatically drabe, mundane existence to enter the hypercoloured realm of his paranoia coming to life.  I thought these were all just literary devices.  I was wrong.

This epiphany rolled past me like the closing credits in a movie, as we made our final approach and started landing in Calgary for our “return home” for Christmas.  Am I being dramatic?  No, just dour, but rightly so.  After all we had decided that it would be a good idea to have a “White Christmas”, just like the ones we used to know.  It was a prospect that we were optimistic about, especially after being delayed on the ground in Vancouver for deicing procedures.  Procedures that were necessary because of the >10cm (~4 inches) of snow that was continuing to fall.

Catching all the latest NHL action in Canada

But, unlike the ones we used to know, this time it involved leaving the tropics and returning to the cold white expanse that is Calgary.  Except without the snow.  So, just like Dorothy we had left a lush, vibrant world full of fantastic creatures and a blaze of colour, only to be returned to a cold, grey Calgary.  A place that was devoid of both snow and NHL ice hockey.  Finally an explanation as to why The Wizard of Oz lacked a sequel, what could I possibly look forward to in this new 50 shades of grey?

Actually my realization started before our arrival in Calgary, it really started when we started thinking about Nicole finding a new job.  As an unfortunate turn of events, the prospects for good (read: lucrative and interesting) work in Brisbane dried up like an unloved plant in the Queensland summer.  We were at a crossroads, we had been in Australia long enough to apply for Permanent Residency, but not long enough for our friends to be sick of us, at least not totally sick of us, well at least not Spencer and Nicole. 

Similar to the period that preceded our departure from Canada, we assessed and evaluated our options.  We weighed up the different places that we could live and work and realized that the time had come when we would leave Australia.  Once our decision had been made, time set upon us like Dorothy’s tornado and away we were whisked.  We made best efforts to let our friends in North America know, but even with some of our local friends, it was catch as catch can and at the end of the day even my mother didn’t know what our plans were.  For those of you we missed, please accept our apologies, there will be another day, another coffee or beer. 

As a result of having made a significant overseas move previously, we knew what to expect, and also what we’d accept.  One thing that we weren’t going to accept is Christmas as personas non gratia or living out of a hotel for the holiday seasom.  Certainly not with a four year old, but all of this was complicated by the fact that once Nicole was done working we had 28 days to be out of Australia (visa rules) and that had us perhaps staying for Christmas, but packing while Santa was visiting.  Also, it was unlikely that Nicole was going to start her new job in New Zealand, the night before Christmas.  So we couldn’t really go to New Zealand and had to be all but out of Australia.  Right.

So what else could we do?  We planned a trip.  A short stay in Fiji and then Christmas in Calgary.  Ok, that makes sense.  Some R’n’R in Fiji, sort of a last gasp at good weather and then the romance of a white Christmas around our Calgary friends and family.  How can you beat it?  We’d be home for Christmas. 

Fiji

How was Fiji?  Have you been?  Notwithstanding that Fiji consistently ranks as one of the highest places in the world for domestic violence, the people are lovely.  They love kids.  Just other people’s kids apparently.  In fact the Fijians are some of the most lovely and welcoming people that you’d ever meet, provided that you’re not a visiting rugby team or the reigning Fijian Prime Minister.  That was fine for us, we were neither, so that just left us with warm tropical waters, sun and not much to do.  So we left Australia and went to Fiji to settle in for warm relaxing holiday. 

But things are never that easy for us.  Ultimately we ended up getting restless and our thoughts turned to leaving early.  Yes it would seem strange, that A) we wanted to leave early and that B) we couldn’t, but again, things are never quite that easy.  In fact the reason that we wanted to leave early, was also the reason that there were no flights.  Tropical Cyclone Evan was tearing through the South Pacific like the corpulent Texan couple at the daily breakfast buffet. 

What did this really mean for us?  Not only that we had to wake early enough to get any food, but given that TC Evan was a Category 3 Storm when it double back on Samoa where it caused death and wide spread destruction in it’s path, it meant a lot.  Fresh from landing in Samoa, with a taste for blood, the storm took to open water gathering energy from the warm South Pacific waters and started burgeoning into a Category 5 Storm.  Fiji had endured a series of flooding earlier in the year, the effects of which were still evident in some places.  So we were caught on our heels a bit, looking around as the country braced for potential catastrophe. 

