• Joanna

Not a Santa in Sight

Updated: Mar 1


I have officially arrived at Vancouver International Airport. As I type, I am sitting here awaiting my $30 crab cakes, as I enjoy my $21.00 8oz Cabernet Sauvignon.

At this rate I'm either going to have to come home early due to bankruptcy or I’m going to have to start a Go Fund Me page...

... or a wiser option, I could invest in Airport pubs internationally.


This morning I was lucky enough to take the Santa train in to Vancouver.

Don’t be fooled by the word “Santa” ... obviously implying that a large, old, fat man with a grey beard, dressed in traditional holiday fashion would be wandering through the carriages, kissing all the babies and taking magical moment selfies with all the merry travellers!

No.

Utterly disappointed.


Santa,” from what I gather, is merely a word used to tempt families on to the train, with the primary purpose of increasing Christmas shopping in Vancouver.

Blasphemy!

Lucky me for the convenient transportation in to the city on a Saturday, but I also half hoped to take full advantage of a fun & festive, holidays-have-just-begun, selfie moment.

Do you blame me?

No time like the present for a photo opp.

Not a Santa in sight.

There were though, hundreds of children. I’d say thousands, because it actually felt like that, but I don’t want to fall prey to excessive exaggeration so early on in the trip... and I also don't think that the train holds that many people.

Who knows?

Children screaming.

Children laughing.

Children yelling.

Children singing.

Children crying.

Even some adults were singing.

The guy right behind me sang the ABC song... over and over and over again, in an attempt to keep some snot-nosed toddler happy. Unfortunately the song had the opposite effect on me.

He knew all the words. Or should I say “letters?” He knew all the letters... in the right order. Bravo.

I managed to endure the boisterous & celebratory send-off and made it to YVR in one piece...

Bag checked in... and fingers crossed that it will be waiting for me upon arrival in Amsterdam. This has got to be one of the most agonizing goodbyes in the life of travel.

"Will I ever see you again? ... Dearest, sweetest bag... full of all things I desperately need... Please be there when I arrive..."


Security was a breeze... but the pre-flight anxiety & packed item uncertainty is never far behind as they scan my top secret, confidential, dangerous, immense risk & highly illegal purse items...

Will they throw away my face cream?

Did I forget about my half drunk Diet Coke? 

Will they destroy my solar powered battery USB charger in order to prevent the plane from plummeting to the earth?

Will they confiscate my nail clippers to ultimately save the innocent lives of all those that surround me?

Did I accidentally put a machete in my purse????


It’s criminal... in every sense of the word.

No one asked me if I packed my bag by myself.  No one helped me... but it would have been nice if someone had asked.

I’m used to that question.

This morning, very EARLY in the morning, I took the opportunity of unpacking and repacking. Ahhh the perils of packing after a few glasses of wine.

All my dresses would look pretty on me while I’m in South Africa... and the top I never wear in Canada because I’m too fat will probably miraculously fit me while I’m touring through Botswana...


Packing and drinking should not be mixed.  Highly not recommended.

But now. I think I’m toting a reasonable variety of x-large safari attire... my compression socks are on (and hot, I might add)...

Next stop... Ann Frank, Van Gogh and perhaps a Heineken...

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