(Note: The following post describes details from a previous trip, NOT a current trip.)
Friday, September 21st.
My exit isn’t hasty, as we spend some time chatting about how the last six days has been for both of us.
She’s happy about how her week has gone, having been able to spend time with her boyfriend, and to work on a screenplay she’s been trying to write.
Just listening to her, I feel myself tearing up a bit at having to trek back to Toronto, and also having had the privilege of meeting such a sweet person as Nathalie.
Saying our goodbyes, I head out. The morning is crisp – actually, the coldest it’s been so far since I arrived in Europe 17 days ago. I snap a few final pictures outside the Pompidou Centre, have a sugar-laden breakfast at a nearby Starbucks to kill some time, then heave my backpack onto my back and navigate my way through the metro system to Charles de Gaulle airport.
I check in, to be told my flight is boarding about an hour earlier than my itinerary states. Despite booking it across to my gate, the plane STILL ends up leaving 40 minutes late. Which in the end means I miss my connecting flight in Montreal.
The line at customs takes forever to move, and the queue for missed flights and connections seems to take about twice as long. Behind me, one hell of a sourpuss is muttering and cussing about our predicament – and he’s only flying a half-hour to Ottawa. At least I manage to have a pleasant conversation with a guy slightly in front of me, who also happens to be going to Ottawa and is taking it a lot better.
I get a flight out which is leaving much sooner than I expect, and before I know it, I’m back in Toronto and in the company of my parents, who’ve come to pick me up.
What a wonderful, frustrating, blurry whirlwind. And it’s over. Just two more days and back to work I go.
And not too much longer until I start daydreaming about where to go next.