The prediction of tropical storms isn’t really a precise science and the path was anticipated to pass harmlessly to the west of the outer Fijian Islands or cut through the center of the main island, more or less where we were staying, or anywhere in between.  On the large scale of things, we found ourselves occupying the “somewhat lucky” position of the spectrum.  Not enjoying a mud wrap facial and massage in the spa, but also not enjoying the pressure washer version of a mud wrap facial and water massage courtesy of TC Evan.

When the dust had settled and the rain abated, Evan was indifferent to Fiji, at least largely.  There was damage to the Northern and Western portions of the islands, but no reported deaths and damage that was certainly more modest than anticipated.  Flights that had been cancelled or postponed were being rebooked and flown, so fortunately we departed on our scheduled flights with very little drama.

It must be said that the Fijians were admirable, taking it all in stride.  Sure, tropical storms, earthquakes, tsunamis, coups and mudslides are part of their natural landscape, and it all beats sub-zero snow, but still these are tough times.  Some with stories of being isolated from their families, or returning home to find thatched roofs missing from their homes.  Beyond stalwart, was the hotel.  The Outrigger, a chain predominately from Hawaii, was amazing.  I should actually qualify my comments here by saying that we were in Fiji before, when we were actually missing Sydney Crosby’s Olympic heroics and bracing for Cyclone Thomas.  At the time we stayed at a chain of hotels, which I won’t name, but that boasts having Inter Continental properties.  The Outrigger outclassed the other group, full stop.   That was back in 2010, when Cyclone Thomas nuked the northern part of Fiji.  By contrast the hotel then didn't do anything to ease our minds.  "No, no trouble from the storm.  You be fine.  It ‘ll easy."  "Ok, but why are you removing all the pool furniture and taking things (like beds) out of unoccupied rooms?"  "Storm be no problem.  Enjoy your stay."  The look that Nicole and I exchanged asked, “no problem for who?”

That time we left two days early and never looked back.  But this time it was drastically different and really the Newtown Connecticut school massacre was more distracting then the pending storm. 

Fortifications for the storm

Strangely, both Nicole and I felt an overall sense of calm and ease, notwithstanding the threat of the hurricane.  Management and staff at Outrigger kept us apprised with official updates from the Fijian government as well as foreign diplomatic offices.  Once Evan was closer enough that he couldn’t be ignored, the hotel issued notices that they would open the main restaurant for breakfast and then a short lunch.  By 1pm all services would cease and all guests were to remain in their rooms.  Clearly, things were getting serious.

By the morning the surf was up, on a low out going tide.   We awoke to see that the resort was largely intact but debris is scattered all over.

The staff had done an excellent job keeping the damage cleaned up, especially since we had heard a number of lights break in the night smashing glass everywhere, but by morning there was no glass debris.

TC Evan from the relative shelter of our room

The rain faded, becoming intermittent and the winds slackened.  Initially I had noticed that the waves were up, but I didn’t appreciate the change.  Rather than waves rolling to the west as they had for the first 11 days of our stay, they were flowing to the east.  So, yeah, I guess Evan was the real deal and still at it out in the South Pacific, but for us the storm had passed and all that was left apart from the visible damage, was a surreal experience. 

Post Evan Clean-up with Spencer

Of course, we were curious, so we looked around surveying the damage and realized that the Fijians had a tremendous cleanup operation ahead of them.  Cleanup that would be required at the resort we were staying at and also very likely in their villages and homes.  So we pitched in for a while, at least until Spencer grew weary of it all.  Fair enough, there was lots to do, it was hot and humid and none of us had slept particularly well.  

Results

It was great that the storm had passed, unfortunate that it cast a pall over the last few days in Fiji, but we’ll be back.  Looking around on our final day, with little to do but survey the damage, we turned our minds to the cold winter majesty that was awaiting us in Calgary.

