And so, we went on holiday, eventually.

This was a holiday we originally booked in November of 2019, after deciding we’d like to see the western portion of the United States, having already seen much of the (quite lovely) Eastern bit. The tour was to take place in September 2020 but, well, things happened.

The tour was rescheduled for September 2021, but things were still happening.

Then the tour was cancelled.

Then the company decide they would do the tour one last time and scheduled it for May 2022. This, however, conflicted with a Tour of Lewis we had booked in July 2019, to take place in May 2020, and which was moved (because, you know, things happened) to May 2021. That tour was then cancelled, and rebooked as the Norway Tour, for August 2021. That, however, was moved (because, you know…) to May 2022, when it actually took place, but which conflicted with the Western US Tour. So, we swapped the Western US Tour for the Five Star Alaska Cruise and the Canadian Rockies tour, scheduled to take place in September 2022. And I am pleased to say, it did.

This was the longest, furthest, and most diverse trip we have ever undertaken, so it naturally involved more than the usual amount of angst, trepidation, and admin. Seriously, between ESTAs and ETAs and ArriveCan software, and COVID requirements for two countries, an airline, and a cruise ship, we had to set aside an entire afternoon to start the processes. Administrative details continued to be required right up to, and beyond, departure, ensuring a continual supply of angst pretty much the whole way.

But first the fun bit: getting there.

We took Air Canada (I’m not afraid to mention them; I don’t have to ask them for a job). We have flown with them before, and have had good experiences with them, and this flight was no exception, except for a string of strange incidents:

When we checked in, we were—as usual—assigned seats. My wife’s was nowhere near mine, but that wasn’t a problem. The problem came when, during a later part of the processing, we were issued another slip of paper from a different machine. I had no idea what it was. and I was going to throw it away until my wife pointed out that it had my seat number on it—a different seat number. My wife, as well, (along with every other passenger on the flight) had her seat reassigned. For no discernible reason.

The results were predictable: 370 people playing musical chairs, trying to figure out what seat they should sit in. My seat had been reassigned from 37C to 36C, but my wife, and the person originally in 36C, were on the other side of the plane. Another married couple were similarly separated, and they and my wife attempted to rearrange positions so that we, and they, could sit together, but that didn’t work mathematically, so they gave up. In addition to the general confusion, there were also a number of empty seats, so people started taking them, which upset the Flight Crew.

Another thing that upset the Flight Crew was the passenger in seat 37B. Both my seats (36C and 37C—keep up) were empty. I opted to sit in 36C, because my wife had manged to wangle 36D, which, although across the aisle from me, was at least closer than either of her actual, assigned seats were. The woman in 37B, however, when informed by the Flight Attendant that she was in the wrong seat, responded with, “I’m not moving.”

My new seatmates and I gave her a surreptitious thumbs-up while the Flight attendant again told her to move, and she again informed the Flight Attendant that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Eventually, the Flight Attendant gave up, everyone finally found somewhere to sit, and the plane took off.

Then they served lunch.

Minutes later, the woman in 37B collapsed, and required medical assistance.

Now I’m not saying there was any connection between her refusing to move and requiring an ambulance, but I can’t help imagining the following exchange taking place between the Flight Attendant and the Catering Crew:

“The woman in 37B refused to move when I told her to.”

The caterer shrugs. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Poison her lunch.”

“That’s a little extreme. She could die.”

“There’s a doctor on board. I’ll get her to administer the antidote.”

“A doctor? Really? Where is she sitting?”

“G14, or F22, how should know? I’ll have the Capitan make an announcement. If she’s got any sort of compassion, she’ll come forward.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then the passenger shouldn’t have refused to follow my orders.”

Seriously, don’t fuck with the Flight Attendants.

As it turned out, the Doc did respond, and I got to spend the next hour staring at her backside as she hovered over the prone passenger, checking her vital signs and noting her prognosis in increasingly worried tones. Comely as her backside was, it was annoying because—with the aisle blocked—I couldn’t get my drink, and the empty containers from my lunch weren’t collected, so I was unable to put my laptop on the fold-out tray. “First-World problems,” I know, and I should have been thanking the There-But-For-the-Grace gods that I wasn’t in the same position as passenger 37B.

But then, I know better than to argue with the Flight Attendants.

A quick postscript to this Holiday introduction:

We made it to Calgary, connected with the Tour Guide, and arrived in Banff without further drama (more or less). In our very nice hotel room, in addition to many other amenities, I found a complimentary notepad, pen, and packet of Haribo candies. I was going to eat them until my wife informed me that they were actually earplugs.

And so began the holiday.

Next up: Banff and Beyond.