A short stop on Christmas Island.
Why does Santa live at the North Pole

Calgary

Leaving Oz

Of course we’d take advantage of returning to Calgary.  We had a break in our work schedule that facilitated travel without taxing annual holiday allotments.  We had been freed of the shackles the routine bills like rent, utilities and groceries that we all have.  Of course, we really had nowhere else to go.  But then imagine that travelling from Australia to Canada and then back to New Zealand.  How would you pack?  Now consider adding a beach holiday and knowing that anything that you don’t carry with you will be bobbing around the sea until the end of February.  Now, how would you pack.  Seven bags and roughly 200kg (350 lbs) later we had an answer.  Maybe not, well probably not, the right answer, but an answer all the same.  

But back to the original epiphany, having finally departed Vancouver and enjoying a relatively uneventful flight, closing in on our final approach to Calgary, I looked out the window to see the trademark brown fuzzy blanket of inversion smog and fields of stubble.  “How did you manage to convince me to come back for this?” I asked Nicole.  Suddenly all illusions of Calgary being home, vanished and I longed to call home somewhere tropical. 

Calgary is certain no longer home (particularly for tax or voting purposes).  Too much has changed, people have moved away, buildings erected and new roads paved.  In fact I was embarrassed more than once to find that I was lost, or at least “not taking the optimal route”, in a city that I had spent over 30 years living in.  Even the once familiar +15 system was worse for me.  But maybe it’s like anything and it’s not the mountain, but your own heart that you conquer; maybe change is an individual experience.  Everything changes, just at different rates, with or without you.  Calgary has changed.  So had we.  I would suggest that we’ve changed as a result of different forces and therefore no longer familiar to one another.

I know, it snows in northern New South Wales too.

Home or not, and except for the weather, Calgary is a familiar and comfortable (enough) place.  Friends and family abound, contributing to a great time.  Having laid a typical holiday siege to our bodies and personal finances it was time to leave.  Fortunately we managed to have some time in the snow, not too much time in the cold and never enough time for friends and family.  It was time to turn our minds to the next adventure in our lives and once again flee the cold air of Canada for parts of the world where “that water is freezing” is only a figure of speech. 

-28c WTF?  It doesn't get this cold in norther NSW,
regardless of how much it snows.

Looking back, I have to say that one of the best things about Canada is that no matter how cold and miserable the weather is, the service from Air Canada is worse.  Arriving at the airport we discovered that while we never really can go home, some things in fact never change.  Thank you Air Canada.  

Attendant with the spectacle that you would imagine, given our previously modest amount of luggage had expanded by two bags, we arrived early at the airport to check in and embark on our trek to New Zealand.  To what was soon to become home.  Eventually we boarded our plane, after negotiating through all the tiresome details and pettiness that is the hallmark of flying Air Canada, worse because as we were told at nearly every turn, “we’re just a code share, you’re booked through Air New Zealand.  We actually never took your money, you know.”  I suppose not, but Air New Zealand was paid, and presumably they paid you.  Or do you think that Air Canada is so stupid as to let people fly free, because they’ve booked on other airlines, no wait, don’t answer that. 

Settling into our seats and our little pre-take off routines, the warmth of the success of a great holiday and satisfaction of embarking upon a new life seeped over us.  It was then that Air Canada threw open the door to the blizzard allowing the cold air to extinguish the hearth that held our hopes.  Our flight was to be grounded due to mechanical failures and we would be contacted with regard to flight changes in the next few hours, or maybe tomorrow.  Our inquiries were met with a proletariat scorn “well if you can afford to travel all that way…” and a general ambivalence about our connecting flights.  Suddenly roughly $20,000 in flights had been reduced to $11.35 worth of food court vouchers. 

Surprisingly I stayed calm and rational.  Surprisingly calm and rational actually.  Well maybe that not surprisingly as Nicole was climbing to the top turnbuckle getting ready to launch into a flying body slam.  It was just another incident where I really wished that she wore her wrestling mask, it would have been better for everyone.  This was also another example of how even if it looks fun to be the calm one, it’s not.  I longed to be springing from the ropes, but rather had to be satisfied in preventing Spencer from witnessing the arrest of her mother, and refining her use of certain “non-parliamentary language”. 

But what was clear was that the “service agents” in the employ by Air Canada were impervious to any sort of attack of logic or forces that would otherwise cause trauma to their heads, and I managed to convince Nicole that since we still had our tickets, we should retreat to the Maple Leaf Lounge for a drink, or several, and re-organize.  

Nicole’s frustration, and indeed my repressed animosity, arose understandably.  While I understand the need to curb “air rage” or “road rage”, as ultimately an unacceptable expression, there also has to be a recognition of the roll that the target, or eventual victim, of the rage has played.  In this instance, not only had Air Canada been obstructionist from the very beginning of our travels, not only had they acted to effectively reduce the value of international flight tickets to that of a stale sandwich, but also the ultimate delay in our travel meant that Nicole was going to miss her first day of work at a new job.  Sure, out of her control, but pressure all the same.  So in the face of this laser focused pressure and stress, cooling out in the Maple Leaf Lounge. 

The Maple Leaf Lounge changed our fortunes.  Away from the din of the unwashed masses, glass of wine in hand (and another (or so) under our belts) we present ourselves to the check in desk and avail ourselves to their assistance.  Miraculously the lady behind the counter, who won’t be named for fear of reprisal by Air Canada, was spectacular.  She managed to have our luggage retrieved (because it was originally considered abandoned, you know because it was offloaded from the airplane during our internment in the secured area) procured consent from Air New Zealand (remember, consent was required because we were merely freeloaders on a code share) to make any changes necessary to get us to our final destination, and then she scoured scores of flights, multitudes of combinations, to finally find seats for us the following day through LAX.  While LAX is not a favourite hub, languishing in Calgary for 7-10 days as was our original option made LAX pretty attractive. 

Through all this we still needed a place to stay overnight and since we felt that it would be a big ask to return to Nicole’s always gracious cousin and her husband’s home, especially after the 10 day stay we had already imposed upon them, we looked for other options.  The final choice settled at Banff.  Why not?  We hadn’t been to the mountains during our trip, so it seemed like a natural conclusion to reach, even if it meant a temporary ceasefire for our wine glasses. 

Banff

What can you say about a night in Banff?  Everyone looks forward to it, don’t they?  It was a perfect end to our time in Canada, a true winter wonderland.  Especially after the Air Canada debacle, a night in the cold crisp mountain air was really what we all needed.  However, like many parts of our return to Calgary, better in the abstract that it was conceived in, than the reality we found.  Sure, we managed to rent a Nimitz Class SUV to convey our teeming abundance of luggage and find suitable accommodation, but it was the decision process itself that was dubious. 

As most of you are familiar, dubious decisions and I have had a long courtship, and even with the tenuous truce with the complimentary Air Canada wine, Banff was a better decision at the time we made it, than when we arrived. 

Due to the various machinations and heroic efforts by the Maple Leaf Lounge staffer, as it turned out we made the decision to go to Banff relatively early in our lounge visit.  Probably around 4pm.  Unfortunately by the time we got organized, settled down, new tickets and fed so that we could mobilize to Banff, it was closer to 7.30. 

It was very nearly 10 by the time we checked in to our room and probably 10.01 when we started re- fraternizing with the wine that we purchased.  We needed to return for our flights by 2pm New Year’s Eve, so however you cut it, we probably had the most expensive night ever in Banff (at least for us). 

As harried and expensive, and seemingly insane, as 18 hours in Banff was, it did the trick.  We all had great sleeps, deep breaths of clean mountain air, a short walk around the town site and then back to bear the Groundhog Dayesque frustration of dealing with the same Air Canada people as the day before.  Well all but the kindly lounge attendant who hadn’t been heard from since. 

It’s funny how you romanticize things only to realize that your perspective has changed.  Again, I suppose that’s the fun of travel; it changes your perspective on things.  For us, it was learning that like us, Calgary had changed, but not in the same ways.  That regardless of how far you travel, there are things that you desire and that Air Canada should really go into the rendition business. 

All is well that ends well.  What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.  Or whatever else.  Finally in the air, we reflected on a great trip and braced for the long, really really long flight across the Pacific to our new home.